The Seventh Sense

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/28649502.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Hannibal (TV)
Relationship: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, relationship
dynamics, Possessive Hannibal, Protective Hannibal, Hannibal has got
it really bad for…, Sassy Will Graham, Murder Husbands, Anal Sex,
Rimming, Oral Sex, Light Angst, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Will's
POV, Fanart
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of Love Crime Series
Collections: fantastic_fics, The Special Collection, Emmas_Recs, Fine Fanfic, my
favourite hannigram fics, HannibalFanfictionFaviez, My Escapism List,
hannigram:reread, So Much Talent on AO3, definite keepers, Fics That
I Like ⭐️, My Personal Favorites, Don’t Forg
These Fics, Reread And Revisit, Hannigram Season Four, super_fics,
My Bookshelf, Why I ❤️ ao3, Carries Bookshelf, B is for Brilliant,
BestOfTheBestFanfics, Fanfic Is My Life, Faves and must-reads, AO3
Amazing, Hannibal And Will
Stats: Published: 2021-01-09 Completed: 2022-11-20 Chapters: 54/54 Words:
506366

The Seventh Sense

by MissDisoriental

Summary

It’s been over a year after the Fall and most people know Will’s in a relationship. They just
don’t know exactly with who…

A sequel to ‘The Shape of Me Will Always Be You’, but can be read as a standalone.

Translation into Chinese available here

Fan videos available here
Fan art master post available here

Notes

What time is it?

It’s SASSY WILL TIME.

Welcome aboard my lovely Fannibals! Well, I’ve been out the fandom for over a year (and
the first fic is several years overdue for a sequel) but let’s hope it’s a case of better late than
never ;-D
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Love is the seventh sense which destroys all other senses.”

– Anonymous
Cover art by Patties92, neon_fox, Vapidus, ExitThroughTheGiftShop, sparklingjoy, Pufosenie23
and neon_fox.
The window is open and the AC’s on, but the bedroom air is still so hot and humid it’s like lying in
a giant mouth. In fact it’s more than hot. It’s stifling – as if the entire city is slowly boiling and
gasping for breath. I can feel sweat starting to gather at my neck and hairline, but even though I’d
be more comfortable if I moved away from the heat of your skin next to mine I know I’m not
actually going to.

“So,” I finally announce into the darkness. “So…”

I’m speaking very slowly and carefully, labouring over each syllable so there can be no possible
mistake. It makes me sound stilted and unnatural – a bad actor reciting lines he never properly
learned – but despite the way my own voice in my ears is making me cringe I can’t quite stop
myself. There’s also the way you’re tilting your head every time I say ‘so’ and there’s a bit of me
that wants to see how many times I can make you do it before you realise I’m being a dick on
purpose. Then I’m tempted to make a stupid joke about you resembling a bobble head to hide how
nervous I am before deciding there’s no real point. Mostly because you don’t look like a bobble
head (as opposed to poised and thoughtful) and the only one who’s going to come out looking bad
is me (while repeating ‘so’ on a loop with all the dignity and gravitas of someone having a
seizure). You probably don’t even know what a bobble head is.

“Will,” you say, and the sound of your voice finally snaps me out of it and forces me to clear my
throat – even though I know in advance that nothing’s going to come out except another ‘so.’

“S-o-o-o,” I eventually manage. This time I drag it out for a bit of variety; in the darkness I can see
you tip your head again. “So.” (Deep breath). “What you’re saying…what you’re saying is you
want to get married?”

You don’t bother replying to this; partly because of how much you despise stating the obvious, but
also because awkward silences never bother you. We could probably be here until morning and
you’d still just be lying there, watching and waiting in endless stretching silence with that same
faint smile on your face. Not for the first time it reminds how much you enjoy seeing me
uncomfortable so I duck my head to deny you the satisfaction, burrowing away until it’s impossible
for you to clearly see my face. This is ideal because it eliminates all opportunities for eye contact
but also means you can’t translate my expression (mission accomplished). Then I just lie there
fidgeting while trying and failing to work out what to say next. But it’s difficult so I can’t, and I
don’t even realise how franticly I’ve begun to gnaw my bottom lip until I feel your hand against my
face to make me stop.

“Will,” you repeat.

So you have broken the silence after all: the first response you’ve made that’s genuinely
unexpected. In fact it’s surprising enough to make me roll over again and pull myself upright.
Despite the heat of the evening the sudden blast from the fan is uncomfortable and I huddle
slightly then tug the sheet over my head. It then occurs to me (a bit too late) that this is giving me
an unfortunate resemblance to ET in the basket…possibly you think the same because you start to
smile before reaching up to pull it away. Not that I can blame you. You may not have many limits
but proposing to a grown man wrapped naked in a sheet might reasonably be considered one of
them.

“Look, I’m not saying no,” I reply eventually. “I’m definitely not saying that.” There’s a pause: it
obviously occurs to both of us that I’m not saying ‘yes’ either. “I’m just…I’m not sure. It’s a big
step. There’s a lot of things to think about.” You raise an eyebrow, clearly inviting me to elaborate
on what these things could be. “I mean I’ve already been married once,” I add. “It feels so different
with you.” Quite possibly this is the understatement of the year; maybe of the century. For a few
seconds I grind to a halt then just shrug and add, rather lamely: “I’m afraid it would change
things.”

You’re still not saying anything yourself and by now your silence is making me uncomfortable. It’s
deliberate of course: a standard therapy technique to push someone into blurting escalating degrees
of honesty. I clear my throat again, trying to make my voice sound as confident as possible, but I
know it’s not particularly convincing. In fact if I’m honest it’s not convincing at all…I’ve probably
seen porn films with better acting.

“I suppose at least when they arrest you I could get conjugal visits,” I add. You raise your
eyebrows politely and so I just sit there and try to work out why I’m making a joke out of it,
particularly a shit joke that’s not remotely funny. It’s still true though. For a few seconds I have an
image of Freddie Lounds writing articles about me being a prison widow before remembering that
I’d hardly be visiting your cell as opposed to sitting in the one next to it.

Even this doesn’t make you reply, so eventually I just give up completely and slump back onto
your chest again so you can wrap your arms round me. This feels much more comfortable because
I’ve always liked getting hugs from you (even though I’ll never admit it) whereas you seem to like
administering them (even though you’ll never admit it either). It’s actually turned into a bit of an
elephant in the room by now, a sort of ‘look at all this reciprocal giving and receiving of hugs:
aren’t we just the pair of sad, sentimental old bastards?’ scenario. You’re very good at it though.
No one would think that to look at you – not in a million years – but you really are. It’s partly
because you do it like you do everything else, which is with complete dedication and focus. Plus
you always throw in little garnishes, like stroking my back, nuzzling my throat, or brushing your
lips against my hair, so a hug from you always end up as an event in its own right.

“Have you been struck dumb or something?” I say eventually. To emphasise the point I reach up
and prod your jaw with my finger. “You’re never this quiet.”

I’m half-expecting you to ignore me again in service of being as aggravating as possible (in other
words, your ongoing quest to achieve maximum levels of dickishness), but instead you press your
lips against my finger and when you speak your voice has that fond, amused tone that always
makes it sound as if you’re smiling.

“On the contrary,” you say. “I prefer to listen to you.”

“No you wouldn’t,” I say gloomily. “Anyway, I’ve run out of stuff to say about it. I’ve actually
started thinking about something totally different.”

“So what are you thinking about?”

“Freddie Lounds.” I pause for a few seconds, weighing up whether I want to self-identify as a
prison widow before deciding no, definitely not: not at all. “It’s nothing,” I add. “I'd rather not talk
about it.”

“That’s good,” you say politely. “I'd rather not hear about it.”

I laugh at this then pretend to punch your shoulder before settling down again and wrapping both
arms around your chest. You sigh contentedly in response and I lean up to nudge your jaw a few
times with my forehead. “I love you,” I say. “Even though you’re awful.”

This makes you smile; you’re always weirdly tolerant of me telling you how awful you are.
“Although even if we did there’s no way I’d take your name,” I add. “So don’t even think about
it.” I think about it myself for a few seconds then give a full-body cringe. I suppose the modern
thing would be to double-barrel them but there’s no way I’d do that either (because, not to put too
fine a point on it, it sounds shit).

“I’m not double-barrelling them either,” I now say out loud. “It sounds sh...ocking.”

“Indeed it does,” you reply. “For once we seem to be in total agreement.”

“I suppose we could make a portmanteau name. Grater. Lecham.”

“No,” you say firmly. “We could not.”

This makes me laugh again, although even as I’m doing it I know that the joking is nothing more
than an avoidance strategy – and that you know this too – but, at least for the moment, neither of us
are going to call it what it is. Then after that I don’t say anything at all and just lie silently in the
darkness with my eyes fixed on nothing. Married.

*****

Looking back on it now, I think the part I remember most clearly was the flight out America:
mostly because it might have been the closest I'd ever seen you to being genuinely nervous. But
then of course I was nervous too, possibly even more so, because after everything we’d been
through it seemed so perverse yet so probable that something so mundane as a checkout desk
would be the thing that finally brought us down. That journey was perhaps one of the most
excruciating moments of my life, and I spent it marinating in a miserable brew of fear and fatalism
that grabbed me by the throat the moment the cab arrived for the airport and refused to let go again
the whole time after. The main way I coped was by attempting to stage-manage every detail –
everything from where we sat to who carried which bags – but while it must have been incredibly
irritating to put up with you never once complained about it. I even devised a needlessly elaborate
scheme that I was a military vet (to cover for my scars and air of wary paranoia) while forcing you
to pretend you couldn’t speak English (because I was concerned your accent was too distinctive to
speak out loud) and which meant you ended up mute for most of it while I alternated between
silence and a snappy, snarling impatience that was exhausting for both us but still preferable to the
fear it was designed to cover up for. Even when airborne I couldn’t relax and spent most of the
flight gazing numbly out of the window, imagining how the roaring grey waves of the Atlantic
would turn into the deep dreamy blue of the Mediterranean and how the former was a kind of
graveyard that should have had us both at the bottom of it with crumbling sea-salt bones. ‘We’re
going to get caught; they’re going to catch us’ was running through my head the whole time and
even when the plane had landed in Italy I still couldn’t accept that they weren’t going to find a way
to stop us; that we were really going to get away with it. But they didn’t, did they? And so – we
did.

In fact it was only after arriving that I began to fully understand how my obsession with escaping
America meant I’d never really paused for long enough to plan beyond it and consider what
‘getting away with it’ would actually mean. All I knew at the time was the most literal sense of
putting an ocean between where we’d started and where we ended up. But then we crossed the
ocean and that was that – and a whole new scope of issues presented themselves instead. Things
like finding somewhere to live, something to live on and, most of all, working out how to do it
together. It was clear none of this would be straightforward, but then I think we both knew there
was no chance it could be when the spectre of the past still lingered in every word and glance like a
third person in the room. That old tension and rivalry was still there and even now it’s never fully
gone away. If I’m honest I’m not even sure I’d want it to, because without it I know we’d be less
intense and therefore less connected. Instead we’re like sandpaper, chafing off one another’s rough
edges every time we touch.

Most of the time these tensions get bleached away by the sunlight, yet they’ll often come out at
night to prowl around again; mostly in my dreams, which seem to feature you with embarrassing
regularity. I’d like to say that these are dewy and romantic but of course they’re not. Often you’re
trying to hurt me, or I’m trying to hurt you, and I’m still not entirely sure which of these scenarios
feels worse. If I could I’d prefer to ignore it, but there’s no doubt there’s still a part of me that’s
unsettled by you and what you’re capable of – just like I know there’s a part of you that remains
wary of me as the only person who could realistically bring you down. I also know another
wariness of yours is the idea that one day I could leave you, and just like my dreams it’s an
impulse that mostly comes out at night. It makes you cling to me while I’m sleeping so I’ll wake to
find your arm slung possessively round my chest or a hand gripping my shoulder, and while I’ll
often pull away because it’s too hot or uncomfortable you always come after me to do it again.
Instead I’ll end up rolling you over so I can lie against your back and cling onto you instead, and
although it’s a simple solution it always seems to make you happy.

To be honest I don’t really know which of these has the most influence on us: your wariness or my
fear. It rarely seems to happen now that we’ve grown more used to each other, but to begin with
they managed to collide quite often. The first time was the most dramatic. We’d been arguing over
something, which as a strategy is always fatal because it’s impossible to argue with you. You just
get that aloof, closed-off look which provokes me into growing more outlandish and aggressive in
an attempt to get a reaction. The cause was so trivial I’ve forgotten what it was by now, but at the
time it felt incredibly weighty and serious and I remember standing there bristling at you with a
voice stretched taut and thin with barely suppressed outrage. Eventually you made this quick
movement forwards and it immediately triggered something in my brain – just the sight of you
coming towards me with that cold, dead expression on your face. Later on you told me that you’d
been planning to leave the room until I’d calmed down, but of course I didn’t know that at the time
and instead pounced straight at you and twisted your arm back, hard enough to feel the delicate
bones in your wrist grind together. You were surprised then, I think: you kept staring at me. ‘You
look terrified,’ you said finally. ‘Did you really think I was going to hurt you?’

There was a long painful silence and then I’d shrugged and let go. ‘You really think I would have
let you hurt me?’ I’d said, mocking and defiant as if the idea of you getting the upper hand was too
absurd to be taken seriously. Secretly I was sorry, but I still couldn’t bring myself to apologise for
it. Instead I vanished upstairs for the rest of the day and it wasn’t until much later in the evening
that I finally went into the living room and curled up next to you on the sofa and put my head on
your knee. I didn’t say anything and neither did you. You just started stroking my hair with one
hand, pausing every so often to brush my cheek with your thumb, while I took your other hand in
mine and clung onto it. I stayed still for so long I nearly fell asleep but then abruptly and
shockingly, with no warning at all, I found myself beginning to cry. It was possibly one of the
mortifying experiences of my life but I just couldn’t stop myself. It was the contrast, I think. It was
like I could see us in the past, with all that horror and misery, and the comparison to the present
moment was too overpowering to process. It wasn’t just grief for all the suffering, but also a sense
of loss for everything I’d been denied since I first met you: for all the good experiences I should
have had, but didn’t. Ideally it would have been elegant crying like something from a poem – a
single tear trickling over my cheekbone – but this was brutally despairing and unrestrained. You
didn’t say anything the entire time: didn’t tell me to pull myself together, or offer any lying
platitudes about how everything was fine. Instead you just gathered me into your arms and held
onto me, my head tucked beneath your chin as you ran your palm up and down my back. Then you
started speaking very softly in a foreign language because you knew how soothing I find your
voice and it was a way to give me the comfort of it without any pressure to reply or even process
what you were saying. Mostly it was in Lithuanian, which felt very profound at the time because
it’s your native language and one that’s somehow closest to the heart of you. That was months ago
now but it still seems like we often communicate like that: silently yet sincerely, in the gaps
between the words.

In fact that scene on the sofa was probably a bit of a watershed moment because since then things
have been slightly more straightforward. Not exactly romantic – at least not by most people’s
standards – but possibly not that far off. We even fell into a routine of snug domesticity pretty early
on, which I’d never have thought I’d like so much yet by now has become a comfortable
comingling of space that’s almost impossible to imagine being without. They’re always very small
things yet are still oddly reassuring regardless: our shoes sharing closet space, for example, or your
coat cosily draped over mine while hanging on the same hook, or even something as simple as
assorted cufflinks, watches and loose change strewn together in a heap on the desk. I also enjoy the
way we casually borrow each other’s things without ever having to ask: you using my razors or
shampoo because you can’t find your own, or me grabbing one of your shirts first thing in the
morning then wearing it all day with no one else being aware of the switch. Even most of our
disagreements have devolved into the surprisingly stupid and mundane; an especially long running
one being that you keep wanting me to pose for a nude drawing and I keep refusing you
permission.

“No!” I said the first time you asked. It was the type of tone I use with dogs – kind but firm,
slightly patronising – and you apparently felt the same because for a few seconds it seemed like
you were struggling not laugh. “No way. Are you kidding me? That’s the cringiest thing I ever
heard.”

You promptly looked disappointed, but I refused to budge, and in the end just let you draw candid
pictures instead as a sort of compromise. This has resulted in countless sketch books filled with me
doing the most boring crap imaginable: reading or walking or frowning at my laptop, or even me
just staring into space. Some of them make me look vaguely angelic with huge eyes and a pensive
mouth, but in others I look wild and feral. “Oh well,” you said when I called you out on it. “They
always say a portrait is a greater reflection of the artist than the sitter.” I never see you draw
yourself and you claim that you find my likeness more intriguing than your own, which I suspect is
a metaphor for something even though I can’t quite figure out what.

“Why should it be a metaphor?” you replied. “Why is it so implausible that I find you interesting?”

“Because you’re a narcissist, that’s why. No one’s more interesting to you than you.”

You started smiling then, eyes gleaming slightly in the lamplight like a cat. “And there you have
it,” you said. “We’re both such a rare breed: I’ve always felt I can understand myself better through
understanding you.”

I was about to make a sarcastic reply, then caught sight of your face and fell silent as it struck me
that for once you were being sincere. In this respect you’re surprisingly good at being one half of a
couple; much better than I am if I’m honest. You can be unexpectedly gentle and attentive with lots
of long gazes, soft touches, and a tender tone of voice that calls me things like dearest, darling and
my love. I don’t call you anything except your name, but you never seem to mind. Endearments
don’t suit you somehow: I’ve auditioned several possibilities in my head by now but none of them
seem to work. Occasionally I’ll call you ‘tesoro’ because it’s easier in another language, like a
shield to hide behind, and because I’d once overheard a teenager say it to her boyfriend and it
seemed funny applied to you because it was so inappropriate – a bit like putting a satin bow on a
Rottweiler. Only it was obvious you liked it so much that the joke never really wore off, and over
time it seems to have mellowed into something more serious. It translates as ‘treasure’ or ‘precious’
so I suppose it’s not entirely inappropriate anyway.
“The precious,” I’d said later, to hide how self-conscious I felt. “Like Gollum.”

Naturally you didn’t get this because you have no pop culture references at all. It was clear you’d
guessed it was unflattering though, because in revenge you started calling me ‘piccolo’ – probably
because you wanted to see how long it would take me to work out what it meant and have a
tantrum.

“I know you think you’re hilarious but you’re not,” I’d said once I’d had time to confer with
Google. “So you can cut that out right now. I am not little.”

You’d glanced at me over your coffee mug then delivered on of your more feline smiles. “No
beloved,” you’d said with exaggerated sincerity. “You’re just not entirely large.”

I hadn’t replied at all to that, but instead just bided my time then waited until you walked past
before pouncing on you and clinging onto your shoulders like a rabid monkey. You’d started
smiling then; you always like it when I’m ridiculous. One time early on you explained why. ‘It’s
because you’re being playful,’ you’d said. ‘It’s always predators who are the most playful Will,
because they have the confidence and the leisure for it. Prey, on the other hand…prey is never
secure enough because all its resources go towards survival. Look how playful a cat is compared
to a bird; or your own dogs compared to the sheep they like to chase so much.’ What you didn’t
add was ‘look at me and how much I enjoyed taunting you and your FBI friends’ but it was
obvious you were thinking it. I didn’t care though. If anything speeches like that just encourage me
to be more impulsive. Admittedly I don’t do it all that often, but sometimes I can’t help myself –
it’s like a sudden explosion of high-spirits that makes me madcap and excitable. To be honest the
sensation was so unfamiliar at first that it took me a while to recognise it for what it was:
happiness.

In fact in the early months of arriving in Italy the only small snag amid so much contentment was a
growing sense of wanting someone else to witness it – and which was one of the reasons I found
myself falling into an unlikely correspondence with Mr Haversham. Even the act itself feels weird
because I so rarely use a pen now that my handwriting looks cramped and spidery, but I have to
send him letters because he can’t use email. Of course he’d got it into his head that I’m off in
Europe with my ‘young lady’ so in his replies he always asks after her. The first time he did it I was
going to say that I’m single but found that I couldn’t bring myself to write it down. It’s ridiculous
really, but I couldn’t; I couldn’t fathom you not being there, even when the person representing you
was imaginary. So now I just use the letters as an excuse to tell him what you’ve been doing
instead. I like having an audience I can gush about you to, even when hiding behind an avatar, and
I regularly waste pages and pages describing the way your skin goes olive in the sun, or how you
know virtually every street in Florence, or the time I surprised you with tickets to La Traviata and
the way it made you smile. I enjoy describing them because they’re important, these little details;
these little glimpses of You. I think most people see you more as a brand or a concept than an
actual person. You’re so intelligent and imposing with that indefinable air of menace that you have,
so it’s the little details which help to make you more human and knowable. It’s a way to see behind
the façade and learn to understand you: that you’re not just this detached, unearthly representation
that people admire, and are afraid of, but who’s totally removed from the rest of us. You’re so
much more than that, and I can’t believe it took me this long to see it.

Of course Mr Haversham always thinks this gushing is cute, even though it’s actually pretty
mortifying and I’d die of embarrassment if you ever saw the letters yourself. ‘You’re very smitten
aren’t you William?’ he says in his replies. ‘You’ve obviously got her bad.’ Then he’ll usually
follow it up with something sentimental and declaratory like ‘Young love is a wonderful thing!’
even though neither of us are remotely young and only someone as ancient as Mr Haversham
would ever think we were. Even so, I can’t deny I like the way it sounds: romantic and dashing,
with the sting of long hot summers and making out in fields and car seats, or a school locker room
that smells of sweat and chewing gum. Besides, it doesn’t matter if the young part is wrong
because the rest is true and surely that’s the most important half. Because we are, aren’t we. We’re
in love.

In this respect I’ve probably overdone it because Mr Haversham seems to think I live in an Ingrid
Bergman movie and has become a bit insatiable for details. It also meant I was forced to come up
with a fake name for you because I could hardly keep referring to ‘My Girlfriend’ in the way
someone would reference My Car or My House. At first I was briefly tempted by Annabelle,
simply because it was such an absurd pun; or even Hannah from that time he overheard us having
sex and I had to improvise. But while it’s impossible anyone would ever see the letters I’m still too
paranoid to risk it so ultimately just referred to the imaginary girlfriend as Anna instead. This
seemed like a good choice of name – solidly forgettable and roundly American-sounding – and
even compelled me to elaborate an imaginary back story of her growing up on a farm in Maine
surrounded by dogs and picket fences. Mr Haversham promptly got more besotted than ever and at
one point started asking for photos, meaning I had some quick explaining to do about how ‘she’
hates having her picture taken, even though you’re so vain you love it and I’m the one who’s
camera-shy. Mr Haversham seemed to find this coyness not only charming but completely
believable, most likely because he’s never heard of selfies or Instagram and grew up in an era
when woman’s ankles were considered risqué. ‘Young ladies like sweet things don’t they?’ he
wrote in his latest letter. ‘Should I mail her some peanut butter candy? I don’t suppose they sell it
in Europe.’ I told him not to bother but he did it anyway and I still ended up giving it you, even
though I knew you’d hate it. It was during the Mardi Gras and I was sitting on your knee (I was
pretty drunk at the time). “Look what Mr Haversham sent you,” I said. “He thinks your name is
Anna.”

As predicted you weren’t remotely impressed with the chocolate, even though I know you secretly
quite like Mr Haversham for looking after me in that time beyond the cliff when everything went
black and it was just a hellish stretch of waiting before you finally came back. But I still caught
you inspecting the parcel when you thought I wasn’t looking, thoughtfully running a finger across
the US postmark like you were remembering that old apartment and the time you’d spent with him
hearing how I’d failed to cope when we weren’t together. Feeling how you felt then? Who knows:
perhaps you were, perhaps not. You’re so difficult to read sometimes and of course you’d never say
so either way. Naturally you never went so far as to actually eat any of the candy yourself so I
ended up devouring it all in one go on my own, licking the chocolate off my fingers afterwards like
a teenager. It was greasy and gorgeous and tasted like home, and it made me think of Mr
Haversham with his arthritic fingers and his ordinary life and how strange it was that this
eminently nice old man had now become a tiny part of it: the beautiful, terrible Story of Us.

*****

It’s now been nearly 12 hours since your ‘By the way, let’s get married’ bombshell and in the
entire time I haven’t mentioned it once and neither have you. It’s actually pretty ridiculous. I can’t
help it though, because I don’t feel ready to say ‘yes’ and in the absence of that what else is there
to tell you that you’d really want to hear? It’s times like these that I feel the full weight of my own
emotional constipation, although to be fair it’s not like you’re any better. In fact if anything you’re
even worse. I don’t think you recognise what your emotions are half the time – they could punch
you in the face and you still wouldn’t know. You’d probably just punch them back then machete
them or something. There’s also no doubt that the situation has the potential to grow very messy
very quickly, but while I might agonise over this I suspect it’s yet another thing that won’t bother
you. In fact it certainly won’t, because messes never do: your solution is always just to make a
bigger mess that cancels out the first one.
It’s my turn to pay the rent this month (always cash; always untraceable) and while I’d bitched
endlessly beforehand at having to go, the memory of last night’s silence makes me glad at an
excuse to leave the apartment and avoid the numerous awkward conversations that I know are still
lying in wait. The relator’s office is several miles away, which will let me stretch the journey out
enough to sprawl across the entire afternoon, but while the distance is usually a source of
annoyance it’s not the reason I dislike going. Ironically I was the one who found it in the first place
although the location, while inconvenient, has always bothered me far less than the agent himself.
It was clear from the start that he was suspicious about a cash payment, and after nearly an hour of
wrangling (and me playacting Dumb American Tourist to an extent that was borderline painful) he
agreed on the condition of an added fee to the rental price; allegedly for ‘administrative
inconvenience’, but really because he’d guessed my options were limited and felt he might as well
make a profit off it. At the time I was too relieved to have found someone willing to give us a home
to feel like it was worth arguing over, but when I told you about it later you narrowed your eyes
into little slits of disapproval before wordlessly retrieving your coat and vanishing from the hotel.
You were gone for ages, and when you finally came back you just sat down in the same chair
again and stretched your legs out in front of you like nothing had happened.

“The rent will be the original amount,” you’d said in a calm way that suggested the matter was
settled; and it certainly seemed to be, because a raise in price has never been mentioned again. It’s
just one of countless issues that makes me feel uneasy, although admittedly the agent has never
seemed unhappy about it. Quite the opposite. In fact if anything he’s slightly coy and ingratiating,
and if I didn’t know any better I’d say he was flirting with me. It always makes me anxious about
what you might do to him if you find out, but if you’ve picked up on anything you’ve never
referred to it. I suppose it’s possible he’s like that with you as well; maybe he’s like that with
everyone because he thinks it’s charming? Fortunately he’s out the the office when I arrive so I just
give the envelope to his secretary instead, who accepts it with a polite ‘Grazie’ before slipping it
discreetly into a drawer. She urges me to have some coffee afterwards, but while I know from
experience how good it is I’m too keen to leave to say yes. Mission accomplished I swivel round to
make my escape before – oh shit – the door flies open and the agent comes walking in anyway. He
gives his secretary a weird little smile before turning round to face me, and there’s something
about it that gives me an unpleasant feeling that he asked her to delay me as long as possible if he
wasn’t in the office when I arrived.

“Salve, signore,” he says now.

I open my mouth to reply then realise I can’t remember what his surname is and promptly have to
shut it again. Matteo…something. I’ve never bothered to learn how to pronounce it properly so it’s
always failed to stick in my head. In the end I just stand there without answering and he smiles
again then gestures at the wall behind him. “You like our new artwork? A very exclusive piece by
Gianni Lombardo. It arrived from Rome this morning.”

Reluctantly I make a pretence of admiring the picture, which is a truly hideous rendering of…
something. Actually I don’t even know. It looks like it could be a figure on beach, but the frenzied
smears of yellow paint manage to resemble liver disease more than anything else. I want to say
‘That’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen in my life – and I’ve seen corpses’ but eventually just
substitute a vague humming noise instead.

“A future collector’s item,” continues Matteo. He turns to the receptionist, who gives a disdainful
little sniff as if to say ‘don’t bring me into this,’ then swings back round again, beaming away like
it’s a new born baby on display instead of sundry bits of crap on a canvas. I wouldn’t actually be
surprised if that’s its official title. Crap on Canvas by Gianni Lombardo…

“Um, yeah,” I eventually manage. “It’s…neat.” It’s definitely not the most flattering choice of
adjective (charming, elegant, evocative) although judging from his confused expression he doesn’t
even know what I mean. I suppose he’s only aware of ‘neat’ as a synonym for tidy and doesn’t
understand that I’m attempting to be nice about his godawful artwork. Even so, I can’t be bothered
to explain it.

“Well, it is good to see you Signore,” he finally adds when it’s become obvious I’ve run out of
shits to give about the painting. “You are well, yes? You look well.”

“I’m fine,” I say. With an effort I force myself to add “Thanks,” but draw the line at asking how he
is in return. Likewise I don’t want to use to his first name as if he’s a friend, although I know I
wouldn’t want to use his surname either even if I did know what it was (which I don’t). As he gives
me a rather oily smile the urge to tell him to fuck off is briefly overwhelming, but I know I can’t
justify being so hostile without a proper reason. I actually wish I could but I can’t: my problem,
fundamentally, seems to be that I’m a bastard trapped in a nice person’s body (unlike you, who’ll
gleefully engage in epic bastardry for absolutely no reason at all). Of course there’s also the need
to stay on his good side for the sake of the apartment, but in spite of all that my capacity to remain
polite is becoming a serious struggle. As a distraction I start to mentally categorise all the swear
words I can think of that start with a B (balls, bastard, bullshit…). It’s like a form of mindfulness.
Sort of.

“And your friend?” he adds. “He is well too?”

He always does this: refers to you as my ‘friend’ with just enough emphasis for innuendo while
never being obvious enough to get called out for it. Not that there’s much I could really say. What
could I say? Lean up and whisper ‘Actually we have sex’ right in his face? Surely he must already
know…unless of course he really is that dense and sincerely thinks we’re a pair of Dude Bros who
loll around with our Playstations all day in his overpriced apartment.

“He’s fine,” I finally reply through gritted teeth. To liven things up a bit I now start adding some
transatlantic ones (bloody, bugger, bollocks…). “He’s…” Briefly I fall silent as I struggle to think
of something appropriately bland that you could be doing: it’s like Mr Haversham again with yet
another version of you that doesn’t actually exist. “He’s enjoying the concert season,” I eventually
add. Not that you are: you couldn’t give a shit. According to you the local auditorium is
‘provincial’. We visited once a few months ago and you spent the whole time wincing at the wrong
notes.

“Oh, eccellente,” replies Matteo. He sounds animated, clearly eager for every last scrap of
information. “I didn’t know he was musical. He has never mentioned it.”

I stare at him for a few seconds, trying to picture you having cosy conversations with him about
your various interests before giving it up as impossible to imagine. He stares back for a few
seconds then starts to subtly manoeuvre himself in such a way that I won’t be able to get to the
door without brushing past him. He catches my eye as he does it then smiles again, innocent and
unassuming.

“Gabriella,” he says, without turning his head. “Did you offer a drink to our client?”

The secretary gives a little sniffing noise of assent and I abandon restraint and shove past him
rather roughly to get to the door. “In a rush I see,” he says, pantomiming regret. He makes a quick
movement with his hand like he’s about to touch me, but he must see something in my face
because he stops almost immediately before stuffing it into pocket as if to prevent it misbehaving
any further. There’s an awkward pause then he shrugs and gives a little laugh. “You Americans are
always in a rush,” he adds. “Always somewhere to go. In Italy we like to take our time.”
I snap “I have to get back,” then watch as his eyebrows elevate up his forehead in what’s a clear
invitation to describe the reason. Of course I do have a reason (namely ‘I’d rather gnaw my own
feet off than talk to you anymore, you tedious shit’) but seeing how the truth is hardly an option I
substitute it for an incredibly half-assed lie about expecting some guests.

“Guests!” replies Matteo. “Ospiti, how nice. From America?”

“From Kyrgyzstan,” I say: because fuck it, why not?

There’s another small pause – it’s clear he’s never heard of it. “How interesting,” he says
eventually. “Kyrgyzstan. Is that where your friend is from?”

I have a sudden awful feeling I’m going to laugh. I suppose your Italian, while flawless, must
sound fairly exotic to him when filtered through your smoky accent (although admittedly
Kyrgyzstan is still a bit of a stretch).

“It’s good we still get visitors,” continues Matteo. As he’s speaking he retrieves his copy of La
Nazione and waves it in my direction – at which point the smile promptly withers away from my
face and I no longer feel like laughing at all. “Many people have been put off. Bad publicity, you
know? You must tell your guests not to be afraid and that the police will do their job.”

Reluctantly I now force myself to glance at the front page, which even my grade school-level
Italian is able to translate as the discovery of a fifth body, courtesy of Il Macellaio. The first time I
heard the name I assumed it was some kind of synonym for evil or cunning – I think I’d got it
confused with ‘Machiavellian’ – but it turned out to not translate to anything more imaginative than
‘The Butcher’. In a way I was glad: elaborate nicknames always lend a level of power and
mystique that’s entirely undeserved and at least butcher was suitably sordid and brutal. The
killings first started about six months ago and I remember you saying from the very beginning that
they had a serial killer on their hands. After the second murder I was inclined to agree with you –
although it wasn’t until the third victim was discovered that Omicida Serial began to regularly
appear in the headlines. It’s always so hard to hold your attention that I assumed you’d lose interest
in it after a month or so, but up until now you never really have. And neither have I: although I
know the source of our interest is very different.

Matteo is really staring at me now, dark eyes crawling up and down in a way that makes me think
of beetles with shiny black-backed shells. “I hope you and your friend are not worried,” he adds.
“This one is a Bad Hombre, as the Americans say, but he will soon be caught.”

“Americans don’t really say that,” I tell him. Or do they? I’ve never really known what ordinary
people say. But then you don’t say it and neither do I, and it’s been ages since I’ve had much
interest in anyone else. But deep down I know that I am worried, even though it’s not for the
reason he thinks. Because while I’m not afraid for our physical safety (I’d like to see the Bad
Hombre that would dare take you on after all), what genuinely scares me is the attention such a
sensational case might attract. Yes it’s unlikely, but I know from bitter experience that it’s not
impossible. And so as the deaths mount up and the headlines get darker, my thoughts grow more
persistent and troubling: What if they ask for help from the FBI? What if Jack turns up in Italy?
What if-what if- what if…

“Well, let us hope that there are no more stories,” adds Matteo. Briefly he brandishes the paper
again. “Nessuna nuova bella nuova, as we say in Italy. No news is good news, yes? What would
you say in America?”

“’m not sure,” I say. “Lock and load?”

The sarcasm is obvious but he still starts laughing merrily like I’ve just crapped out the best joke
he’s heard all year. He’s always seemed a bit obsessed with me being American; most likely the
result of a diet of movies and sundry pop culture that’s lent the concept a degree of second-hand
glamour it doesn’t really deserve. It’s a phenomenon I’ve seen fairly often in the more secluded
parts of Europe and is a complete opposite to you (who, despite having chosen to live there, still
treats my Americanness as an endearing form of disability that’s unfortunate but can’t really be
helped).

Matteo now smiles at me again, expectant and encouraging. Eager, in fact – almost like he’s
hoping I’ll start whistling The Star Spangled Banner as a bald eagle swoops through the window.
It’s a stark contrast to your own amused disdain at anything transatlantic, and at the thought of you
I feel a sudden rush of fondness that’s quickly followed with a sting of guilt at having stayed away
so long. I should have been home hours ago by now; you’re probably wondering where I am. Of
course it’s also possible you’ve been in some kind of Memory Palace coma the entire time and
didn’t even notice I’ve left, but either way I’m consumed by an urge to see you that’s powerful
enough to transform me into one of The Rudes and leave Matteo rhapsodising about America to an
empty room so I can shove past him and run down the stairs two at a time to go in search of the
nearest station.

Having spent all afternoon wasting time it’s now typically perverse that once I’m in a hurry time
decides to turn round and bait me right back: which means the bus doesn’t come, and the traffic is
terrible, and by the time I finally get home it’s well into the evening and already getting dark. The
apartment is eerily silent when I open the door and for a few seconds I think you’ve got bored of
waiting and gone out yourself before seeing your coat is still hanging up. The simplest thing would
be to shout for you, but I’m feeling too self-conscious by now so just sling my coat over yours then
saunter down the hallway pretending to be casual. The kitchen’s in darkness and there’s no way
you’d go to bed this early, so after a bit of awkward hovering I decide to check the living room and
yes, sure enough – there you are. You’re stretched across the chaise longue with a book in your
hand and an informal air of comfort that always manages to be endearing because it’s so unusual:
shirt sleeves rolled back, hair slightly ruffled and long legs curled up like a cat. You’ve lit some
candles in preference to electric light and the dull glow makes you look like something from a
different age. A painting by Rossetti, perhaps: ‘Gentleman Deep in Thought’.

For a few seconds I just stand there staring at you. It’s obvious you’ve heard my footsteps but you
don’t glance up from your book. “Hey,” I say eventually.

Instead of answering you turn your page over then raise your arm in a silent invitation for me to
come and lie next to you. The sofa is a narrow one and there isn’t really enough room, but I still
walk over anyway and jostle about for a bit until I’ve nearly pushed you off the edge and can hook
my legs around yours. The motion causes my watch to catch your shirt cuff and you frown slightly
then unfasten it with your free hand and put it on the table. The quickness you do it with promptly
makes me smirk to myself, because I know you hate that watch. It’s incredibly cheap and tacky
(digital display, plastic strap) and the mere sight of it always drives you insane. Your own watch is
a slim wafer of gold around your wrist and you’ve made repeated attempts to let you buy me
something similar, which I keep refusing with equal enthusiasm. Possibly I’m being ungrateful, but
it’s easy to imagine that what starts with a watch would end up with you trying to control my entire
wardrobe and it feels like an important boundary to establish early on.

Having disposed of the offending watch you wait until I’ve gone still again then prop the book on
my shoulder and rest your cheek against my hair. I crane my neck a bit so I can have a look. The
pages are wilted with age and printed in something that looks like Latin, and the whole thing’s so
incredibly boring that in the end I just give up and start fidgeting about instead as a sign that I want
some attention. You make an amused sound in response then nudge the side of my face with your
 chin.

I return the pressure then settle back against your shoulder, doing my best to avoid the sharp edges
of your collar bone. The silence feels oppressive, yet while there’s so much I know should talk to
you about I still can’t quite find the words. Instead I just close my eyes and relax into you, enjoying
the way our breath has synchronised like we’re inhaling each other’s air. At some point I’ve started
stroking the back of your neck, rubbing my thumb across it in an absent-minded way just above
your shirt. I do this quite a lot; I think it’s a weird kind of muscle memory from owning dogs for so
long (sometimes I’ll even scratch behind your ears). But it’s obvious you like it, so I’ve never
made any effort to stop. As dumb as it is, I suppose it must be a bit of a novelty for you. You’re
used to the type of touches which are intended to either hurt or persuade, whereas this is done
without expectation of anything in return except to make you happy – casual and affectionate, and
coming from a place of care rather than fear or conciliation.

To prove the point I increase the pressure on your neck then give your hair a playful tug. “I love
you,” I say quietly.

Next to me I feel you tense a little before reaching round to cradle my face in your hand, gently
pulling it forward until our foreheads are pressed together. This is your way of saying I love you
too, although you’ll rarely say it out loud. Sometimes you do, but more often it gets expressed in
gestures or looks. These looks can be very intense: it’s as if ‘I love you’ isn’t sufficient and what
your eyes are really saying is ‘I’m obsessed with you.’ I call them your manic moments and I’m
only half joking. It’s when you stare straight into my face, extremely focussed and forceful, and I
know you’re thinking about the trail of bloody footprints that led us here. It only ever lasts a few
seconds before you seem to snap out of it, but it’s always very powerful when it happens, as well as
vaguely unsettling in how raw it is.

I now shift round to give you a clearer view of your book, then flop backwards so I can squint up at
you from beneath my hair. The sun is starting to set and as the light spills through the window it
bathes your skin in shades of burnt gold, persimmon pink, and a deep smoky crimson the same
colour as blood. There’s a low thrum of music from your laptop and the violins match the pounding
of the raindrops on the skylight the same way as a heartbeat. By now I’ve grown very soft and
sleepy, which I know you’ll enjoy because it lets your controlling streak come out and you can
pick me up and move me around in a way I’d bitch about endlessly when I’m fully awake. Exactly
on cue you now reach down with both arms and tug me upwards until I’m half on top of you and
staring straight at the skylight overhead. I make a half-hearted attempt to complain about it, but
ultimately decide not to bother because I’ve just caught sight of us in the rain-streaked glass and
am struck by the way my reflection is overlaid with yours. It’s arresting and almost eerie – lips,
skin, breath, all blended together like twin souls in a single body – and it reminds me all over again
of that uncanny sense of you as an extension of myself.

Next to my eyes are the glimmer of yours and as I watch you reach up to trail your finger along my
cheekbone. “Look, beloved,” you say quietly. “Look what we made.”

It’s an abstract comment that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but I understand immediately
what you mean. Of course I do; I don’t need to be told. You mean: after everything that happened,
after all the horror and madness…we still made Us.

Chapter End Notes

Lol, apologies for the epic fail in logic because I know it makes no sense for Hannibal
to be running around in full view of everyone post-prison break. The novels got round
this by having him change his appearance with plastic surgery, but the films and show
basically ignored it so I’m going to do the same. Anyway, we love Mads’ face exactly
as it is don’t we lads?

Also, just to let existing readers know that this fic is likely going to end up much more
character-driven than my previous ones. There definitely will be a background plot,
but at the moment I’m not planning for it to be the kind of highly-detailed mystery
story of the type I usually do. Instead the main focus will be on the relationship and
my version of how long-term Hannigram might develop once the intimacy is already
established.

TL;DR Cue lots of chapters where not much happens except Hannigram bickering and
flirting like an old married couple with a bit of murder thrown in.

Finally, huge thanks to will_you_please_stay_quiet for their kindness and patience in

helping out with my terrible, terrible Italian. Any remaining mistakes are mine :-)
 Chapter 2
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Next morning I wake up later than usual with a crick in my neck and all four limbs splayed at
random angles like points on a star. I slowly re-arrange them into something less ridiculous, then
spend a few seconds feeling confused at why the mattress has turned so weird and bony before
realising I’ve managed to migrate across the bed at some point during the night and draped myself
across your back. My weight must be uncomfortable but you’re still not asking me to move, so I
decide I might as well take this as an invitation to settle in and stay exactly where I am. It’s
surprisingly cosy if I’m honest: your skin is warm to the touch, and (as long I avoid the ridge of
your shoulders) is pleasantly smooth to lie on. You feel very still beneath me, but I can tell you’re
awake from the speed of your breath so haul myself upwards until I can nudge at you with my
forehead.

“Got you,” I say.

You make an amused sound then pause for a few seconds before wrinkling your nose – which
immediately makes me want to laugh because I know it means you’re tired and trying not to show
it. “It appears so,” you reply. “I confess, it is not particularly gratifying to be ‘got’.”

“No,” I say smugly. “I bet it’s not.”

“Indeed.” You give me a rather beady look. “Although I suppose if anyone were going to manage
it, it would most likely be you.”

As you’re speaking you wrinkle your nose for a second time, then see the way I’m sniggering at it
and give a small sigh at getting caught out again. It’s like you can’t stand being anything less than
infallible: even your own drowsiness offends you. Your other major giveaway is blurting
something random in a foreign language when you first wake up, and no matter how often it
happens it never fails to be funny (as does the look of irritation that inevitably follows it, like
you’re annoyed with your mouth for failing to catch up with your brain). I guess the kindest thing
would be to get off you and let you wake up properly, but now that I’m up here I’ve decided I
don’t want to get down so just stretch a few times instead then begin examining the small web of
scars on your shoulder blade. Admittedly these aren’t especially interesting in themselves, but I’ve
been seized by one of my sudden bouts of possessiveness which means I won’t be able to stop
obsessing over you until it’s run its course. I don’t think I've ever really got tired of looking at you,
and by now you’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to suffer in silence until I finally lose
interest and stop. It’s actually pretty funny: seeing you having to just lie there and put up with it.

“One of your inspections?” you ask in the usual long-suffering way.

“Yes. Hold still.” I prod your shoulder blade to show I mean business and then put my palm on
your neck to stop you moving as I resume examining your acromion bone. It’s actually quite a
good specimen as bones go: very firm and rounded with a smooth bolt of muscle nestled
underneath. Beneath me you shift again, clearly irritated by the sensation.

“Hold still,” I say bossily. “Are you ticklish or something?”

“No. I’m just not oblivious to being jabbed in the back.”

“I’m showing an interest in you. You should be flattered.”

“I am immensely flattered,” you reply in a deadpan voice.

I can’t help laughing at how martyred you sound – then promptly regret it when you take
advantage of my inattention to flip me off your back and onto the mattress. It’s a typical dick move
and I gaze up the ceiling, secretly feeling annoyed while also relieved that you haven’t retaliated by
climbing on top of me yourself. This is undoubtedly a good thing (possibly life-saving) on the
grounds that you weigh an absolute ton. Not that I’m sure how someone so fit and toned can weigh
a ton, but you definitely do. I suspect it to be a combination of muscle mass and malevolence.

You smirk a bit at having got the upper hand then lean over to run a fingertip along the edge of my
cheekbone. “You seem to have acquired some more,” you say.

This is a reference to the faint dusting of freckles that have appeared from being in the sun so much
and at the mention of them I roll my eyes halfway back in my head. Those goddamn things have
become a source of fixation that would border on comical if it weren’t so irritating; it’s like you’re
obsessed with the little fuckers. In fact you probably are. Oftentimes you seem to know my body
better than I do myself, which means even the most banal changes becomes an object of
fascination.

“They’re quite charming in their own way,” you add thoughtfully. “One might even say pretty.”

“Ugh. Call me pretty again and I will end you.”

“Well they are,” you say in an exaggeratedly sincere way. “Like speckles in the centre of a tiger
lily. Why end me for being the bearer of bad news?” You wait for a few seconds then give me a
rather malicious little smile. “You of all people should appreciate the concept of not shooting the
messenger.”

You’re being really annoying now, but I start to laugh anyway – mostly because the ‘pretty’
reference is so obviously revenge for me rolling around on you to peer at your shoulders. Not that
I’ve got any real grounds to complain because I’m as bad as you are; it’s just that I do it in a
different way. Less appreciative and more…forensic. So I’ll never wax lyrical about you being
pretty (even if you were – which, like me, you’re not) but I’ve still touched your face enough times
that I can read it with my fingertips the same way a blind person reads Braille. And I won’t fill
sketchbooks full of your image, but I’ll ask about the provenance of each scar and mark on your
body until I’ve fulfilled my quest to chart a mental map recording every last detail of you. It often
feels exhausting to be the focus of such intense attention, yet even after all this time there’s no
denying we’re still completely fascinated by one another. In my more honest moments I actually
find myself wondering if it’s simply a form of narcissism, in that each of us see ourselves reflected
back so precisely in the other person that the interest is just an unconscious form of self-regard. In
other words: a massive intellectual circle-jerk.

I’m now about to ponder my possible options to banish the freckles – ranging from sun avoidance
(inconvenient) to concealer (mortifying) – when there’s a sound of the front door clicking,
followed by a faint patter of footsteps across the tiles. Seeing how it’s Tuesday this means we’ve
managed to lie in bed so long (using affection to torture each other) that it’s already 10am and our
housekeeper has arrived to fix the chores we’re too lazy (me) and pretentious (you) to get off our
asses and do for ourselves. It was you who first suggested hiring her; I was less keen on the idea,
but have finally grown to accept it after realising how hopeless the two of us are at housework. For
two grown men this is admittedly rather tragic but there’s no doubt it’s true. It also possibly
explains why both of us cope unusually well in prison, because the guards just do everything for
you.
I now lie still for a bit, absent-mindedly tapping your shoulder blade with my finger while listening
to cupboards opening and closing before there’s a soft knocking on the bedroom door and – shit! –
the door itself opens and Giulietta comes in. I dive beneath the covers so fast it’s like an alarm’s
gone off, but you just roll about exactly as you were without making any attempt to move. You’re
always extraordinarily relaxed about things like this. I attribute it to your aloof, patrician streak
that’s oblivious to other people’s opinions – rather like an aristocrat who wouldn’t think twice
about a manservant emptying their chamber pot – and it sometimes bothers me that my own self-
consciousness makes me look small-minded and provincial in comparison. But it’s never enough to
stop me doing it, despite an awareness (secret and guilty), that if you were a woman I might not
care so much about someone seeing us in bed together.

“Mi dispiace signore,” says Giulietta. Her Italian is too fast for me to follow but I know she’s
talking about me from the fond, casual way you reach down to run your fingers through my hair
where it’s sticking above the covers.

“Non è affatto un problema,” you say. “Will sta bene.”

For a few terrible moments I’m genuinely afraid that you’re about to have a full-blown
conversation with her, deliberately stringing it out until I run out of oxygen and am forced to
emerge from the darkness blinking like a cave-dweller. Fortunately Giulietta is more merciful than
you are, and after a few more whispered words of Italian has crept out the room and discreetly
closed the door behind her. It’s just as well – I really was about to run out of oxygen. You lift up
the cover as a sign the coast is clear and I haul myself out again then collapse next to you on the
pillow.

“A misunderstanding,” you say before I need to ask. “Giulietta didn’t realise we were at home…”

“Right.”

“…so she was apologising. She was concerned she might have disturbed you.” You pause and
smirk slightly. “Naturally I allowed her to think that and didn’t tell her you were hiding rather than
sleeping.”

I’m expecting you to add something else but you don’t and instead just sit there in silence while
looking enormously pleased with yourself. God knows what you’re waiting for? Possibly you’re
expecting me to thank you (in which case you can just keep waiting and marinate in your own
smugness). As usual I’m the first one to run out of patience and end up grunting something
unintelligible before reaching over to retrieve my jeans (currently tangled up with one of your
designer shirts and looking rather sorry for themselves in comparison). You watch me for a few
seconds then lean over yourself to take hold of my hips. Your grip feels firmly possessive and
almost – but not quite – hard enough to hurt.

“Stop it,” I say. “Get off.”

You stare back at me without speaking, slow-blinking like a cat with your mouth arranged in a
very faint smile. “Don’t get up,” you finally reply. I can tell immediately that you’re curating your
tone: a dash of command leavened with just enough lightness to deny being controlling it if I try to
call you out on it. “I want you to stay here with me.”

“No.” My voices comes out a bit sharper than intended so I turn round and give your hair a playful
ruffle to make up for it. “You can’t just order me to get into bed. Do you think I’m your rent boy or
something?” You don’t reply: knowing you, this almost certainly means you’re thinking Well yes,
tiny murder apprentice – obviously you are. “Anyway we can’t,” I add. “Giulietta’s there.”
Your faint smile grows slightly broader. “Indeed she is. In the living room. Behind two closed
doors.”

“No,” I repeat, even firmer than before. “Absolutely not.” Oh God, I sound like Jack; I’m sure
he’s said that to me in the past. Or maybe it was to both of us? Him leaning over his desk with that
angry furrow between his eyebrows after a particularly unsuitable suggestion: ‘No you two,
absolutely not.’ “Don’t be stupid,” I add out loud. “What’ll she think?”

“What do you mean ‘what’ll she think?’ She will think what is entirely obvious – why else would
she leave so quickly? She’s guessed that I want us to be alone so I can make love to you.”

“No,” I repeat. “No way.” Now I sound faintly scandalised; less like Jack and more like someone’s
elderly mother. To show I mean it I resume the hunt for my jeans, which unfortunately involves the
indignity of hanging over the side of the bed with my ass swaying in the breeze while I rummage
across the floor for them. It seems they’ve managed to knot themselves round your shirt in a
particularly inaccessible way, almost as if you’ve done it on purpose. Possibly you have. In fact,
given the unattainable angle, it’s like you and the shirt are in it together.

“Are you all right?” you ask with the tiniest hint of sarcasm.

“Obviously,” I reply. I say this with as much self-possession as it’s possible to muster – which
admittedly, given my position, is not very much. Oh come on, I now mentally exhort to the jeans.
Give me a break, you complete bastards. After what feels like several hours of wriggling I finally
succeed in separating them, then tug them on with a hint of triumph before grabbing your discarded
shirt because I can’t be bothered to find my own. The whole time I’m doing it I deliberately avoid
catching your eye: partly because I’ve started to feel awkward, but mostly because I don’t want to
give you a chance to bullshit me into changing my mind. The truth is I’d secretly quite like to stay,
but I promised myself early on that I’d protect my independence by not giving in to your every
request. Sometimes it’s over big things and sometimes it’s small, but the habit is a valuable one and
something I’m determined not to break.

Mind-made-up I now leave you in bed (you’ll have started sulking like a massive, maniacal toddler
by this point – I’ll bet any money on it) and go into the kitchen so I can say ciao to Giulietta and
give her a hand with shovelling the remains of last night’s plates into the dishwasher. It always
irritates you to see me helping her out, but I’m honestly past caring because I can’t stand to just sit
there like some sort of pampered Man Child while a woman old enough to be my mother does the
dishes I was too lazy to clean myself. What do you think we’re paying her for? you said the first
time you saw me do it, but it’s not just a question of money. Well, partly it is. But really I think it’s
more about solidarity than anything else. After all, there are people in life who wash dishes, and
there are people who pay to have their dishes washed, and there’s no doubt I identify more with the
former than the latter. I tried to explaining this to you once but you got the sort of expression on
your face like I’d just whipped out a copy of Das Kapital and called you Comrade so I’ve never
bothered again.

“Grazie mille,” says Giulietta. “You are a kind boy.” She smiles at me, her eyes dark and merry in
her creased face like currants in a bun “Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine.” I gesture at one of the plates: a particularly over-the-top specimen of Chinese porcelain
that in my previous life I would have been genuinely embarrassed to own. “I had a big meal last
night.”

“You’re sure?” replies Giulietta. Her voice has taken on a coaxing tone, the kind I could imagine
her using with a child. “I’ve brought you fette biscottate. They are the sort you like.”
Of course it’s almost impossible to find a way of refusing this without looking like a huge dick, so
in the end I just take a piece from the bag and nibble it rather reluctantly while Giuletta beams
away in the background. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror halfway through: I look like a
large rodent. I’m honestly not sure what it is that makes people want to feed me up, but you and
she are as bad as each other and between the two of you I have a feeling I’m going to wind up too
massive to fit through the door. For a few seconds I drift off into an interesting fantasy of being
airlifted out of bed once the ceiling’s been removed: I’ve just got to the part about Jack seeing an
internet article about the Italian man being winched out his home by helicopter (and his expression
when he realises it’s me) when Giulietta comes bustling back and I have to pick the biscuit up
again and pretend I’m enjoying it. These motherly gestures are very typical of her and while they
sometimes get embarrassing I still enjoy them more than I like to admit. Occasionally she’ll even
pat my cheek or ruffle my hair, although I’ve noticed she never does it when you’re around. This
wariness seems a bit excessive, yet it’s clear she’s realised you wouldn’t like her touching me
without your permission. I think even your insane possessiveness could handle it though (possibly),
because it’s obvious the doting isn’t remotely romantic and simply comes from the way I remind
her of her own son. She even showed me a photo of him once. There was a definite physical
resemblance, but what got to me more was his expression. So earnest and solemn in his
Carabinieri uniform, like my ghostly twin – an image of the way I might have ended up if I’d
never met you.

Right on cue you now walk into the kitchen and I quickly put the biscuit down. Not that ‘walk’ is
exactly the right word. Walking is what normal people do, and it’s more like you swish into the
kitchen with the same gravitas that an actor would Enter Stage Right. You proceed to pause at the
doorway as if awaiting applause and Giulietta quickly turns her back on me and returns to the
dishes with a polite buongiorno. This is typical, as she’s always noticeably more formal when
you’re around. Her voice changes and acquires a tone of deference it never has with me, and while
I’m plain old ‘Will’ you’re always ‘Signore’ or ‘Dottore’. I’m fairly sure she’s not afraid of you,
yet despite how courteous you always are to her it’s clear she’s got a strong sense of where the
boundaries should be. It’s an effect you have on most people and it sometimes makes me sad that
you’re so often seen as aloof and unapproachable – cold, curious, and impersonal as a lunar
landscape – when I know there’s far more to you than that.

In an effort not to exclude me Giulietta now begins to speak to you in English; and as if you’re
reading my thoughts (and want to show that you’re in absolutely no need of sympathy, thank you
very much little man) deliberately answer in the kind of rapid Italian that’s impossible for me to
follow. It’s clear you’re doing it on purpose to punish me for earlier, so I pick up the paper and
start reading that instead, turning the pages loudly and defiantly to show that I’m onto you and
don’t care. Giulietta, oblivious to the tension, smiles at me then retrieves my glasses from the
counter and hands them over without being asked.

“Grazie,” I say. “Lo apprezzo.”

“Prego,” replies Giulietta. She smiles again then turns round to you. “You have been teaching
him?”

You don’t answer immediately so instead I say ‘yes’ for both of us. It’s been about a few months
now, although I think it’s fair to say you’re enjoying the process a lot more than I am. We’re still
limping along at the early stages so I’m being crammed with the kind of tedious characters that
populate vocabulary books everywhere: pens, pencils, windows, bakers and asking directions to the
beach. ‘Omicidio,’ I’ll sometimes say to liven it up a bit. ‘Cannibalismo.’ You don’t think I’m
particularly funny although of course that doesn’t stop me doing it. Anyway, I like seeing you
narrow your eyes and sigh: expressing long-suffering annoyance at absurdity in the same way as
anyone else. It makes you seem more human. I recently learnt to pronounce ‘Ti amo’ instead to
make up for it and for a few seconds your entire expression lighted up. It was nice to see. You
normally have such a melancholy face, even when you’re happy: gaunt cheekbones and a funereal
smile.

“Ho bisogno di fare pratica con il me Italiano,” I now say out loud.

“Mio,” replies Giulietta. “Not me. Otherwise – very good. You are a clever boy.” She turns back to
you again, as if seeking permission for her opinion. “Isn’t he clever?”

“Indeed he is,” you say. “Although his accent is abominable.” As you’re speaking you catch my
eye and your previous stony expression softens slightly. Giulietta promptly shrieks with protest on
my behalf and I catch your eye again and feel myself struggling not to laugh.

“Sì,”I say. “Abominevole.”

You give me the ghost of a smile and when you walk past my chair I catch hold of your hand and
give it a quick press. I’m already feeling guilty for the way I avoided you earlier – although
admittedly the guilt is pretty short-lived, because as soon as Giulietta’s left I promptly regress to
Avoidance Mode again and start intensely studying the newspaper in an attempt to dodge the
conversation I suspect you’ll be wanting to have. From one extreme to the other: it’s actually pretty
ironic. It’s very ironic – or at least it would be if irony hadn’t been dead and buried years ago
where we’re concerned. I frown for a few seconds, mulling over the difficulty of dealing with
ironic situations when irony itself is officially deceased. It’s as if the corpse of irony has been
pulled from the grave, although somehow that’s still not quite good enough. No, it’s as if we’ve
drop-kicked its body around the Cemetery of Satire to bounce off every gravestone, before re-
shovelling dirt onto the corpse of irony and…

“Will?” you say.

“Hmmm.”

“I asked you if were going out today?”

“Oh right,” I say. “Sorry, I was…” I was thinking about irony being murdered to death. “I wasn’t
listening.”

There’s another stilted pause; I clear my throat then turn the page of the newspaper, doing my best
to simulate fascination with the progress of the local soccer team. The players are grinning broadly
like smug bastards while brandishing a trophy, teeth impossibly white and even in their tanned
faces.

“I know you’re not really reading that,” you finally say. “Your eyes are moving too slowly.”

Christ. I shrug rather irritably then watch from beneath my eyelashes as your outline uncurls itself
from against the wall and takes a step forward. “You can’t avoid me forever,” you add.

I turn over the page without looking up. “How am I avoiding you? I’m here aren’t I?”

You take another step forward, very slow and deliberate, and it suddenly strikes me that you’re
trying to be intimidating. Or maybe you’re not. Maybe it’s just a case of old habits dying so hard
that you don’t even realise you’re doing it. “You know what I mean,” you say.

Since Giulietta left I’ve been dodging all eye contact and you now walk over and take hold of my
chin, gently but firmly forcing my head up until I’ve no choice but to look at you. It’s incredibly
awkward and I do my best to arrange my features into a suitably carpe diem-like expression as I
steel myself for the conversation ahead. Mental preparation, strengthened resolve…the phrase
‘girding one’s loins’ comes to mind. Even though it’s a rather stupid saying; what does it even
mean anyway? Why would loins want to be girded…

“Will?” you repeat.

You sound amused – and a little impatient – and I start wondering, rather wildly, how you’d
respond if I announced: ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just over here girding my loins – carry on.’ No doubt
the carpe diem face is what’s raised the alarm; it’s probably less suggestive of mental fortitude
than it is of someone in the throes of acute digestive distress (or possibly whose loins have been
girded too tightly). For God’s sake, I think fretfully. Get a grip on yourself you stupid shit. Then I
clear my throat, open my mouth, close it again, then neatly fold my hands into my lap while you
raise your eyebrows expectantly. I sigh rather helplessly then watch as your eyebrows descend
again and start to furrow over your nose. Of course even my avoidance levels can’t claim ignorance
of what’s going on, but it’s tempting to try anyway because I’m still not ready to have anything
remotely resembling a proper discussion. Oh God, I’m completely and utterly loinless aren’t I? I
am without loins to gird.

“Y-e-a-h,” I eventually say. “I know what you mean.” You give a satisfied nod, clearly pleased to
hear me acknowledge it. “I’m just not sure what else to tell you,” I add. “At least not at the
moment. I need more time to think.”

Naturally you don’t reply to this. Why would you? Long experience has taught me that you’ll
always prefer to see me contort myself into increasingly anguished knots rather than do anything to
reduce the tension yourself. The smart thing would be to call your bluff and start a conversation
before my nerve (or, indeed, loins) fail me permanently, only this time I can’t seem to manage it
because I genuinely don’t know what to say.

“Look, it’s not a commitment thing,” I finally manage. Oh God, that’s shit – surely I can do better
than that? “You know I want to be together,” I add in a firmer voice. “You know that right? It’s
just the thought of marriage…” I waver for a few seconds, struggling to think of a more dignified
expression than ‘freaks me out’. “It feels a bit overwhelming.”

You dip your head like you’re about to respond and Zombie Irony promptly dies all over again,
because despite being annoyed at your silence I’ve realised that I’m really not in the mood for one
of your probing psychological speeches. Besides, it’s not like you’d have anything useful to add:
your thoughts on human intimacy have always been the kind of stuff that gives bullshit a bad name.
Abruptly I tug myself free so I can get to my feet and then falter a few seconds before leaning
forward to give you a kiss. I’m aiming for your mouth, but by this time self-consciousness has
made me clumsy and I end up mistiming it and bouncing off one of your cheekbones instead.

“Ti amo,” I say. “Always. But just leave it for the moment, okay? I need more time.”

Instead of replying you now dart out with one of your unnervingly fast movements and catch hold
of my face, forcing it round again so you can gaze intensely into my eyes and try to stare me down.
I hate it when you do this: it’s like you think we’ve gone back in time several years and you can
spin any old crap you like and I’ll just accept it. Not that I can entirely blame you. After all, by
dodging the issue so much I’ve pretty much guaranteed this would happen because emotional
conflicts have always been like catnip to you. I honestly don’t know why I get myself into these
situations sometimes. It’s like I’m a walking own goal.

“I mean it,” I say sharply. “Later.”

As a response this is deeply inadequate, but I’m still not ready for anything more substantive and
it’s no good trying to pretend that I am. So in the end I just twist out your grasp then walk away for
real – wondering the entire time in a fretful, guilty way about how much longer it’s going to be
before ‘later’ actually comes.

****

I’d planned to go out this afternoon, but the recent tension is pincering my skull like a vice and
after a couple of hours attempting to ignore it I wind up going to bed to try and soothe the headache
away. It’s actually a pretty bad one, but I’ve already decided not to tell you because I know you’ll
get really boring about it – possibly even doing something genuinely mortifying like attempting to
take my temperature. I find your concern with my physical health…ironic, and have often told you
so. Partly I think it’s the doctor in you coming out, but it’s also something else. Not guilt exactly
(which you don’t do) and not anxiety either; at least not in the way that most people would
understand it. But whatever it is the results are so exhausting that it’s made me highly motivated to
avoid your scrutiny and keep all my ailments to myself. My face in the bathroom mirror is pinched
and wan and even the freckles look miserable, so I dry-swallow some painkillers then go and lie
down with an eye-mask like some sort of pensioner. I’m not intending to fall asleep, but the music I
put on is so relaxing – and your lingering smell on the pillow so soothing – that I manage to do it
anyway, eventually dozing through several hours straight so that when I finally wake up it’s
already dark.

While it’s late enough for you to be in bed yourself there’s no sign of you, so I wrap a blanket
round my shoulders and head downstairs in search where I find you sat in the kitchen with a
sketchbook. This has become a semi-regular habit and it strikes me as ironic (again) that out of all
the things you do, drawing in the middle of the night is one of the very few which I’ve chosen to
single out as eccentric. You’re wearing the contented, absent expression you often have while
sketching and the sight of you looking so exposed fills me with another wave of guilt at not being
ready to give you what you want. I even get an urge to climb onto your knee and hug you – except
this would be beyond embarrassing – so in the end just stand behind you instead and press my face
against your neck. You reach round immediately with your free hand to stroke my hair.

“Look at you in your shroud,” you say fondly when the blanket falls against your wrist. “Like a
little ghost.”

“I’m not litt…”

You make an amused sound, no doubt at how quickly I’ve taken the bait. “Oh yes, I believe we’d
established that hadn’t we? I apologise. You are a true Titan.”

“Good. I accept your apology.”

“You are quite right to do so,” you say solemnly. “All five foot ten inches of you. In all the
galaxies there is no greater Titan than you.”

I sign in an exaggerated way then give your ear a gentle tug with my teeth. “Come to bed.”

“In a moment. I’ve nearly finished.”

I crane forward across your shoulder to take a look, fully prepared to see another version of myself.
It therefore doesn’t escape me (irony!) that after endless complaints about your obsessive
sketching, now that you’ve chosen to draw someone else I don’t like that either.

“Who’s that?” I ask, trying my best to sound casual.

“I don’t know.” Your pencil briefly goes still as you pause to inspect the page from several angles.
“She was in the Piazza several days ago and she happened to catch my eye. Very interesting face.”

“Yes,” I say lightly. “She has.”

Privately I console myself that it’s only your draughtsmanship which imbues this quality of interest
and that in real life the woman herself would be reassuringly ordinary. Admittedly the picture
doesn’t seem glamourous in the traditional TV-and-movie kind of way, yet the piercing eyes and
determined tilt of the mouth still create an impression that’s undeniably striking. When I look a bit
closer I even feel a faint stirring of familiarity, although after I’ve turned it round in my mind it
remains so weak and unsubstantial that I end up dismissing it completely – further proof, surely, of
it being the sort of boringly commonplace face that could belong to anyone.

“Did you talk to her?” I add. I hate how this question looks – so clingy and paranoid – but it’s out
before I can stop myself.

“No.” You sound genuinely surprised. “Why would I?”

“I don’t know,” I reply in the same casual way. “Because she was there, I guess. Because she
looked interesting.”

You dart me a quick glance. “Not as interesting as all that. Besides, there were several factors that
countered against it.”

“Like what?”

“Like the fact it was late and I was growing bored, and I needed to get home so you could be rude
to me.”

This makes me smile, relieved in spite of myself. “That sounds like progress,” I say. “I never
thought you’d learn to expand your tolerance for rudeness.”

You smile too then stretch your arms out in front of you, lithe and supple as a cat flexing its paws.
“Not especially; you’ve always been the exception that proves the rule. Why do you think I used to
see you at the end of the day when all my other patients had left?”

“I don’t know Dr Lecter, why did you?”

“Because you were my reward to myself for enduring the idiocies of the others. Saving you for
last…like an especially delectable dessert.”

I laugh then give you a playful jab in the back of your neck. “Oh shut up. Do you have any idea
how weird that sounds?”

“No doubt it does,” you reply in the usual sardonic way. “Although the analogy fails regardless,
because it implies the others were the main course and they were never that substantial.”

“It fails period.” You stretch again as I’m speaking so I reach down to rub your shoulders for you,
digging my thumbs into the tight knot of muscle and enjoying the appreciative way you lean into
the touch. I suppose you must be pretty cramped; you’ve probably been sat like this for hours. Just
you and the unknown woman with her interesting face. “I don’t want to be the dessert,” I add out
loud. “Too flimsy and saccharine.”

“In that case you should be whatever you want to be. This particular meal can be service à la
Française: all courses served simultaneously.”
“Then I’ll be the after-dinner cigars.”

“Naturally you will,” you say with amusement. “Incendiary, addictive and potentially hazardous to
one’s health.”

“Okay, that’s great. Well done. You’re so romantic aren’t you? Oh sorry – I meant pedantic.”

You give a massive smirk then flex yourself forward as a sign you want to be massaged further
down your back. “Yes, I dare say,” you continue. “Although while it’s very diverting to be insulted
by you I assume that wasn’t the original point you were intending to make? Or perhaps it was – in
which case feel free to carry on. I find myself strangely content to sit here and have you lecture me
about my shortcomings.”

“Your comings are never short.”

“Oh, shocking. What a filthy mouth you have Agent Graham. Did you read people their rights with
that mouth?”

I laugh again and then lean forward too so I can prop my chin on the top of your head. “Seriously
though…”

“I am being entirely serious.”

“Seriously,” I say. My voice is muffled from where my mouth is pressed against your hair so I shift
a bit until I’m facing sideways and can rest my cheek against it instead. “I want you to be more
careful when you’re out,” I add. “I mean it – remember what we agreed.”

“I’m hardly likely to forget,” you reply drily. “What’s the matter Will? So much anxiety over a
simple sketch.”

“It’s not just that. You know they’re still looking for you.”

“Ah. And I suppose this is your way of warning me not to talk to strangers?

“What if someone recognises you?” I say. “You’re so…” I hesitate, trying to think of a way of
expressing it that won’t sound rude. “You’re so distinctive.”

“Someone recognised me before,” you reply calmly. “I dealt with it.”

“No, you were lucky.” You make a sceptical sound, clearly waiting for me to explain how anything
could be accounted for by mere luck as opposed to your God-tier skill level. For the life of me I’ll
never understand how your arrogance manages to be attractive when I’d find it repellent in anyone
else. “What if he’d decided to go straight to the police?” I add in an attempt to spell it out. “Rather
than going after you himself?” I pause with the massage and give you a rather malicious poke in
the ribs. “Rather than cash you in for the bounty money?”

“He was the police,” you say calmly. “Besides, he did go to them – he went to Jack. And I dealt
with that too.”

“Only just.” You shrug dismissively and I sigh to myself then crane across your shoulder to where
the newspaper is lying discarded from this morning. “I suppose you saw?” I add in a deliberately
ominous way. “There’s been another murder.”

“I saw.”
“And? What do you think?”

“What do you mean ‘what do I think’?” You sound amused again now, although whether it’s
genuine or you’re just toying with me isn’t entirely clear. Even now I can still find you difficult to
read. “I suppose I could give you my professional opinion,” you add in a more thoughtful voice.
“That he’s escalating; that the worst is still to come. But I can’t imagine you’d be very interested in
that – you already know it yourself.”

“Well…” I swallow audibly, an ugly scraping noise in the back of my throat, then leave an even
longer pause before deciding to simply blurt it out. “What if they send for help in catching him?” I
say, and it all comes out in a rush. “What if they send for Jack?”

As soon as I say that I can see your expression flicker: that weird gleam in your eyes which is a sure
sign you’ve had your interest roused. The game is afoot. “Well if they do, they do,” is all you
reply. “Only he’s not here now, is he? And is therefore of little relevance.”

I don’t buy this indifference for a second – I can’t believe the possibility hadn’t at least occurred to
you before now – but it’s obvious you’re not going to elaborate on it, and until you decide you
want to it’s completely pointless to try. Besides, there’s no doubt that the idea of half the FBI
descending in Italy is never going to bother you the way it does me. You’d probably be
disappointed if Jack doesn’t turn up.

I now get so preoccupied with imagining this that it takes me a few moments to realise you’ve
started speaking again – and which, completely as predicted, is one of your radical subject changes
that I’ll never believe aren’t a deliberate attempt to disorientate whoever you’re talking to.
Specifically, you seem to be saying that you’re not at all interested in Jack (yeah right) and are
more concerned about me.

“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I already know. Honestly, I’m such an epic bullshitter
sometimes; I don’t really know why I complain so much about you doing it.

“You’ve spent most of today asleep,” you reply. You’ve adopted a brisk, doctorly tone and I stare
back a bit dumbly; for a surreal moment I think you’re about to pull a stethoscope out from
somewhere. “Why don’t you ever tell me when you’re feeling unwell?”

“Because you always overreact,” I say gruffly. You make a sceptical noise that I suppose is meant
to contradict me, but I can’t really be bothered to argue over it. We both know I’m right. “Anyway,
it was nothing,” I add. “Just a headache.”

“You’re feeling better now?”

“Much better.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

“That’s good,” you say crisply. “I was hoping as much. Because I happen to have a plan in mind,
and it requires you to be at full strength.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” Your voice has taken on that smoky, smouldering undertone that makes it seem like you’re
purring and at the sound of it I have a fairly good idea exactly what you’re going to ask. Even so, I
still wait in silence to let you say it anyway. “I want to go out tomorrow night,” you continue,
 completely undeterred by my lack of response. “And I want you to come with me.”

Even now you can’t resist being cryptic – even when there’s no one listening and nothing left to
hide – but of course I know without being told that ‘going out’ is really a delicate euphemism for a
hunt. And while I’d once have started to argue about it, I’m now so long past the point of trying to
deceive either you or myself that I don’t even pretend to object and simply press against your
shoulder in silent ascent.

“We have to be careful though,” I add. “I mean it. There are police everywhere.”

You’ve turned your face away now but I can still hear the smile in your voice when you reply.
“When have you ever been careful Will?” you say. “Caution is such a tyrant: it inhibits the more
fascinating impulses. You on the other hand – you’ve always preferred to revel in the pleasure of
your bad choices.” There’s another pause and you slowly tilt your head back, dark eyes gleaming in
the shadows. “Just as I have.”

Distilling conflict into such neat little equations is a gift you have, and as much as I sometimes
resent it there’s still something seductive about having an impulse so cleanly sliced into its
component parts. It’s a reassuring dissection which never has room for guilt or doubt, and I close
my eyes for a few seconds, mentally willing you to be correct in your belief that the eye of the
storm really is the safest place for us to be. Surely you’re right after all? Running the rift between
reason and recklessness…it’s always served us so well in the past. We’d hardly be here now if it
hadn’t.

“Okay, fine,” I reply. Beneath my fingers I feel the muscles in your shoulder flex and I press down
against them, imagining I can feel the roar and thrum of your heartbeat. “Tomorrow. Let’s do it.”

Chapter End Notes

Ti amo = ‘I love you’ And speaking of lerrrve, thank you *so much* to everyone who
left supportive messages on the last chapter. Not to get too dramatic about it, but as
some of you know I left the fandom following some pretty sustained harassment on
AO3 and coming back after such a long time wasn’t a very easy decision. Lol, to give
you a sense of what a scaredy-cat I am, Chapter 1 was written 6 months ago and I just
sat on it because I didn’t know if I had the energy to deal with anymore trolling. Last
week’s positivity was a fantastic reminder of why I started writing fanfic in the first
place (apart from Hannigram obsession, of course) and I appreciate all of you more
than I can say! (And if you’re reading without commenting but just enjoying the fic in
private, then I love you too and you’re also more than welcome here!) Take good care
of your lovely selves in the meantime and see you next Saturday xox
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

Hey lovelies. I know there’re some people who read my fics for the
emotional/psychological themes rather than explicit Hannigram, so just to warn you
that from now on the story will be fully earning its E-rating. If this is something
you’re uncomfortable with then you’ll find it’s pretty clearly signposted and easy to
skip over (and rest assured the remainder is rated F for Fluff; S for Sass; and B for
bickering like an old married couple). Lol, it’s usually about halfway through before
my fics start getting smutty but let’s just say there’s no slow burn in this one at all ;-D

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Together, we’re running.

Simultaneous and side-by-side, we move: shoes pounding on the sidewalk, bodies slicing through
the shadows, feet on fire. I enjoy watching you run. You do it so rarely there’s a certain novelty
value in it, but mostly it’s because of how striking it makes you look. It’s like something inside you
ignites and you just go for it, despite always being very graceful in the way you move. Balletic,
almost. Lithe and sinuous with a lot of strength from your hips, the same way as a racehorse does,
with a coiled-up energy that’s elegant to watch but according to you is nothing more than a strategy
to help you move faster. And you are: you’re fast. Faster than me, although only by a little – never
more than few paces ahead. The mutual speed is exhilarating and for a few seconds I close my
eyes, one foot flying in front of the other as gusts of air blast my face. The way the streetlights
flicker makes the shadows pulsate as if there are figures hiding in them and I open my eyes again
just in time for them to swallow me up. Overhead the moon is a piece of bright bone in the sky: a
glinting slice of silver that bathes you in a metallic tint and bleaches your face as pale as a phantom
beyond the single streak of black blood across your cheekbone. Two dark holes for eyes and
features as chiselled and planed as a Medieval death mask…you look sinister, but I really don’t
care because I know I look the same. We are the same aren’t we? We always have been. Like to
like.

As I watch you take a sudden sharp turn so I quickly swerve round too, happy to defer to a
knowledge of the area that’s far more detailed than mine is. We’re usually skilled enough at
staying unseen that the running isn’t necessary, but tonight is different because something went
wrong. I’d already suspected it might. A serial killer at large always drives a city into frenzy so
naturally the police presence would double…and it only ever takes one to see something they
shouldn’t. If it was up to you then the solution would have been quicker and much more lethal, but
I refuse to harm an innocent person just doing their job. And so – we run. It was a simple decision
because he never saw our faces, but deep down I know that one day that luck might well run out
and I’ll be forced to choose between the relative worth of our freedom vs. another person’s life.
Sometimes I even try to imagine it, weighing up one against the other like Lady Justice with her
scales. It haunts me that when the moment comes I’ll make the wrong choice, even though I’m still
not entirely sure which option is the right one. But at least that day is not today. One day,
possibly…but not right now.

“Innocent,” you’d repeated, the first time I told you about my rule. “You’re so quaint sometimes
Will. Why not just recite your Pledge of Allegiance and then bask in how righteous you are?” Your
tone was a mixture of amusement and incredulity and I remember wincing at how annoying it was.
“Guilt and innocence are such fixed concepts,” you’d added, tipping your wine glass in my
direction like you were proposing a toast. “Yet see how morality itself is always relative? We
should separate matters of fact from matters of value.”

“Should we?” The sarcasm in my voice was blunt enough to quell a lump of granite but even then it
wasn’t enough to deter you. It was no way near enough.

“Naturally,” you’d replied. “Of course we should.” By that point I’d stopped looking at you, but I
could still hear the smile in your voice. “Why not? No single perspective is ever the whole truth,
after all.”

From your perspective it was all so simple but I still refused to back down – and to my
considerable surprise (and no doubt yours as well) you were the one who gave in first. Admittedly
you’ve never been very gracious about it and spend a lot of time complaining about how I’m trying
to turn you into some sort of vigilante. This is usually followed by a disdainful little sniff – maybe
even an outright frown if you’re feeling particularly annoyed – but the obvious resentment hasn’t
been enough to stop you respecting my preferences. It’s just one of many compromises we’ve
needed to make, although it’s also true that I don’t know what you do when you’re alone and have
made a point never to ask. This disappoints you, I’m certain: I think you’d love me to question you
about it. But your standards of worthiness are so frightening and arbitrary that any attempt to mesh
them with my own remains a step beyond where I’m willing to go. You’re such a paradox that way
because you do have your own moral code – it’s just not like anyone else’s. It exists though, I know
it does. You’ve never seen yourself as the villain in your own mind.

Ahead of me you now draw to a halt, briefly turning your head like a lion scenting the air before
leaning back against the wall with your hands in your pockets. You could be a tourist pausing to
admire the view and the contrast between the casual pose and the urgency of the situation is so
surreal that I feel my lips twitching with an absurd urge to laugh. You catch my eye then give a
grim little smile as beyond the alleyway is a crash of footsteps accompanied by a storm of male
voices yelling in Italian. Your Sphinx-like smile promptly grows broader and I tip my head back
against the brick and draw in a long lungful of air as I wonder if tonight really is going to be the
night – if those footsteps turn left instead of right and force me to make the choice I don’t trust
myself to make. One breath in and one breath out, I think wildly. The trick is to keep breathing.
The noise gets louder and louder as they draw closer to the alleyway but ultimately nothing
happens and they carry on past us after all: a chaotic clatter of sound and fury signifying nothing
which gradually fades away into the night. Across from me your eyes are gleaming in the darkness
and I can immediately tell how disappointed you are to be denied the confrontation.

I draw in another breath then droop my head down as I let it come rushing out again in a long
stream of relief. Ironically it’s only now the danger’s passed that my brain and body reconnect and
the full force of it hits me in a sickly surge of adrenaline, a sting of lactic acid in every muscle and
a sense that my lungs feel ready to burst. Bursting lungs…it’s such a strange expression. Is that
even possible? For a few seconds my mind starts to drift as I wonder what would happen if they
actually did, how it would look and feel? Would they slowly sigh and sink in on themselves,
deflating like tired balloons, or rupture apart splashily and showily like scarlet glass? Your own rib
cage is rising and falling a little faster than usual, but beyond that you look frighteningly calm:
fixed and motionless as living taxidermy or some kind of sinister museum specimen that might
come to life without warning. The contrast between us is a striking one, but the knowledge of it
reassures me because I know I wouldn’t ever want to be as soulless about it as you are.

I remember you asking me that once several years ago, a different version of you speaking to a
different version of me. ‘Did your heart race when you murdered him?’ The implication was that a
racing heart was a sign of weakness because yours never did: it indicated fear, and I should be
striving for a sort of bleak serenity in the face of death and carnage. But my racing heart and
pulsing blood are a reminder that I don’t see what I’m doing as normal; an emblem to cling onto
that I’ve still not been consumed by the kind of void I always feared I might be. I read something
about that once. I can’t remember exactly where, but the sentiment has been burnt on my brain ever
since: He who fights with monsters should look to it that he does not himself become a monster.
And when you gaze too long into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you. It was probably (certainly)
linked to you somehow, because where else would I come across a line like that? But then you
knew as well as I did that the monsters I pursued ended up destroyed by what they were; the
difference was that you decided very early on that you didn’t want to see me destroyed the same
way. And so I haven’t been: and neither, come of think of it, have you. But while you have your
own methods of resisting the abyss my racing heart remains a reassuring sign of mine – a literal
last gasp at humanity.

I now let out another shaky breath then finally open my eyes again. I can see you staring at me in
that fixed, unblinking way you have so make a gesture with my hand to indicate I want to stay here
a little longer to ensure the coast is clear. You dip your head in agreement and I nod at you in
return before leaning back against the bricks. All this is confirmed without making a sound and it
reminds me of the uncanny ability we often have to communicate with one another without ever
speaking a word. In fact in a parallel universe it might even win us something on ‘America’s Got
Talent’ because we’re really good at it. To prove the point I now pull a wry expression at you to
indicate apology for the situation and you quirk your mouth into a smile to show me it’s fine.
Technically of course I haven’t really done anything, but I still feel a certain responsibility seeing
how it was me who picked tonight’s target. In fact it’s nearly always me (although you’ll
sometimes make suggestions) and the whole process is almost unbelievably ghoulish. I mean it’s
full-on fucked up to a truly epic level: sorting through clippings, message boards and parole board
filings over morning coffee the same way other couples would browse through holiday brochures.
‘What about this?’ I’ll say to you when I spot something promising. ‘How about him?’ My criteria
are fairly simple – that they have to have done something bad enough to deserve it – and mostly
you’ll agree with my selections, although I still have no real clue what your own criteria are.
Possibly you reject them because they don’t pose enough of a challenge? In fact that’s almost
certainly one, because I remember taunting you once about how your habit of targeting musicians
and art dealers meant you weren’t a true predator and I suspect that the accusation stung and made
you want to prove me wrong.

“Oh just relax can’t you?” I’d said eventually. “You know I was joking.” I don’t think it made any
difference though: I guess as far as you’re concerned such topics aren’t a laughing matter. And
sure enough you returned to it a few days later, biding your time and mulling it over until I was
least expecting it and you could take hold of my face in your hand and gaze at me with one of your
more smouldering stares.

“Of course, humans are supposed to be the superior predators,” you said. “We are at the peak of
Nature's hierarchy. The top of the so-called food chain.” Then you’d given one of those unsettling
smiles you have and leaned forward to ghost your lips along the edge of my jaw. “So at the top of
the food chain are humans…” you added, and then you’d just stopped and smiled again. You never
did complete the rest, but of course you didn’t need to because I already knew exactly what you
were thinking. You meant: ‘And on top of the humans is me. Me…and now you.’

*****

We get back to the apartment shortly after 23.00, stepping in and out of the shadows with my hand
in yours before slipping inside without speaking. Partly the silence is to avoid alerting the
neighbours, but mostly it’s a sign of mutual confederacy because there’s simply no need to talk.
Maybe there should be but there isn’t – there’s never any need to discuss what we’ve done.
Shutting the door feels like a final barrier between ourselves and the rest of the world, but when
I’ve turned the key and move to flick the lights on you catch hold of my wrist to stop me. Your
face is an eerie chiaroscuro in the darkness and I can’t help thinking that you never seem to blink
and how intimidating it is because it’s so unnatural. It’s like a snake or some other reptile: rigidly
cold-blooded and unwavering and permanently poised to pounce. The analogy is a fitting one, but
I’d still never say it out loud. Admittedly you don’t have many feelings to hurt, but I can’t imagine
you’d want to hear that even now I sometimes seem hardwired to find you unsettling.

“Get off me,” I say now, half-amused and half-annoyed. “What’s the matter with you? I’m not
standing here in the dark.”

You’ve still got that trace of blood on your face. I use my sleeve to wipe it off, but even then you
don’t reply. Instead you just move a step forward then tighten your grip on my wrist, and it’s only
when I take a proper look at your expression that I finally figure out what’s going on. Then after
that I have to resist an urge to start smirking, because I really should have worked it out sooner – in
fact if it hadn’t been for all the running I almost certainly would have done. But in hindsight it’s
very obvious that you’re about to have one of your possessive moods, which means for the next
hour or so things are going to get very intense. In the early days these episodes used to happen a lot
but you don’t do it that often now; probably because you’re used to me being around and have
grown more confident that I’m not going to leave you. But you’ve never managed to move past it
entirely, so when it does happen it makes you go all-out in what’s essentially a desire to dominate
and take me over. It’s like you need to prove a point to yourself about my willingness to be with
you and it’s actually kind of primal. Primitive, almost: a carefully controlled ferocity with a hint of
danger hidden just below the surface. In a way it makes me think of the mindless state of longing
that propels animals into heat, because it’s like sense and reason are briefly disregarded then
distilled into an insatiable, survivalist urgency to be claimed, consumed, and owned. The first time
it happened I was vaguely freaked out by it, but I don’t mind anymore now that I understand what
the reasons are. In fact out of the two of us it’s you who seems to struggle the most, because you
always seem so remote and self-conscious afterwards (or at least you do by your standards, which
are admittedly fairly high). I think it’s because you regret losing control of yourself so obviously,
and I’ve found that the best way to deal with you is to be extremely docile and affectionate so you
can understand that I know you need me and don’t have a problem with you showing it.

By this time you’ve managed to edge me up against the wall, deliberately using your greater height
and strength to try and box me in. It’s weird to think I was once intimidated by you doing this. Now
I just find it annoying (and, if I’m honest, more than a little amusing in how over-the-top it is).
Likewise I know you enjoy the way I refuse to concede any ground whenever it happens, despite
the fact I have a limited chance of overpowering you. You always look so stubborn, you said once.
The way you hunch your shoulders; you have defiance written all over you. You were implying
that you found the futility of my resistance rather adorable – even so, you still seem to understand
what the boundaries are and never try to push me too far. But then of course you don’t really have
to, because you also know I’d no longer want to fight you off.

I can hear your breath in the darkness by now – how low and harsh it is – along with the faint
rustle of your coat where you’re prowling closer towards me. It’s vaguely unsettling, but I was
already prepared for it because a key feature of these moods is how quiet you are when you’re
having them. In fact the silence has gone on so long it’s starting to feel oppressive, but while I’d
like to do something to break it I can’t think what to say. Only it turns out not to even matter,
because before I can try your hand is knotting into my hair and you’re searching out my mouth to
kiss me. It’s so wild and possessive that it feels less like a normal embrace and more like flaying
away the last layers of distance before one person merges into the other, and in a weird way helps
me understand why you derive such sensuous pleasure from food because the language certainly
corresponds. Hunger. Crave. Consume. Thirst. Appetite. As I tangle my fingers into your own hair
you make a sound that’s close to a growl then slam your lips against mine again, stabbing your
tongue into my mouth as I grind against you and imagine I can feel your heartbeat pulsing against
my own. Actually, I think I can. I’m sure I can…fierce and fiery and fully alive.

You’re repeating my name now, elegantly extending each letter like you’re savouring the sound of
them before dipping your head to inhale along my throat. You murmur to yourself in a foreign
language as you do it; something that often happens when you’re in one of these moods, and which
I’ve always assumed is a way to let yourself lose control while keeping a level of privacy because I
can’t understand what you’re saying. I’m still onto you though. I once tried Googling some of it
phonetically, and while I’ve never managed a full translation there’s no doubt that multilingual
words for ‘love’ feature on the regular.

With this in mind I now briefly pull away to cup your face, stroking your jaw with my thumb then
giving you a faint smile. This is my way of telling you I understand what you need – and am okay
with you having it – and you meet my eye for a few seconds of appreciation before quickly
snapping back to Controlling Mode again: hoisting me into your arms (your hand cradling the back
of my skull to protect it from the impact) then roughly swinging me onto the floor. I let out an ‘oof’
of surprise when you smash down on top of me, after which there’s a period of frenzied scrabbling
at each other’s clothes – including the sound of splitting fabric when you lose patience with my
shirt and pretty much rip it off – before you finally let go of me and lean back on your heels. I can
hear myself panting in the darkness and my eyes are screwed shut even though I don’t remember
closing them. It’s only been a few minutes and the intensity is already getting close to
overwhelming, although there’s no doubt it’s in the best possible way. No wonder you value
etiquette and boundaries so much – it certainly increases the pleasure of demolishing them.
Suitably enough there’s the sound of breaking glass from where we’ve smashed something,
although I don’t know what it is and I don’t care.

“Will,” you say sharply. “I’m waiting. Please don’t make me ask twice.”

For a few seconds I’m genuinely confused until I realise you’ve been telling me to spread my legs
apart and I’ve been so spaced-out I’ve ignored you. Your tone is very severe, although it’s
impossible to tell whether the annoyance is genuine or not. I suspect it most likely isn’t. Honestly,
you’re such a drama queen when you want to be; I crack my eyes open then frown at you as a
silent warning not to over-do it. You dip you head in equally silent acknowledgement (the closest
you’ll ever get to actually apologising) then skim your lips across my forehead before lifting my
hand to your mouth to lick along my palm. You alternate a tender nip of teeth with swirling your
tongue across the tips of my fingers and I quiver slightly then tilt my head back, deliberately
bearing my throat as a sign that you’re forgiven for being a bossy old bastard and have permission
to carry on. Your response is to immediately stroke my face again – brushing my lower lip,
caressing my jaw – although it’s not long before a warm hand starts to slide along my throat, down
my ribs, then finally smooths its way across my waist to rub feathery little circles against my
hipbones. My breath promptly hitches so you dart forward again to ease my mouth open with your
tongue, gently pushing and stroking inside until I’ve started to shiver and let out small breathy
moans (embarrassing, but unavoidable). In fact I’m getting so turned on it’s tempting to reach
down and get myself off on my own – and would probably just do it too, except for the fact I know
when you’re in a mood like this there’s no way you’d let me. Not, admittedly, that you’re ever all
that happy about it, because you always get insanely jealous at the thought of me enjoying my
body and getting any kind of pleasure from it without you being directly involved as well. I
honestly think you’d ban me from jerking off completely if you thought you could get away with
it. As a compromise you’ll often ask me to do it in front of you instead, and while I was tempted to
refuse on principle I’ve since discovered that I like it enough not to mind humouring you every
now and then. I won’t always agree, but when I do it usually happens lying on your chest with your
arms around me while you do your best to choreograph the whole thing: giving instructions for
how to move and what sounds to make, then ordering me to say your name over and over when I
start to come.

I now have a private smile to myself at how overly intense you always manage to be. I mean you
really are; it’s actually quite endearing. By this time you’re kneeling in front of me again, no doubt
preparing to do God-knows-what, but despite the closeness the fact we’re not touching makes you
seem very far away. I don’t like it. Blindly I reach into the darkness so I can take hold of your hand
and cling to it: urgent, adoring, and so in love I can barely think. You lean down to kiss me again
and for a few seconds I can feel your cock pressing up against me. Oh Jesus, you’re so hard…I
don’t know how you can stand to wait any longer. In fact the anticipation is driving me so wild that
when I feel you spit onto my ass I lose control entirely and end up flinging my arm across my face
in a way that’s far more dramatic than planned. You make a soothing sound between your teeth
then gently massage the rim with the slippery pad of your thumb, stroking and rubbing to coax me
into loosening up for you without ever actually pushing in. I draw in a breath, hold it, and then let
it all rush out again in a low moan as you lower your head to start lapping at me with the flat of
your tongue. It alternates between slow licks, teasing kisses and long languorous swipes; but it’s
not until my legs are trembling and I’m making frantic panting sounds that you narrow the tip into
a hard enough point to push past the tight clench of muscle and really start working me open.

My whole body goes rigid and I hear myself gasping “Oh Hannibal, oh. Oh fuck,” in a desperate
sort of chant as my eyes widen and I gulp in helpless gasps of air. It doesn’t matter how often this
happens: I’m still not fully used to it and the squirming combination of pleasure and humiliation is
incredibly overwhelming. And of course you’re well aware of this, so always respond by making it
even more intense: lavishing messy spit-slick kisses across my thighs, applying a few more teasing
strokes with your thumb, then narrowing your tongue for a second time to breach me even deeper
with the tip. I make a sound that’s close to wail, then briefly imagine I can feel you smiling against
my skin before I’m getting spread wide open with both hands as you bury your face between my
legs and start to eat me out. It feels unbelievable. Blissful yet shameful, with your tongue so wet,
warm and thick as it slides in and out of my ass – passionate and sensuous like I’m something
delectable you can’t get enough of. My stomach’s getting soaked from where I’m leaking pre-come
all over myself, but when I jerk my hips to get more pressure you put your hands on them to force
me to keep still. I moan even louder to give you a hint; you completely ignore me and just continue
licking in slow circles, probing and exploring until the I can feel the ring of muscle actually start to
quiver against your lips.

“Oh,” I say. I sound a bit desperate; it’s kind of embarrassing. I can’t help it though, because I can
feel the way I’m getting tighter – oh God, so tight – and there’s a real possibility I’m going to end
up coming round your tongue. My cock is practically pulsing against my stomach, getting harder
and heavier and seeming to twitch with each flick of your mouth, but while the frustrated
discomfort is close to unbearable I know if I try to touch myself you’ll stop me.

“God, just fuck me can’t you?” I manage to gasp out. “What’s the matter with you? What are you
waiting for?”

Even as I’m saying it I know there’s no point, not when you’re in this sort of mood – you’ll give
me what I want, but only when you decide you want to and not a single second before. “I need…” I
try to say, then groan and bite my lip as two long fingers slide inside me, pull out nearly all the
way, then wait a few teasing seconds before plunging straight back in. Another rush of pre-come
promptly spills down my cock and you lean back on your heels so you can watch, letting out a low
sigh of approval before finally lowering your head again to swirl your tongue across the stretched,
sensitive skin where you’re scissoring and stretching me open. It’s feels insanely good and I can’t
stop myself writhing around like I’m riding your fingers, pushing down almost wildly as my ass
clenches round them with each thrust. I let out a series of broken-off moans the entire time and you
lean over to cover my mouth with yours as if you’re trying to swallow them whole.

“Oh God. I need it,” I gasp out. I’m twitching and shuddering from how intense it feels…I’m not
sure how much more I can take. “I need you. Please.”

I deliberately work a twist of anguish into my voice like I’m genuinely upset (I actually end up
over-doing it a bit; I sound like I’m about to cry). It’s utter bullshit of course, but fortunately you
fall for it anyway and decide to show a bit of mercy for once. Impatience or anger would make you
torment me even longer, but years of experience has shown how susceptible you are to signs of me
in distress and I figure there’s no harm in exploiting it every so often. It’s a genuine weakness of
yours – one of the very few you possess – and even after all these years you can’t always reliably
tell when I’m using it on purpose to manipulate you. I allow myself another secret smile: for
someone widely renowned as a cold-hearted bastard you’re actually a massive pushover. Then I lie
completely still and stretch my arms above my head, taking advantage of the pause to try and get
my breath back. There’s no lube nearby, and no way either of us will pull apart long enough to find
some, but by this point I’m past caring if it hurts or not.

As I watch you drop a quick kiss on my hipbone then reach across to where your coat is lying on
the floor. For a bizarre moment it looks like you’re about to leave (and I’m just getting ready to sit
up and yell at you) when I see you’re rifling through the pocket to retrieve a small plastic bottle.
You must have stashed some there earlier I suppose…no doubt you’d been planning for this to
happen up against an alley wall if all that running hadn’t ruined things. As if confirming this you
catch my eye for a quick smile then flick the lid off before kneeling down to take hold of my cock
with one hand, delicately squeezing the tip to watch the pre-come seeping out. I give another
moan, followed up with an urgent ‘Please’ for extra effect. I’m doing it on purpose now, but I
know that begging always drives you wild and I love watching you lose control of yourself in such
an obvious way. If I asked you’d deny it, but I’m convinced it’s a fulfilment of a private fantasy
which after years of waiting has finally come true: the idea of having me laid out beneath you,
naked, pleading, pinned in place and absolutely desperate for you to fuck me.

Almost like you’ve read my thoughts you lean forward to lick a bead of sweat from my shoulder
then briefly bury your face in my hair. “That’s it,” you say, your voice very low and intense. “Is
this what you want Will? Is it what you’ve been waiting for?”

You normally use endearments when we’re having sex but I’ve noticed during moods like this then
you’re more likely to call me by my actual name. I’m not sure how deliberate it is, although the
fact you do it at all supports my theory that you’re acting out something you wish had happened
much sooner. In your mind this is probably taking place on your office floor or your kitchen table,
possibly even the back seat of your car (actually no, not your car; you’re too pretentious for that…
there’s no way). Of course you’d never have called me ‘beloved’ or ‘dearest’ back then, so it
makes sense that saying it now would jolt you out of whatever mental scenario you’re currently
living out. Likewise you’re still making me lie on my back, and I know you’ll keep me that way on
purpose so you can see my expression while you’re fucking me. Apparently I always look shocked
to begin with, as if I can’t quite process how much I like it, and it’s easy to guess that the reason
you enjoy it so much is because it’s a reminder that no one’s ever done this to me except you.

I now give a loud moan of agreement, despite the question being totally unnecessary because you
already know exactly what I want. In fact I’m almost shaking with the strain of it by now: panting
with eagerness then helplessly canting my hips as you take hold of your cock to rub the thick, blunt
head of it against me in anticipation of thrusting straight in. The top of my thighs are still wet with
saliva and I don’t think it would have even mattered if you hadn’t found the lube. You’ve got me
so loose and slippery that my body’s going to be incredibly easy to breech, almost embarrassingly
so…you’ll be able to slide deep inside with no effort at all. The expectation is overwhelming and I
moan again as you start to move forward with a slowness that’s deliberately tantalising: just a
centimetre at a time – less than that. Just enough to feel the tight rim of muscle quiver then finally
give way as the tip of your cock pushes in. I gasp loudly as it happens, which makes you smile then
take hold of a handful of my hair, slowly tugging my head back until my throat’s exposed. You’re
close enough now to grab your shoulders and so I do, clinging onto you like nothing else matters.
It’s true anyway…nothing else does.

My hair’s so damp it’s started to tangle in my eyes; you smile again when you notice then reach
over to smooth it away. Then after that you just stare for a few seconds in total silence before
leaning down to kiss me, much gentler than before but just as sincerely. I murmur your name a few
times but don’t add anything else. There’s no point. Right now I want you more than I have words
to say, so why even try? Instead I just screw my eyes closed then wrap my legs around your back,
grabbing your shoulders to tug you downwards as I rock my hips against yours. You take hold of
my hands in return, one on each side of my head, then knot our fingers together as you press soft
kisses against my cheeks and eyelids. When you finally push forward I make a helpless ‘Oh’ noise
then call out your name, the movement so smooth and easy that by the time your full length is
buried inside me I’m already so close to coming it’s faintly humiliating. It often happens like that
when I’m really overwhelmed: just the sense of being penetrated tips me totally over the edge.

“Oh yes,” I hear myself gasping. “Yes.”

It’s been over a year now…how is it that every time we’re together still has the same intensity as
the first? In a way it’s almost unbearably intimate: pushing tightly against each other’s bodies and
inhaling each other’s air, every motion blended with soothing touches, silent pledges, and
unspoken promises to one another which this time – finally – are going to be kept. My whole body
feels like it’s quivering as I roll my hips and arch my spine, lost in the thrill of how perfectly
connected we are as you take a deep breath yourself then slow down the pace, your fingers gently
skimming across my face and my hair. You seem much calmer now: it’s like the previous urgency
has worn away and whatever point you needed to prove to yourself has been made. Instead you
adjust your position to make sure I’m not bearing your full weight and then simply gaze down at
me, still and unblinking, as I gaze straight back. No other partner ever got past my defences like
this and I’m always relieved that you’re the only to ever see me this way: so needy, frantic, and
out-of-control. I don’t think I could have survived the humiliation with anyone else except you.

“Hannibal,” I say quietly.

“Yes my love?”

“It feels so good.”

In the moonlight I can see your face over mine, your sharp features briefly softened with affection.
“I know,” you say, equally quietly. “For me also.”

It’s always so powerful like this: gazing into your eyes while trying and failing to separate the
cacophony in my head from the swell of desire in every part of my body – every cell, every fibre,
every drop of heated blood. It’s like being wrapped in a cloud, I think hazily. The kind that’s heavy
with heat and electricity before lightning sparks from the edges and sets the sky on fire. My skin’s
so slick with sweat that your hands are gliding over it and the sensation feels so slow and sensuous
that’s it’s enough to make my muscles give another sharp spasm round your cock. My own is
growing slicker and heavier against my stomach, the pressure more than enough to begin tipping
me over the edge. Oh God, it’s going to happen any second now, it definitely is…I can’t possibly
last much longer.
“You’re getting so tight,” you say. “I can feel it. You’re close now, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” My voice is perilously close to breaking; the emotion genuine this time and no longer an
act. “I'm going to…oh God, Hannibal. I’m going to come.”

You lean down to kiss my forehead, murmuring snatches of something in a foreign language.
“Keep your eyes open,” you finally say in English. “Don’t close them. I want to watch your
expression when it happens.”

A few seconds later your teeth are digging into the fragile skin of my neck and, oh fuck, I’m
actually being bitten. This is deliberate, of course. It’s another way to signify possession – you
want people to see the mark and know it was you who put it there. I give a soft moan to show I
want this too then cry out again as you take hold of my waist, pulling your cock out nearly all the
way then rolling your hips in small hitches to build up the pressure before plunging the entire
length deep back inside. You’re rocking me towards you to ensure I feel the full force of each
thrust, my hips snapping up as you slam down until we’ve hit a perfect rhythm and I’m taking
every single inch you’re giving me. Then you glide your palm across my abdomen, pressing down
to feel the vibrations from where I’m getting fucked so hard, before licking a hot stripe across my
throat as you finally grip your fist round my cock. My breath promptly stutters in a desperate
keening noise. We’re both just seconds away now, my ass clenching helplessly tight around your
cock like my body’s determined to pump every last drop of your come as deep inside me as
possible.

“Oh,” I say faintly. “Oh fuck. Fuck. That’s…oh God, I’m close. I’m so close.”

I don’t know why I keep telling you – it’s not like it isn’t obvious. But I keep saying it anyway as
you press another kiss against my forehead then reach round with your free hand to begin
massaging the tender ring of skin that’s stretched so tightly around your cock. I moan again, my
hips making helpless little jerks of pleasure beneath your fingers as I tense, shudder, then finally
call out your name as my cock gives a last violent spasm and spatters my chest and stomach with a
thick streak of come. You gather me in your arms to hold me through it, twisting round to trace the
outline of my lips with your tongue before thrusting it deep inside my mouth. The kiss is fierce and
passionate: pulling away only to breathe and then smashing together again, your breath so hot
against my face as you start to come yourself.

Afterwards you tenderly lick my stomach clean then contentedly settle over me while I just lie
there in blissful, boneless oblivion. You’ll want to stay like this for a while now, I know you will –
just another way to reassure yourself with a sense of ownership through my whole body being
completely covered by yours.

“Don’t move,” you say suddenly, as if you’ve read my thoughts. “I want you like this a little
longer. Please.”

The ‘please’ really gives you away. It’s so rare for you to ask for things and I can tell from your
tone that it’s less a question of want so much as something you need. I wonder if you even realise?
Moments like this are one of the few times you’ll allow yourself to be vulnerable, but they’ve
happened often enough by now for me to know the best way to handle you. So rather than speak I
gently stroke your hair while pressing kisses against every bit of you I can reach, each touch a
wordless reassurance that I understand how you feel and won’t judge you for it. The gestures of
love and comfort feel familiar, yet even as I’m making then I know deep down that it’s different
tonight: not from what I’m doing, but instead from what I’m avoiding. After all, I know what you
really want is for me to tell you that I’ve changed my mind – that I feel ready now – that I’ve
decided, yes, I want to get married. There’s no doubt you’re thinking the same, but despite
knowing how happy it’d make you I still can’t find the right kind of courage to say it. And so
because I’m exhausted and overwhelmed I do something much easier instead – which is to just lie
in silence as I look into your face and love you.

*****

Shortly afterwards we relocate to the bedroom and once I’ve lit some candles and you’ve put some
music on I can feel the emotional tempo winding down to something more closely resembling
normal. As expected you were a bit subdued to begin with but it’s passed off by now and you’re
fully back to normal (Maximum Smugness levels fully intact).

“That was amazing,” I say finally. Partly because it was, but mostly because your massive ego will
expect to have it officially confirmed. No, not just expect – require. In this respect your ego
definitely needs more than its fair share of upkeep and maintenance…it’s actually a bit like having
a pet in the house. “Yeah, it was good,” I continue to your ego (because it now feels like I’m
addressing it directly in addition to you). I stretch a bit then quiver slightly at the lingering tension
in my hips and abdomen. “Really good. God.”

“No,” you reply. “Just me.”

I lean over to give you a swipe. Your only response is another smirk so I flop back onto the bed and
close my eyes before the urge to punch it off your face becomes overwhelming. In fact compared to
earlier our moods have pretty much reversed, with you lounging about contentedly like a large
jungle cat while I’ve been overcome with a restless energy that doesn’t know what to do with
itself. An added discomfort is that I’ve just realised how hungry I am, although it’s a serious
struggle to convince myself that the enjoyment of a sandwich is worth the effort of leaving the bed
to make it.

“Yours are always better than mine,” I say hopefully once I’ve explained this dilemma. “You could
always fix me one?”

“It’s an extraordinarily tempting offer,” you reply. “But no.”

“Please?”

You turn round and give me a long, slow smile. “No,” you say.

I huff for a bit but ultimately don’t pursue as even I can see that it’s much too petty to argue over.
Anyway, it’s not like there’s any point: my ability to generate complaints is matched only by your
ability to completely ignore them. “Well can we at least change the music?” I say instead. “It’s so
maudlin. And I can’t understand a single word she’s saying.”

“You are having the privilege of hearing Mirella Freni,” you reply without opening your eyes.
“I’m afraid a contest between her voice and your understanding is condemned to failure.”

“That’s great. Thanks.”

You smile then lean over to ruffle my hair; I know you’re doing it purpose to annoy me but I still
can’t help smiling back. “She is singing about her fear of growing old,” you add. “And that her
lover will decide she is no longer beautiful.”

For a few seconds I fall silent, thoughtfully chewing my thumb nail as I mull this over. “That’s
actually kind of sad.”

“Indeed.”
“Y’know I’ve never really thought about getting old. Somehow I just always assumed I’d die
young.”

“Thank you Will,” you say idly. “That is a wonderfully positive observation. You are the
proverbial ray of sunshine.”

“Well I did.” I fall quiet again, struck by the sudden awareness that I no longer feel that way. “I
wonder what we’ll be like when we’re old?” I add, half to myself.

“Together,” you reply without any hesitation – which immediately makes me smile again, because
I was expecting something more pragmatic about grey hair or arthritis, and because it’s not like
you to be sentimental so it’s always rather irresistible when it happens.

“I guess you’re already pretty old,” I reply, to hide how touched I feel.

“Yes, no doubt I am very decrepit,” you say. By now your smirk has grown so broad I half expect
it to stay lingering in the air after you’ve moved your head, eerie and motionless like the Cheshire
Cat. “You must find it rather embarrassing that I’m still able to outrun you so easily.”

“Only a bit.” You smirk even harder, but I’m not paying attention anymore because the
conversation has reminded me of my reflections in the alleyway and made me sufficiently curious
to lean down and press my head against your chest so I can listen to your heart beating. You rest
your hand on my head and idly stroke my hair while I’m doing it. “You have a low resting pulse,
don’t you?” I say eventually.

You make a non-committal noise in response. This is a sure sign you don’t really give a shit either
way, but I think it’s interesting. It’s also the kind of thing that Jack, if he was here, would almost
certainly use as evidence of you being a psychopath (I then lose track for a few seconds, because
I’ve been gripped by an image of Jack actually being here and have been overcome with horror at
the thought. I suppose I’d have to say I was going all-out in an attempt to catch you…taking one
for the team, as it were). Anyway, whatever – the basics are still true. I even did a lecture about it
myself once: Low Autonomic Reactivity as a Predictor of Antisocial Behavior. Although
describing your behaviour as ‘antisocial’ is admittedly a spectacular understatement (right up there
with ‘Nothing at this dinner party is vegetarian’) so maybe it doesn’t matter that much after all.
Not that I can ever apply those kinds of labels to you. Conceptually they’re not even fully correct:
you’re not a true psychopath because you show signs of remorse and sadness, and you’re not a pure
sociopath because you have a clear ability to empathise. To be honest I still don’t really have a
word for what you are. You’re just…you.

Beneath me I can feel you starting to shift around; I think my hair’s tickling you. I press down on
your shoulder to make you stay still then settle and re-settle myself until I’m almost entirely laid
across your chest. You make a vaguely inconvenienced noise in response.

“I’m afraid you’re rather too large to fit,” you say, after I’ve shifted round yet again and you’ve
narrowly avoided an elbow in the face. “I suppose this is some form of karmic punishment for me
for having always called you small.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” I move my arm a bit more cautiously then experiment with hooking one
leg round yours. “It’s not my fault, though. I can’t get comfortable.”

“Then lie on the bed,” you reply with a hint of sarcasm.

“Wouldn’t matter – I’d still be uncomfortable.”

“I see: and so you will lie on me instead. What a terrible hazard you are chéri, what am I to do with
you? You should have been sent to me with a safety warning and a set of instructions.”

“Yes, well, life’s hard,” I say. “I suggest you get used to it.”

“Evidently. By the way, might I ask why you would be so uncomfortable on the bed? Enquiring
minds wish to know.”

“Because everything aches from earlier, that’s why. My shoulders, my legs. My back.” I pause for
a few seconds, mentally cataloguing my list of woes. “Even my feet.”

“Not your jaw though, beloved,” you say serenely. “From the amount of complaining you’re able
to do, I assume that’s working very well.”

I give you a small dig in the ribs in exchange for this insult then adjust my face again so I can listen
to your pulse. “You know, it’s really low,” I finally add. “Around 60 BPM.”

Your only response is another variation of the bored sound, although I know if I’d said it about
myself then you’d pay attention. You seem to find whatever I do weirdly fascinating, even when
it’s objectively boring or pointless. I decide to experiment now: “Mine’s about 90,” I say.

As expected you open your eyes and shift slightly upright. “That seems rather on the high side. Let
me feel your pulse.”

Despite having insisted on listening to yours I don’t feel like returning the favour so twist out the
way until you eventually give up and lie back down again. “I suppose the fault is most likely
mine,” you say smugly. “No wonder your heart is racing. I’ve probably over-exerted you.”

I turn round and give you a withering look. “You wish.”

“What a fragile boy you are,” you continue with exaggerated concern. “I’m filled with guilt for
being so vigorous. Perhaps you require some kind of sedative?”

“Hardly.”

“Smelling salts?”

I decide not to dignify this with a response (because the last thing you need is encouragement) so
content myself with a disdainful snorting noise before folding my arms behind my head. In fact I’m
expecting you to push it a bit further (‘Palpitations, Will?’) but you don’t say anything else and
when I glance round a few moments later it’s to see that you’ve fallen asleep. You’re rather cat-like
in that way – wide awake one moment, then stretched out languorously the next with your eyes
closed and a beatific expression on your face. It’s a skill I’m pretty envious of but could never do
myself if my life depended on it (seeming, in contrast, to always struggle my way out of
consciousness with the same ease as someone struggling out a straitjacket). Considering all the
stress you’ve caused, it’s also deeply ironic that I tend to sleep better when you’re there and run
into even more barriers than usual on the rare occasions you’re not.

As I watch you make a faint sighing sound and flex your neck, so I spend a few more seconds
admiring how peaceful you look before deciding to use it as a chance to entertain myself with
fussing over you – smoothing your hair off your forehead; neatly tucking the blanket round your
shoulders – not only because it’s amusing, but also because it’s the type of thing that’s almost
impossible to do while you’re awake. Then I arrange your watch on the nightstand (because I know
you hate sleeping in it) and give your hair a final stroke (because stroking your hair like you’re a
child is always rather hilarious) before realising I’ve run out of things to do to you and decide to
leave you alone and roll onto my back instead. Then I try to pretend I didn’t just spend the last five
minutes tucking you in (despite the fact that’s exactly what I was doing) while wondering if I can
be bothered to get up. It’s extremely tempting to just stay where I am, but I’m pretty hungry and
still too restless to sleep. After debating it a bit longer it’s apparent that hunger is going to win out
over laziness, so I lean over to give you a light kiss then murmur “Sleep well” into your hair before
getting out of bed and fumbling around in the darkness for some clothes. Then I tiptoe down the
corridor to the kitchen, stealthy as a burglar in an attempt not to make any noise. Of course it’s
completely possible that this caution is pointless and you’ve actually been awake the entire time,
secretly gloating over the fussing with a massive internal smirk on your face. Actually, knowing
you, this is exactly what you’ve been doing. No doubt you’ll mention it tomorrow – although to be
honest it’s equally likely that you’ve been onto me for ages and just pretend to be asleep to get me
to do it at all.

Once in the kitchen I retrieve some bread then dump a few slices of ham and cheese on top of it
before rummaging around for some vinaigrette. A theatre programme falls out the cupboard as I
open it and I can’t help smiling when I look down and realise it’s the one I bought when we
watched La Bohème. You never throw away anything I’ve given you, which means all sorts of
random crap turns up at unexpected intervals: a greeting card in the kitchen drawer, a matchbook in
the nightstand or, as in this case, an over-priced brochure (seriously, that thing was like $20) in the
condiments cupboard. I had to stay in a hotel the week before we left America and when I gave
you the sachet of shower gel as a joke you even kept that. I smile again at the thought of it then
replace the programme before finally locating the vinaigrette from where it’s lurking behind a
bottle of olive oil. To be honest I don’t even care that much about adding it, but after living with
you for so long I feel vaguely uncomfortable – borderline immoral – in preparing something that
doesn’t have at least some pretensions beyond being a mere a sandwich. Of course if you’d made it
yourself you’d have built a magnificent edifice on my meagre cheesy foundations (soppressta,
muenster, tomatoes, lettuce, prosciutto, pepperoncinis…) but there’s no possible way I’m going to
that much trouble. For a few seconds I regard the sandwich rather critically – and have a surreal
sense of it staring reproachfully back at me for being the one responsible for how shit it is – then
am just about to take a bite before the sound of knocking in the hallway causes to me to jump so
sharply I nearly drop the entire thing.

Considering how we’ve spent the evening my logical response should be fear that it’s the police,
and yet I don’t feel that. In fact my first thought is far more mundane: namely that I don’t want the
noise to disturb you. Given the choice I’d prefer to ignore it completely, but whoever it is must
have seen the light and won’t be going anywhere on their own, so after a few more seconds of
hovering I reluctantly put the plate down and go towards the hallway. My best guess is that it’s one
of the neighbours needing help with some domestic crisis, but of all the scenarios which spin
through my head the absolute last one I consider is the one I end up confronted with as I open the
door and find none other than Matteo Whatshisfuckingname standing on the other side.

“Buonasera,” he says when he sees me. The expression on my face must make my feelings pretty
clear because he coughs awkwardly then adds: “I apologise: sincerely I do. I know it is very late to
call. I suppose I disturb you?”

He pauses hopefully, appearing to wait for reassurance – which I stubbornly refuse to give – that
this is not the case. In fact now the surprise has worn off I’m aware of starting to feel sorry for
myself, because there’s something uniquely awful about being forced to talk to someone you
dislike while only wearing shorts, an ancient festering t-shirt and are sporting (I check my
reflection in the glass panel to confirm this) mad sex hair. I end up folding myself behind the door
so that all he can really see is half my face and a slice of shoulder. Then I have a brief flashback of
once having to pull a similar manoeuvre with you; the difference being that even rocking up at a
motel clutching Tupperware filled with god-knows-what-crap you still managed to have far more
charisma than this asshole could manage if his life depended on it. Then I start thinking how lucky
he is that I opened the door rather than you (in which case his life probably would have depended
on it) while trying to work out what he wants. The obvious answer would be a business issue, but it
doesn’t make sense why he wouldn’t just call or email. Then I see the oily way he’s smiling and
feel a sharp twinge of disgust. Oh Christ…surely he’s not going to make a pass at me?

“And your friend?” persists Matteo. “He is here?”

He glances over my shoulder as he’s speaking and I take advantage of the opportunity for a sneaky
attempt to flatten my hair. “He’s here,” I snap, but he doesn’t reply; it’s like he’s waiting for me to
produce you in person. “Look what do you want?” I add sharply. “It’s late.”

By now I’ve managed to forget he’s my landlord and dropped even the pretence of politeness, but
I’m so desperate to get rid of him that I can’t really help it. Then he starts waving his hands about,
affecting an apology, and I gesture angrily to keep his voice down. Oh God, he’s going to wake
you up, I know he is. Any second now. Three, two one…

Sure enough there’s a soft pad of footsteps and I give Matteo the sort of expression that can be
universally translated as ‘Well you’ve really done it now haven’t you, you stupid shit?’ as you
materialise in the hallway a few seconds later. You’re wearing a robe I bought you of such a dark
blue silk it’s practically black and makes you seem as if you’re stepping straight out of the
shadows. You always look good in that robe. I remember spotting it and thinking it was a suitable
bit of clothing for you to swish around the apartment in, but while it’s probably the kind of thing
you’d have sneered at in the past as low-quality (despite costing what would have been the
equivalent of a week’s worth of salary) the fact it was me who chose it means you wear it all the
time. Of course if I was as sadistic as you are I’d buy you one of the grossest plaid I could find just
to watch you have to pretend to like it. I automatically find myself smiling at the sight of you then
force my features into something more severe before turning round to face Matteo again.

“Ah, signore!” calls Matteo across my shoulder.

It occurs to me that this is the first time the three of us have ever been together in person, although
it seems the reactions are going to be pretty predictable in that he takes a step backwards and
begins acting more formal, whereas you prowl up to the doorway then proceed to loom around
behind me looking imposing while I stand in the middle and wonder if I’m going to have to be the
referee. I can tell you’re thinking how inappropriate he’s being to rock up this late without an
invitation. Likewise I can also tell I was wrong to assume you’d got your possessive urge out your
system earlier, because from the way you’ve started to bristle it’s obvious that you want to insert
yourself between me and him as a sort of human shield. Fortunately you’re resisting temptation –
probably because you know from experience that the one thing guaranteed to piss me off is when
you start being over-protective with me in front of other people.

“It’s late,” you reply crisply. “What is the matter?”

“Hey, it’s fine,” I tell you before Matteo has a chance to respond. “Go back to bed.” Of course I
don’t know that it’s fine at all, but the old anxiety has reared its head and made me feel that I need
to get you out the way before he can say or do something that could end up pissing you off and
cause serious trouble. You make no attempt to move and I turn round and give you a discreet scowl
to show that I mean it. “I’ll see you in a minute,” I say.

At some point you’ve put your hand on my shoulder, although as a compromise have chosen the
one behind the door so that Matteo can’t see. I have to resist the urge to give you a sly kick to make
you go but fortunately you relent and finally make a move towards the bedroom – but not before
retrieving my coat from its hook and draping it across my shoulders. It’s like you’re an outraged
father from the 1800s preserving my modesty (either that or it’s revenge for the tucking-in earlier).
I decide not to make a deal out of it though; not least because if it was you stood half-naked in front
of a relative stranger I’d hardly be overwhelmed with joy about it either.

Matteo has now started shifting restlessly from one foot to another and it strikes me how you’ve
managed to freak him out, despite not doing anything beyond appearing out the darkness
brandishing my shitty old jacket before going back to bed again. “Dorma bene, signore,” he calls
out then turns back to face me again and spreads out his hands. “I apologise,” he adds in a lower
voice. “I should not have startled you.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” I snap; and which is admittedly as petty as fuck, but I’m genuinely annoyed
by now and can’t stop myself.

Matteo dips his head in acknowledgment then gestures to where the gate is swinging sadly in the
wind. The sound of it sets my teeth on edge: a mournful wail of metal that I’ve been meaning to fix
for ages but somehow never gotten round to. “I would not normally disturb a tenant,” adds Matteo.
“Only I was passing the property and became alarmed. I thought I saw someone hiding in the
courtyard.”

As explanations go this seems highly unlikely and I narrow my eyes without replying. It’s a useful
trick that I learnt from you: stay silent long enough and the other person is bound to feel
uncomfortable enough to mindlessly prattle themselves into further disclosure. Sure enough Matteo
takes the bait and blurts out: “No doubt I over-react. But these are dangerous times are they not? Il
Macellaio has still not been caught. And there was another death this evening.”

I immediately feel myself tense. We only got home a few hours ago – how could he possibly have
found out that fast? “That’s terrible,” I say, attempting to work a faint tremor into my voice. “I had
no idea.”

“Yes, it is very terrible,” agrees Matteo. “I have a friend in the Polizia; I was dining at L’Albero di
Fico this evening and saw him as I was leaving. He thinks it is the same killer’s work.”

On one hand this is good news – namely that the police are thinking exactly what we intended
them to – but the mention of where he spent the evening has unsettled me all over again because it
means we came frighteningly close to getting spotted. “Well, everything’s fine here,” I finally
force myself to say. “No disturbances at all.”

He doesn’t reply, and in that moment it’s impossible to tell whether the story about the intruder is
genuine or whether he invented it as an excuse to check up on us generally or (even worse) me
specifically. But it’s not like he’s going to admit it either way, and by now my patience for the
conversation has pretty much expired. Instead I reach up to close the door in an attempt to banish
him, but before I can manage it he makes a lunge towards me and puts his hand against the frame.
It’s a distinctly aggressive gesture and is so unexpected that I end up flinching slightly, surprised in
spite of myself.

“Your friend…” adds Matteo, and there’s a weird emphasis in the way he says it.

“What about him?” I snap. I have a fleeting image of slamming the door on his hand, but there’s no
doubt the force would break his fingers and an assault charge is the last thing I need right now. To
avoid temptation I let go of the handle and adjust my tone to something less confrontational.
“Look, it’s very late,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’d appreciate it if can you get to the point.”

“It’s just with all this local violence…” There’s a pause as he swallows, his Adam’s apple crawling
down his throat like a large flesh-coloured beetle. “Although perhaps you don’t need to worry
 when he is around?”

Having delivered this speech he now darts his tongue across his lips with a weird lizard-like
motion as one-by-one I feel every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. No, it’s fine, I tell
myself urgently. Of course he doesn’t know – how could he? He’d have said something by now.
He’d have done something. He has no idea who you are. There’s another pause and then I force
myself to look at him directly; a perfect facsimile of a dumb tourist who has no idea what to do for
the best.

“I think anyone would be worried,” I finally reply, and I’m proud of how natural my voice
manages to sound.

For a few seconds Matteo stares back at me. His eyes are very dark and shiny and once again I’m
reminded of beetle shells that scuttle and crawl. “Well the main thing is that you are both well,” he
replies. As he says it his lips peel from his mouth in an odd way and I catch a brief glimpse of teeth
gleaming wetly in the dark; it gives me a squirming memory of Francis Dolarhyde, even though
the situation isn’t remotely the same and it’s pointless to compare them. So instead I just continue
staring at the spectacle of teeth and eyes as Matteo lowers his voice even further and adds: “I like
to take care of my tenants…I keep a close eye on them. Capisce? A very close eye.”

This time I don’t even attempt to answer. How can I? I don’t know what to say. He-hasn’t
recognised-you-he-doesn’t-know has started to run through my head in a desperate sort of chant; it’s
like I feel I can force it into reality by sheer force of will. In fact the urge is so consuming that it
takes me a few seconds to realise that he’s turning to go: melting into the shadows to leave me
alone with nothing but the fading sound of his footsteps and a sickening sense of doubt that finally
– finally – our legendary run of luck might just be about to run out.

Chapter End Notes

Lol, I promise all my author notes won’t just be endless gushing over you all, but I did
want to thank everyone again for giving me such a warm welcome back to the
fandom. In the past there’s usually been around a 6-month gap between a story ending
and a new one getting posted, but this time I left it over a year and a half because I was
fully expecting another barrage of trolling and negativity and wasn’t in the mood to
deal with it. The support and encouragement you’ve all shown in the last few weeks
has made me wish I hadn’t waited so long to come to come back and I really do
appreciate you helping me to feel so at home again xox

Also, speaking of anniversaries…I was catching up with a friend of mine this morning
who reminded me of the time I told him I was writing Hannigram fic and the look of
sheer horror on his face because he thought I meant Edward Norton and Anthony
Hopkins XD
 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Last night’s exchange has rattled me more than I’d like to admit, and despite trying not to I spend
all next morning and most of the afternoon brooding about it so intently I wind up with a headache.
What did he mean? I think to myself, fretfully gnawing my thumbnail. What was he trying to say? I
have endless questions yet each one refuses an easy solution and leaves me cupping the worry in
my hands then lugging it round as I mentally replay the entire conversation in my head, pausing
and re-winding certain parts then forensically analysing tone and content like it’s a court exhibit or
interview tape. Admittedly the daylight has disinfected the murkiest parts and compared to last
night’s fear the notion has a hint of outlandishness about it. None of it makes sense, I think. If he
knows who you are then why wouldn’t he do anything? Even so I can’t quite shake it – although
unfortunately I can’t quite solve it either, because it feels impossible to get enough evidence to
settle the mystery one way or the other. Matteo and the Mystery of the Cryptic Comments…it
sounds like a crappy Harry Potter rip-off. So ultimately it just lingers around with the same
nagging urgency of a rotten tooth until I’ve grown so preoccupied with examining it (then pushing
it away, then guiltily allowing it to creep back in again for another inspection) that I eventually
admit defeat and decide I’m just going to tell you the whole thing. Of course the obvious choice
would have been to tell you straight away, but so far I’ve been holding back. Partly this reluctance
stems from how self-conscious I am about over-thinking things and looking neurotic, but if I’m
honest it’s mostly because I’m not convinced how reassuring your response is going to be.

Now that my mind’s made up I realise I feel slightly calmer, so flatten my hair from where I’ve
been running my fingers through it then pick up my worry again and stride off in order to present
you with it instead. I check in the bedroom first but you’re not there, so head downstairs where I
find you in the living room gazing intensely at a wooden puzzle box. You’ve been doing this a lot
lately – I don’t even know where you got it from, but you seem completely obsessed. It’s actually
quite amusing to watch you playing with it (a bit like a kid with an action figure) although the effort
required to solve it seems so horrific that I truly can’t see the appeal. You don’t glance up at the
sound of my footsteps, although I can tell you know I’m there from the way you start to smile.

“You might wish to make yourself comfortable,” you say. “You are just on time to witness my
ultimate defeat.”

I pull up the chair across from yours then settle into and stare rather critically at the box, which is a
sort of gruesomely multi-layered Rubik’s Cube with seemingly infinite combinations and
interlocking pieces. I’m not quite sure now whose idea it was to arrange the chairs this way, but it’s
been like that for ages now and it’s never occurred to me to move them. Clearly old habits die hard.
“Struggling, are you?” I say.

“I am. It’s frustrating yet intriguing.” You smile a bit more then finally put the box on the table
and catch my eye. “Outwitting me is a rare commodity but this contraption appears to have
managed it.”

This makes me smile too because it’s always endearing to see you admit any sort of weakness.
When we first met you almost never did, but now you’ll mention things quite often – sometimes I
think you invent a couple just because you know I like it. “You shouldn’t have left me on my own
with it,” I now say out loud. “I’ve been giving it insider tips on how to outsmart you.”

As soon as I say this your own smile starts to widen. “Yes, it would seem the two of you have
something in common. Perhaps you’d like to have a try at solving it?”

“Sure,” I say, doing my best not to sound too unenthusiastic. You silently hand it over and I frown
at it for a few seconds before putting on my glasses to show I mean business. “I don’t know why
you do this to yourself,” I add. “Why don’t you just read a book or something?” Your only
response is to start smirking – the clear implication being that normal people might read books, but
superior minds torture themselves for hours with elaborate bits of wood. I roll my eyes at you and
then return to inspecting the box (which now technically seems to be my spirit animal in the sense
we’ve both had the dubious honour of getting the better of you).

“Look, the hinge is weighted just here,” I finally add. “Have you tried this way?”

“You mean laterally?” I hand it back over and you twist as suggested until the box gives a neat
little click. “Ah, perfect,” you say. “Well done. That’s the third stage complete.”

You sound genuinely pleased about it, which makes me feel pleased too. Come to think of it this is
something I’ve always appreciated about you, because you never get defensive or irritated when I
figure out stuff before you can. If anything it’s the opposite. Signs of intelligence are a bit like
catnip to you: a source of constant appeal and stimulation. “I’m glad I could put you out your
misery,” I tell you. “So how many more stages are there?”

“Six.”

“Three more? Ugh, you’re insane.” You smirk even harder and then regard the box rather fondly
before preparing to lunge straight back in again to the certain torture of Stage Four. “Look, can you
put it down for a while,” I add. “I want to talk to you.”

You obediently return the box to the table then lean back in your chair and look at me expectantly
to show I’ve got your full attention. “What’s the matter?” you ask when I don’t add anything. “Are
you feeling unwell?”

“Why would you think I’m unwell?”

“Because – pardon me – but you look unwell. You seem very pale and tired.”

This is too obvious to contradict so I just shrug instead. “Yeah, probably,” I say. “I didn’t get much
sleep.” Briefly I pause to critically inspect my reflection in the fireplace: hmm, yes, there’s no
denying I look like several shades of shit. “Actually I feel wrecked,” I continue. “I look wrecked.”
You don’t respond and I turn round to face you again. “You know this is the point you’re
supposed to contradict me, right? It’s the point where you’re supposed to look horrified and
exclaim ‘My dear Will, what on earth are you talking about. You look absolutely radiant.’”

“I could indeed say that, most dearest of Wills,” you reply serenely. “But I would be lying.”

“So what? You’re always lying.”

Your lips twitch at this like you’re struggling not to laugh, so I roll my eyes at you again then
wander over and drape myself rather aimlessly across the edge of your chair. You reach out
immediately and run your finger along my arm. “If it’s any consolation you wear your weariness
extremely well,” you add. “You always have. There have been many times over the course of our
acquaintance where I’ve thought how attractive you look when you’re tired. Wan, yet glamorous –
it’s a talent you have. Most people would just seem threadbare in comparison.”

“Thanks,” I say dubiously. “I guess.”

“It’s something about your expression.” You sound thoughtful now, as if the specific features of
me looking like shit are something you’ve invested considerable time in (which, let’s face it, you
probably have). “It has a certain quality that’s hard to describe,” you add. “How would one describe
it I wonder? It’s difficult in English. It’s such an ugly language – none of the nuance or delicacy of
the Roman ones. For example you would be triste in French or luttuoso in Italian, whereas English
would deem you something inelegant like ‘dismal’ or ‘gloomy’.” You pause then deliver one of
your vaguely unsettling smiles. “It’s completely unsuitable of course, because there is such a bleak
beauty in your sadness. Which is exactly how it should be. Beauty in distress is always more
picturesque than any other kind.”

“Alright, stop it now,” I say. “You’re being weird.”

You start to smirk again and then obligingly fall silent and tilt your head up in anticipation of what
I’m about to tell you. The attention makes me feel awkward and I can’t help suspecting you’re
doing it on purpose. I know I’ll persist with it anyway though, because the habit of confiding in
you about my problems has grown so hardwired by now that it’s almost impossible to break. It’s a
pattern that begun when I first met you but has grown way more embedded since we started living
together, and it tends to start with me acting very aloof and introspective before descending into
neediness pretty quickly (and generally concludes with me huddled next to you on the bed or sofa
like a large toddler so I can be caressed back into calmness). I never used to be like this – and I
know my old self would have been horrified at the thought of it – yet there’s no denying that the
longer we’ve been together the more frequent it’s become. It’s not entirely my fault though,
because it’s obvious that you take a lot of trouble to encourage it. I’d even say you actively enjoy
it. I guess the psychiatrist in you finds it intriguing to draw out my neurotic traits, but there’s also
no doubt that you like the sense of me growing dependent on a source of comfort which only you
can provide. Admittedly you don’t confide about your own problems in the same way, mostly
because you never seem to have any, although you’re always very interested to hear my opinion on
things.

I now let out a few loud sighs and then settle down to relate my conversation with Matteo, taking
care to keep the narrative as calm and factual as possible while avoiding the more dramatic
flourishes and speculations which are constantly threatening to sneak their way in. You listen
patiently without interrupting and when I’ve finished tip your head back then briefly close your
eyes.

“Permit me to summarise,” you say without opening them again. “You suspect our landlord has
realised who I am, but for unknown reasons has chosen to remain obscure about it?”

When parsed into such blunt terms it sounds slightly preposterous but I’ve gone too far now to
dismiss the fear so easily. “Maybe,” I say. And then a moment later in a firmer voice: “Yes. I think
it’s possible.”

“So how do you believe he came to this realisation?”

“What do you mean? The Internet, obviously. It must have made the news over here.”

“Several years ago.”

“What difference does that make? It only takes one photo to give it away.”

“But he hasn’t gone to the police?”

“Not yet he hasn’t.”

“The only reason not to would be blackmail,” you say, finally opening your eyes again. “Yet he has
made no attempt to extort either of us. Quite the opposite in fact.”

“No.” I sound a bit grudging; it’s like I’m reluctant to be reasoned out of my own paranoia. “I
guess.”

“It is not a matter of guessing. If he did know there are only two options open to him, but he has
shown no sign of opting for either. The inference, therefore, is that he doesn’t know anything and
you are tormenting yourself unnecessarily. Remind me again what he told you?”

“It wasn’t so much what he said. It was the way he said it.” I give another loud sigh, fully aware of
how insubstantial it sounds. “He was…not threatening exactly, but…” I pause, irritably snapping
my fingers as I try to think of the right word. “Insinuating. Like he knew more than he was letting
on.”

“Yes, and I agree his remarks were odd. But it seems implausible that he could realise who I am
and not contact the police.”

“I know,” I say wearily. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh, there will be some sense there,” you reply with aggravating calmness. “It is merely a matter
of finding it. Currently we have insufficient data from which to reason. For example, it may be a
case of mistaken identity and he is confusing me with someone else. It may be that he is
emotionally unstable and prone to fantasy. Or it may be that there is another, entirely unknown
variable of which we are both unaware but which will reveal itself in due course.”

“Look I don’t mean to be rude,” I say – you promptly start smiling and I do my best to ignore you
– “but excuse me if I don’t find your attitude very reassuring.”

“How so?”

“Because you don’t feel fear the way regular people do. Which means your risk assessment is…
let’s just say it’s ‘sub-par’.” I can feel myself starting to frown: it’s possibly only a matter of time
before I start wagging my finger at you. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the one who got caught
on purpose.”

“True,” you say airily. “However the situation is not the same. Now I have different
responsibilities.”

“Like what?”

You give me a slightly incredulous look, like you can’t possibly believe I could be so dense. “You,
Will – obviously. Now I have your wellbeing to consider as well as my own.”

“Oh come on. What difference does that make? If I’d asked you before you’d have said that was
about my wellbeing too.” I pause then give you a slightly malevolent look. “It was certainly about
yours.”

Your only response is to start smiling again (this time in a way which strongly suggests you’re
indulging in a bit of private congratulation for how clever you think you are). “Possibly you’re
giving me too much credit,” is all you reply. “I’m not sure that safeguarding would be the best way
to describe that particular scenario.”

“Yeah, probably not. How about ‘stalking’?”

“If you like,” you say with another smile. “Nevertheless my point still stands. I have a certain duty
of care towards you now, and it’s one which I take extremely seriously.” There’s a steely edge to
your voice as you say this, but while the possessiveness makes me uncomfortable it seems
ungracious to call you out on it. As if reading my thoughts you glance up at me then add in a softer
tone: “If I thought there was a genuine threat I would say so.”

“Look, I know it doesn’t seem like much,” I reply. “But if you’d been there yourself…If you’d
heard him.” I fade off into silence then give a fretful shrug. “I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”

“Do you?” For a few seconds you close your eyes again then abruptly snap them open and give a
grim little smile. “Do you want me to speak with him?”

Internally I feel myself wince. Of course it was easy to guess you’d suggest something like this, but
the idea has so many potential dangers that it’s one of the reasons I delayed telling you in the first
place. “No,” I say quickly. “Absolutely not. Remember what we agreed?”

“I remember.” Now you sound amused again; it’s incredibly irritating. “No personal acquaintances
should be targeted: just one of several of your very diligent rules.” You catch my eye then give me
a long, slow smile. “For the sake of efficiency you should perhaps just have them printed and
framed?”

“I don’t know why you’re being so flippant about it,” I snap. “Who’s the forensics expert, me or
you? Both our prints are already all over his office.” I pause then give a small shudder at the image
of the technician’s face when they ran them through the database and a match flashed up for you.
The goddamn computer would probably explode. “It would be far too easy to trace back to us.”

“Then what do you propose?”

“I don’t know,” I say, and it’s depressing to hear it admitted out loud. “I guess we could always
move?”

“We could indeed do that – if you really wanted to.”

You announce this like it would be no big deal, but I know you understand as well as I do that
moving at short notice is a hell of a lot easier said than done. Operating beneath the radar with fake
documents and cash payments would be complex enough when living back home, but in a foreign
country it’s several orders of magnitude harder and I can still remember the stress of arriving and
not finding anywhere willing to take us in. If I was on my own it’d be simpler because I’d just take
the first dumpy apartment I could find, but you have standards you refuse to lower and luxurious
rentals with low-rent background checks aren’t all that easy to come by. I’d spent weeks
tormenting myself with the idea of migrating form one hotel to another until our money ran out
before Matteo had finally come along and been willing to turn a blind eye. Returning to the same
uncertainty isn’t especially tempting. And yet, and yet…

For a few seconds I nibble at my lip in silence before finally glancing up at you. “Do you think I’m
overreacting?”

“No,” you say. “I think you’re being cautious, and that the caution is warranted.” Reaching over
again you run your finger along the back of my hand. I stare down at it rather gloomily: it appears
I’ve now devolved into such an emotional Man Child that I literally need my hand held as a form
of reassurance. I can almost imagine my former self looking, cringing with extreme mortification
on my behalf. For God’s sake, he’d be saying. Get a grip of yourself, you stupid shit. I now
discreetly move my hand away and you add, as if reading my thoughts: “My only concern is that
you’re going to grow so blinded by caution that nowhere will ever feel safe.”
“And so we spend our whole life on the run,” I say bleakly.

“There are worse ways to spend one’s life.” I shrug again and you wait a few moments then take
hold of my hand completely and press it against yours (for God’s sake). Actually, it makes me
wonder what your former self is saying: perhaps he’s consumed with mortification as well, unable
to fathom why you’re no longer behaving like a huge bastard every chance you can get? “I think
you’ve answered your own question,” you add in a gentler voice. “If you truly believed Matteo was
a threat you would have chosen to act: either by my solution, which is to remove him from the
equation; or by your own, which is to remove us. The fact you can’t commit to a course suggests
the underlying emotion is what’s troubling you the most. Matteo is merely a convenient peg on
which to hang it.”

“So what’s my emotion?” I ask, even though I already know.

“Fear,” you reply without any hesitation. You pause a few seconds then turn to look at me directly,
slow-blinking like a cat. “But not just of getting caught – I think fear of something as simple as that
would almost be a relief to you. No, the thing that frightens you the most is the thing that’s always
frightened you. It’s the conflict between the person you wish to be and the person you actually are,
and every single second you spend here with me is a reminder of that.” I stiffen slightly and you
wait a few moments to observe the effect of what you’re saying, slowly running your eyes across
my face the entire time before continuing. “Yes, it’s a constant tightrope walk,” you finally add in
the same soft voice. “Isn’t it Will? Inch by inch, so careful and cautious; and yet you only barely
make it onto the side of morality and righteousness. Perhaps one day you’ll simply have to invent a
side of your own?”

While you haven’t come out and said so (at least not yet) this is all so loaded it might as well be a
slap to the face, and I immediately know that what you’re really referring to is my inability to
commit to the sort of future you want us to have. Not that this is necessarily surprising – it’s always
been the main dilemma where you’re concerned. Can’t live with you, can’t live without you.
Silently I now stare at the floor, mentally turning it over, yet no matter how ingeniously I try to
spin your words the reality is undeniable and I know what you’re saying is true. It’s always been
that way. From the big to the small: from never walking away from you every time I knew I
should, to the day I finally sent a Great Red Dragon to do the job for me because when the moment
came I knew there was no guarantee I’d be able to kill you myself. And then there was a murder so
brutal and beautiful it confirmed I could never to go back to a normal life – and so over the cliff we
go. Except that freeing myself from you or you freeing myself from me…it was always the same
thing, wasn’t it? I suppose it should really have ended there and maybe it would’ve been simpler if
it had. But of course it didn’t, and here I am.

Possibly it would help if I tried to tell you some of this but I feel like the effort would be pointless;
not least because you’re already aware of it anyway. So in the end all I say is: “Yes. I’m sorry.”

You pause then smile again, this time a little more eerie and reflective than before. “You know
Jack Crawford once said something very telling about you. He said ‘Will Graham is genuine. He is
always going to come back to being Will Graham.’ He had no idea how right he was, did he?”

Once again you’re not even trying to be subtle and it’s obvious that this is a coded reference to the
idea of my Becoming – that fated day where I’ll emerge from my mental chrysalis and complete
the transformation to the (true) version of myself which I was never free enough to be in the past. It
remains a fixation of yours, even after all this time, and I often can’t help feeling that no matter
how much I alter in outlook and temperament the difference will still never be enough for you.

Instead I just shrug again then give a rather lop-sided smile. “Wind them up and watch them go,”
is all I say.

This makes you smile too, because by now this statement has turned into something of a private
joke and referencing it is always guaranteed to get a reaction from one or both of us. According to
you it was my first moment of genuine self-acceptance; a realisation of exactly who I was and what
I was capable of. Likewise I always insist that wasn’t what I meant at all (after all I was there as
well – and anyway I could have shot you if I’d wanted to, you big arrogant bastard), but you refuse
to agree and as usual your version of reality seems to have turned into the mutually accepted one.

“Will Graham,” you say now. “The reluctant aggressor.”

“No,” I reply. “Not really.”

“Yes – really. Your problem isn’t that you’re becoming a predator: it’s that you’re a predator who
can’t admit his predatory instinct. How many times have I told you so?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” I say with obvious sarcasm. “Because you have made that point. A.
Lot. I’d even go so far as to say you’ve laboured it.” Not that this is even close to capturing what
you’ve done. By now it’s more like you’ve flogged the point to death, then brought it back to life
just to kill it all over again. It is now a zombie point.

You catch my eye then start to smile again, clearly aware exactly what I’m thinking. “Yes, but then
that’s the difficulty of free choice. You can’t deny your nature; it’s a gift of birth and temperament.
All you can do is choose whether or not to embrace it. To take a life or save one, Will: that’s the
choice you make. You knew that every time you went to work on one of your crime scenes.”

“They weren’t my crime scenes,” I say sharply.

“I know,” you reply in the same calm voice. “They merely felt as if they were – and it destroyed
you a little more every single time.” For a few seconds you close your eyes again, almost as if
you’re savouring the memory of it. “You sacrificed yourself in the service of righteousness didn’t
you? Yet all the time you fought the good fight with such very bad instruments.”

“Oh God, don’t start with all that again,” I snap. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I don’t suppose you are,” you reply, briefly looking even more Sphinxy and inscrutable than
usual. “That doesn’t change the fact that what I’m saying is true. You saw your mindset as
distorted; I think you still see it that way. Dysfunctional – monstrous even – and defensible only in
terms of its effectiveness.” I make an irritated sound and you lean a little further back in your chair,
never once taking your eyes from my face. “You were forced to inhabit the minds of so many
monsters,” you add, almost tenderly. “It came close to breaking you. Of course the reality is that
you’re only truly whole because of the way you’re broken. It’s very fortunate for you that I was
there to help assemble the pieces.”

This is too much and I can’t help laughing – partly because I have a sincerely amused affection for
how annoying and pompous you are, but also because the subject is making me uncomfortable and
humour seems like the safest way to dispel it. I now walk up behind you again so I can prop my
chin against the top of your hair. “Yes, you like breaking things don’t you?” I say sardonically.
“You like remaking them in your own image.”

You tip your head back a bit so you look at me, your eyes very dark and glittering as they catch the
light. “And did I succeed?” you say.

Instead of replying I just nudge your hair a few times with my face then wrap my arms round you
so I can press my cheek against yours. This is essentially the coward’s way out, but I can’t help it
because it’s not a conversation I feel able to have. After all, we both know the answer is no. If it
was as simple as you’d like it to be I wouldn’t find the idea of being married to you so
overwhelming.

“So what do you think?” I eventually say instead.

“About what?”

“What I just told you. About Matteo.”

This is such an abrupt pivot that I know you must be irritated, although as usual you do a perfect
job of disguising it. Not that you’ve any grounds to complain – your own pivots are so sharp they
defy the laws of gravity. “I think the impression is strong yet undetermined,” you reply. “Logic
suggests that he’s unaware of who I am, but your perception speaks to the contrary. And I trust
your perception.”

“Okay, that’s me – so what about you? What does your instinct say?”

“That his remark was a strange one, and while not a cause for immediate alarm remains a situation
that deserves to be monitored. And yes: if it makes you more comfortable we can begin
preparations to move.”

I take a deep breath then let it out again in a rush. “Yes. Okay then.”

“And I want you to tell me immediately if he attempts any further contact,” you add firmly. “I’m
not at all happy with the way he interacts with you.”

Oh God, so you did notice that. Considering how quickly you left I was hoping you hadn’t spotted
it, although realistically I guess that was always too much to hope for. You’re almost
supernaturally perceptive when it suits you. “Look it’s fine,” I reply, doing my best to sound
casual. “Just for once can you not over-complicate things?”

“On the contrary. It’s clear he wishes to engage your attention: I should not be at all surprised if he
is using your relationship with me as a clumsy way to acquire it. Who knows, perhaps that may be
the unknown variable? After all, in some contexts his comment could be interpreted as a bitter
reflection on his romantic competitor. He resents me because I have a position of closeness to you
that he wishes to occupy.”

“That’s not the point,” I say impatiently. “The issue is whether he’s recognised you. Not some
dumb attempt at flirting.”

“W-i-l-l,” you reply in a warning voice. “Please stop dissembling. I said that I want you to tell me.”

“And I said it’s fine,” I snap. “Don’t speak to me like that. I’m not a child.”

You don’t reply immediately, instead just raising your hand to curl it round the back of my neck in
a way that’s gentle but firm. If you were cat-like before you’ve now become more like a dog, or
even a wolf: bristling and territorial. The problem is that I can’t tell how much of it is genuine and
how much is performative, not least because I think you’re desperate for a chance to stir things up
and going after Matteo would be an ideal opportunity. You won’t care about the risks – you never
have. In fact it reminds me of your disappointment in the alleyway when the police moved past us,
because it’s clear that you’re waiting for a confrontation that will force me to pick a side (namely
yours). You’re probably secretly hoping that Jack does turn up. After all, you might say you’d be
willing to move, but when the time comes I know it’s equally possible that you’ll insist on staying
put if it means there’s even the slightest chance of manoeuvring me into a situation that would
force me to break my existing codes. For all I know you tipped out Matteo yourself; it’s not like
you’re not capable of it. Anything for the game.

This whole issue clarifies why I was reluctant to confide to you in the first place and I now give a
loud sigh, desperately hoping that things aren’t about to get complicated while suspecting they
almost certainly are. I’m not like you in that respect. You thrive on chaos and carnage whereas I
want something simpler and calmer. Although I suppose that’s the main difference between us at
the moment: I’ve already got what I want, whereas you’re still waiting. And until I’m able to give
it to you, even I can’t say for sure what lengths you might go to in an attempt to change my mind
and make me see our relationship – and myself – the same way you do.

“I want you to promise me something,” I suddenly blurt out. “Are you listening?”

“To you?” you say fondly. “Always.”

“Then I want you to promise me that if the police do find you then you won’t try to prove a point,
or take a stand, or do anything to draw attention to yourself.” I take a deep breath, briefly
overwhelmed by the vividness of the image: the flashing lights and loudspeakers, you in handcuffs
and the way you’ll catch my eye as they take you away. “Promise me that if anything happens
you’ll just run.”

In the resulting pause I can hear you breathing before your finally turn round and regard me very
steadily, the faintest of smiles on your face. “I promise I won’t allow anyone to separate us,” you
reply.

“Seriously? You think I’m just going to buy that? It’s not what I asked you Hannibal. It’s not what
I asked at all.”

“Perhaps it’s not,” you say. “Although the outcome is the same regardless. Why does it matter
which route I take to achieve it?”

You pick up the box again as a clear sign that the conversation is over and I just stand there and
watch you: gazing in silence while struggling with the old anger and resentment that I rarely feel
towards you now yet remains so well-rehearsed it’s always available at a moment’s notice, ready
to pull off the shelf and wrap around myself like a familiar piece of clothing. Because it’s painfully
obvious by now what you have in mind, and if the pieces fall the way you want them to it means
I’ll end up forced to make a choice I’ve spent the whole time since the cliff-top trying to avoid.
You basically said as much earlier and it’s as if I can feel the message churning round in my head
as I look at you: Time to choose a side.

*****

Despite the dread and doubt of it all (considerable), the sense of anticipation (high), and the vague
urge to just accept the inevitable and do something stupid (guilty, but still there) things seem to
have subsided after the drama with Matteo because the next few days limp by and bring
absolutely…nothing. No police on the doorstep. No troubling phone calls. Just an ominous
stretching silence in which there’s not much to do except brood over all the worst-case scenarios
that never actually happened. Admittedly it’s not like I wanted anything to happen, but in a
perverse way all that nothing still feels like a massive anti-climax. It’s the uncertainty of it, I think.
It’s the awareness of a disaster which might need preparing for, yet with no idea of when or where
it’s going to occur…or even if it’s going to occur at all. The insecurity of it makes me brittle and
irritable, nagging at my nerves with a kaleidoscope of emotions which contradict each other in
ways that shouldn’t really be possible in the same mind at the same time. The sensation is a
genuinely odd one and it’s only through sieving through my responses that I finally begin to
understand it: how easily dread can be counterbalanced with anticipation, how a preoccupation
with the future can blend with an obsession for the past, and how my own anxiety gets augmented
by the almost eerie sense of calmness provided by your presence.

In theory it seems like these contrary emotional states should neutralise one another like acid and
alkali and leave me in a state of blankly comfortable numbness. But that’s not what happens at all,
and instead I find myself spinning through several extremes that leave me silent one moment then
snapping the next. Naturally it’s you who ends up bearing the brunt of these mood swings,
although I don’t feel as guilty about this as I probably should. I mean it’s not like you don’t deserve
it…if anything it’s the least of what you deserve. But despite the constant provocations you never
make any signs of complaint and instead just absorb my volatility with excessive patience and a
very faint smile on your face. At times I even get the sense you’re actively enjoying my spectrum
of emotion – like it’s something infinitely artful and fascinating which should be savoured – and
even after a full week of it I still can’t quite decide whether I find this faintly endearing or outright
creepy.

“I’m sorry,” I say eventually. “I know I’m being a massive pain in the ass.” I sound a bit grudging.
I can’t help it though, because I have an instinctive dislike of apologising to you (mostly because in
the apology/forgiveness ratio it feels like you have negative credit for life). In response you simply
raise your eyebrows so high they practically become airborne and I can find myself struggling not
to smile. “It’s okay,” I add, “you can agree if you want to.”

“I wouldn’t describe it in quite those terms,” you reply in your usual leisurely way. “But yes, it’s
true that you’ve been…” There’s a small pause, presumably while you scroll your mental thesaurus
for a suitable replacement for rude little shit. “Very reactive since the visit from Matteo.”

As usual you’ve carefully excised your own contribution to my sense of anxiety, but I can’t really
be bothered to argue about it. Besides, it’s not like you’re ever going to admit to anything. Instead I
just quirk an eyebrow and repeat “Reactive?” which causes your smile to grow ever-so-slightly
broader. “That sounds suspiciously like a euphemism,” I add, which makes you open your eyes
very wide in a display of faux-innocence that’s enough to make me laugh out loud. “Yeah, well,
I’m still sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry for being a reactive pain in the ass.”

“There’s no need,” you reply. “I don’t take it personally. It’s understandable considering the stress
you’ve been under.” As you’re speaking you reach out to take hold of my hand then slowly skim
your thumb across the knuckles before stroking along the bones of my wrist. The attention you’re
lavishing on this task is extremely obvious – like an archaeologist marvelling over an especially
rare excavation – and when you see me watching you give another feline smile without actually
taking the trouble to let go.

I now remove my wrist myself (partly because if left to your own devices you’ll go on examining
it all night, but also because all the stroking is starting to tickle) and then announce, with a touch of
envy: “You don’t really get stressed do you?”

You briefly catch my eye then give a small, elegant shrug. “I do. I’m just able to conceal it better.”

I decide to interpret this as a reproach for the way I’ve been acting and give a self-conscious
squirm without fully meaning to. You watch me for a few seconds then promptly take the
opportunity to pounce on my wrist again. “Don’t look so forlorn,” you add. “It wasn’t meant as a
criticism. In fact if I was being honest I would say that you’re more emotionally resilient than I am,
because you have a higher capacity to endure negative feelings.” My scepticism must show on my
face because you fall silent again for a few moments, suddenly looking thoughtful. “Loss, for
example, is something I have almost no tolerance for at all. To lose someone I love, whether by
their own volition or someone else’s, touches something primal in me. In fact I find it insufferable
– and it makes me strike out.”

There’s a small, strained pause. “Yeah,” I finally reply. My sounds flat and emotionless; something
that always happens when you refer to things you’ve done to me in the past. “I’d noticed.”

There’s no way you haven’t detected my change in tone, although it’s clear you’re not going to
mention it. In fact you very rarely do, and I’ve long since given up expecting it. “Well there you
have it,” you say instead. “You should know better than anyone that I am susceptible to stress.”

Automatically I find myself reaching down to touch the scar on my abdomen before I realise what
I’m doing and have to force myself to stop. You track the movement of my hand with your eyes
then swivel back to my face again and stare at me. God knows what you’re actually thinking. “You
should do something to relax,” is all you say.

“Yeah, maybe.” I’m not really listening though; I’m tired of people telling me to relax. Instead I
take a sip of coffee then stare at you rather owlishly from the top of the mug. “Maybe at some
point.”

“And what point is that? Today? Next week? Next month? You need a proper meal; that, and some
rest. And later on I would like to give you a bath.”

Unfortunately I’m in the middle of drinking when you say this and the combination of liquid and
annoyance prompts a choking fit of proportions that are borderline epic. You stand by and wait
politely until I can breathe again. “Jesus, you will not give me a bath,” I eventually manage. “I’m
not a dog.”

You immediately start to smile – relaxed and playful, as if the shadow of the past few moments has
finally managed to clear. “You’re right,” you reply. “My choice of verb was a poor one. But it
doesn’t change how depressingly functional you are in your approach to self-care. One might even
say Spartan. You seem to forget that food and cleanliness are not merely duties to perform but
opportunities for pleasure and recreation.” I sigh loudly at the sense of being lectured and you add
with a touch of firmness: “So in other words, what I mean to say is that I intend to sit in a bath
myself, then put my arms round you and prevent you getting out again until I consider you
sufficiently rested.”

I lower my head like a bull and then, because I’ve lost the coffee mug, opt to glare at you over the
top of my glasses instead. “No way are you doing that.”

“Yes, well,” you reply with obvious amusement. “We’ll see won’t we?”

“Yes we will. We will see.”

You raise a single eyebrow in a way that’s suggestive of battlelines being drawn before starting to
smile again as you make an exaggerated display of looking at your watch. “So what about in the
meantime then? There are still several hours until this particular showdown is due to take place. It
will be an epic confrontation, I’m sure: a true clash of the Titans. How do you propose to spend the
rest of the afternoon?”

This is a simple enough question, but as usual it ends up causing a mini-argument because we’re
almost never able to agree on shared activities. Of course it doesn’t help that I never want to go out
(whereas you’re rarely keen to stay in), but fortunately this is one of the few occasions where
you’re willing to back down first and after a bit of sighing and raising of eyebrows finally agree to
playact being normal for a while by sitting down with me to watch TV. This is actually one of the
few past-times we have that comes close to approaching ‘ordinary’ – although it’s still also
borderline impossible to find anything you’ll deign to pay attention to for longer than five minutes,
so somehow always winds up more like a form of psychological torture than actual entertainment.
You now settle down and proceed with the inevitable channel hopping so I do my best to zone out
from it then spread myself across the couch and put my feet on your knee instead. I’m secretly
trying to train you to massage them whenever I do this; so far I’m having a pretty decent success
rate. To be honest all it’s really taken is a bit of strategic reinforcement…not all that dissimilar to
how I’d train a dog. You now obediently start to rub my feet and I turn my face away to hide the
smirk that’s immediately started to form.

“European television is even worse than American,” you say in a withering voice. Considering this
is a variation of what you always say I don’t see any need to reply to it and just make a vague
humming noise instead. “At least in America there is a greater choice.” You turn round yourself
then narrow your eyes. “What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing,” I say smugly. “Why not just try the news?”

You don’t look very impressed with this suggestion (although that’s only because you didn’t think
of it yourself and can never admit other people might have the occasional good idea). You switch
over anyway though, and then even put down the remote and affect a level of interest when it turns
out to be covering Il Macellaio. The guy being interviewed is a local police chief, very earnest and
sombre with a huge bristling moustache like a walrus.

“What’s he saying?” I ask.

“Nothing worth translating. He is just stating the obvious.”

I repeat the same humming noise as before, then hear the words Americano and Federale and
promptly feel myself tense. “What was that?” I say sharply. “Are they going to contact the FBI?”

“No,” you reply. You sound unbelievably bored: anyone would think you were watching bowls or
lawn tennis, or possibly drying paint. “He’s merely observing that American law enforcement has
greater expertise with these types of offenders. In other words, he is stating the obvious – exactly
as I said.” You yawn and stretch a bit then idly reach down to resume rubbing my feet. “So when
exactly was the last time you contacted your Uncle Jack?” you add. “You never tell me when
you’ve spoken to him.”

“That’s because I don’t speak with him. I write him instead.”

You make an impatient gesture which I suppose is meant to be a shrug – a rather elegant roll with
one shoulder. “Same difference, more or less. But if the local police do have plans to ask for help
then I would expect you’d hear of it directly from him.”

Your voice has taken on a distinct edge by now, which is pretty much standard whenever the
subject of Jack comes up. The logical explanation would be that it’s resentment of the threat he
poses, but of course the reality is nothing so straightforward – it’s simply that you’re jealous of me
paying attention to anyone who isn’t you. It’s not like you even have any reason to be (although
admittedly a lack of reason has never been enough to stop you before), because the basis of my
contact isn’t sentimental. Well, maybe it is a bit. But the main purpose is that it seems like a useful
form of precaution. Vanishing without a trace would draw unnecessary attention, but some bland
emails a few times a year are an easy way to pass under the radar; a kind of mental prophylactic to
keep him at arm’s length. There’s also the way I make a point of emphasising that I’ve not seen or
heard from you, which after enough time passes I’m hoping he’ll interpret to mean that you’re
dead. He’d probably deny it if I asked him, but I know he sees me being out in the world as a form
of live bait. This means that every one of those bland messages feels like a way to slowly chip
away at the Manhunt, because as far as Jack’s concerned if you were alive then I’d be the first
person you’d go after. The existence of me without you points to an irresistible conclusion that I’m
hoping (one day) might finally cancel out his need to keep searching.

“Oh God, I really hope they don’t contact the BSU,” I say, half under my breath.

“I know you do. But it is not especially likely.”

“No…but it’s not impossible either. The Unit does provide outside consultation – I’ve even done it
myself.”

I now fall silent for a few seconds as I picture it: a particularly vicious case involving attacks on
Canadian college students. The main thing I remember is how cold it was – a knife-like wind that
sliced the skin and a snow on every surface like frosting on a cake – but the investigation itself is
surprising hard to recall. Or maybe it’s not surprising. It was in the era before you arrived after all,
so perhaps it was inevitable it would slip into oblivion? In this respect I often get an odd sense of
excavating my life in the manner of an archaeological dig wherever you’re concerned: a palimpsest
of past selves, arranged in dusty layers of reducing recency that begin from just a few years ago
and get older and older, bisected in half by Life Before You. AH instead of AD.

I sigh very slightly then turn back to face you again. “Agencies do send for external help. It can
happen.”

You shrug again; you know I’m right. You’re just not going to admit it. “You worry too much,” is
all you say.

“Good,” I reply sarcastically. “I guess one of us has to.”

You smile a bit and then lean back against the sofa, staring at me meditatively like you’ve slipped
into therapist mode without fully realising it. “I’m surprised you haven’t shown a greater personal
interest,” you say. “Perhaps we should find an opportunity to discuss the case between ourselves?
You and I Will, sat in chairs and trading insights – just like old times.”

“Absolutely not,” I say with a small shudder. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”

You continue staring for a few more seconds then dip your head in agreement. The faint smile is
still there though: I can see it, flickering across your face like the wick on a candle. “Yes, I suppose
that’s understandable,” you say. “Not least because this particular killer is profoundly
uninteresting. One might say fatally so. His crimes are so graceless and artless – so utterly
pointless.”

Your disdain is obvious, although I know your reasons are radically different to how most people
would feel discussing a similar subject. As far as you’re concerned the corruption of Il Macellaio
isn’t that he kills people; it’s simply that he does it badly. For you it’s all about the elegance and
the tableaux, where the way something’s presented matters just as much as what it is that’s
displayed. It’s about configuring death as art, yet also as arbitrary: your grand arrangement in
which everyone’s equally deserving. Sadistic yet virtuosic, theatrical yet meticulous…you always
wanted to transmute the vulgar and banal and turn it into something beautiful that warranted
exhibition. I know if I closed my eyes right now I’d still be able to re-imagine it all: the police
reports and crime scene photos, swathed in tattered tape that fluttered in empty air. The initial
impressions, the instincts, the narrative that had emerged from each imprinting…so vivid and vital
when torn from behind the dry typescript and photocopied pages, like a gothic Grand Guignol
tragedy performed just for me – the only one who could see it. I suppose I should be disturbed by
admitting this, and yet I’m honestly not. I’m miles away from that point by now. Miles and miles.

“Imagine if Jack did come here to set up a taskforce,” is all I say instead. I’m trying to keep my
tone light to disguise how much the idea unnerves me, although I’ve no idea how convincing it is.
“He’d be on the phone before his plane had landed. I’d definitely get dragged in to help.”

I screw up my face in an exaggerated way and you smile then lean over to tap the edge of my nose
with your finger. “Probably,” you say. “But think how cross you’d be while you were doing it. You
love being cross: I think you’d enjoy yourself immensely.” I start to smile and you smile back too
before adding in a more thoughtful tone: “I confess, I’m far less opposed to the idea than you are. I
wouldn’t be all that averse to seeing Jack again.”

I know if you say a single word about ‘having an old friend for dinner’ then there’s a real
possibility I’ll be tempted to kill you myself, but fortunately you just smile again then decide to
drop the subject completely. “Let’s go out,” you say, gesturing your hand towards the doorway. “I
know you want to stay indoors, but it’s such a beautiful evening I intend to persuade you to change
your mind.”

If I’m honest I’m still not keen, but after you were so amenable to the TV-watching it seems a bit
selfish to refuse. I suppose relationships are built on such moments of small compromise, even if I
still find concepts like that hard to apply to you. It seems like the language of magazines and TV
talk shows, written in swirling fonts with lots of exclamation points: Top Tips to Make Your
Relationship Zing! Somehow you always seem above such petty dynamics. Even so, you’re more
attuned to it then I give you credit for because it’s obvious how much you like it when you see I’m
making an effort to keep you happy.

By this time we’ve left it too late for the theatre – and you object to most restaurants on principle –
so we finally agree on a trattoria you know in the older, quieter part of town where there are less
tourists and an abundance of winding narrow streets to get lost in. I like being here together. The
gothic atmosphere always suits you: shopfronts lurching like broken teeth from where centuries of
erosion have made them swell and sag, ancient walls soaring up skyward, and everything bathed in
the flickering amber glow of the streetlights. We order Negronis then drink them side by side on a
small sidewalk bench, your eyes darting back and forth as you watch the passers-by. You skim
your hand along my arm in a rather absent-minded way while you do it, and I tolerate it for a while
before the sensation slowly grows annoying and I give a series of shuffles.

“What’s the matter?” you say placidly. “Why are you fidgeting so much?”

“Stop it please.”

“Stop what?”

“That,” I say as you do it again. “It feels like you’re patting me. Like I’m a dog.”

“Is that how one touches a dog?” you reply, removing your hand. “I apologise – and concede to
your greater expertise.”

Now I feel guilty for being unreasonable, which was no doubt your intention (although it really did
feel like stroking a dog). I shuffle a bit closer again then stretch my legs out until I can tangle my
feet with yours. “Speaking of dogs…” I say. “I was thinking I might go to Vita da Cani tomorrow.”

This is a reference to a local shelter I’ve discovered and have recently begun to volunteer for. I try
to visit at least once a week and always enjoy it, although it’s a dedication you seem to find equal
parts amusing and pointless. “Off to get your canine fix?” you’ll say as I’m preparing to leave, but
the obvious derision is never enough to dissuade me. “You just don’t understand,” I’ll tell you,
arms folded and borderline self-righteous (at which point you’ll raise your eyebrows then reply
with something which basically means: ‘You’re correct Will, I don’t understand. I shall never
understand how anything so dirty and slobbering can arouse such fond feelings in an otherwise
sensible human being.’) To be honest I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re secretly relieved it’s so
difficult to buy a house, because once we’re not renting then there’ll be no excuses left and you’ll
have no choice but to let me get one. Or, indeed, several.

You now give the tiniest hint of an eye-roll then rest your hand on my arm again. “I’m sure your
hairy children will be delighted to see you,” you say.

“Oh shut up.”

“On the contrary – I am entirely sincere. After all, it’s not that long since you were in their position
yourself. No doubt you are able to offer them extremely sage advice for making life behind bars
work to one’s advantage.”

“Hilarious aren’t you?” I say; which promptly makes you start smirking again like you’re silently
agreeing that this is the case. “You’re forgetting that you could do the same,” I add. “Oh sorry, I
forgot – you can’t really, can you? Maybe we can find you a hamster to advise about living in a
glass box.”

Your mouth starts to twitch the way it does when you’re struggling not to laugh and I have one of
my sudden rushes of fondness for you and lean over to give you a kiss (I end up mistiming it
slightly and bounce off one of your cheekbones instead…those bastards are always getting in the
way). “You’re so annoying,” I add. “Have I ever told you that?”

This time you smile properly, the effort of concealing having clearly become too much for you. “I
believe you might have mentioned it once or twice, yes.”

“Well you are. Just so you know.”

I’m expecting you to smile again – one of these rare, genuine smiles that reach your eyes – but
even as I’m speaking I can tell I no longer have your full attention. Instead your gaze has shifted,
your body leaning slightly forward as you begin to stare almost fixedly at a woman sitting a few
tables away from us. I follow your gaze then promptly feel myself stiffen.

“Hey,” I say sharply. “Isn’t that…”

You lean back in your chair again, both your eyebrows still raised. “Indeed it is,” you reply. “A
rather remarkable coincidence.”

Without fully meaning to I now find myself glancing from you to the woman then back again,
trying to reassure myself that you’re not genuinely intrigued by her presence. It doesn’t seem as if
you are. In fact after the first, initial surprise you appear to have lost all interest and are now
looking at me instead. Even so, I still don’t like it. The sensation of seeing your drawing brought to
life is incredibly eerie, but in spite of that I can’t help silently compliment the skill you showed in
capturing her likeness so precisely. As I watch she starts to flick through the menu, her lips moving
slightly as she deciphers the Italian. It’s clear she’s completely unaware of our presence so I take
the opportunity to stare a little harder, brooding over how the living version stirs the same vague
recognition as when I looked at your sketch while remaining so stubbornly unsubstantial as to be
essentially meaningless. There’s nothing at all remarkable about her – really, she could be anybody
 – but as she turns to rummage in her purse I notice she’s wearing a name badge and promptly strain
even further in an effort to read it. It’s the type of cheap adhesive version they give people at
conferences which suggests she’s come from some meeting or other, perhaps choosing to stop here
on the way to her hotel. The fact she didn’t choose to eat with a group of delegates in similar cheap
badges implies she’s a solitary person, and the small frown round her eyebrows indicates a measure
of solemnness – but really, I don’t care enough to try and work her out. And neither do you, I
remind myself firmly. It was only her face you found interesting.

Abruptly I now drain my glass then press it down against the table. “Come on,” I say. “It’s late.
Let’s go home.”

You must have noticed my change in manner but once again it’s clear you’re not going to comment
on it. Perhaps you think I’m just nervous. I suppose I am – I’ve been nervous for days. But in this
exact moment it’s more than just that. It’s a powerful sense of possessiveness that transcends
anything so simple as nerves: namely an intense, irrational resentment of you choosing to draw her
that makes me feel faintly ashamed of myself and bothers me in ways I’m not fully comfortable
admitting to. After all, this is something I’m constantly criticising you for and yet when it comes
down to it I seem to be just as bad. Beside me you calmly begin to count out some notes for the
tab, your other hand resting comfortably across my knee, so I use the distraction as an opportunity
for another final stare. Her badge was in shadow before but in those few seconds I see it clearly
enough to read what I assume is her own handwriting, very neat and precise, which has been used
to label herself. And so it’s then that I’m finally able to identify her: Clarice Starling.

Chapter End Notes

Please only read this note if you don’t mind spoilers…

…three…
…two…
…one…

The character of Clarice obviously has a lot of strong associations from the original
novels/films, so just to reassure anyone who’s wondering that H will NOT be
romantically drawn to her in this fic. My intention is to use the character respectfully
(and hopefully in a way that people will find interesting to read) but there’ll be no
breaking up of Hannigram on my watch :-D
 Chapter 5

There’s a cluster of police at the end of the street and at the sight of them I instinctively shift aside,
positioning myself between you and them in a deliberately defensive way like some sort of half-
assed human shield. I know this is dumb. They’re not paying us any attention (and it’s not like
you’d need any help even if they were) but the thought of law enforcement anywhere near you
always makes me insanely protective. I’m like fear and doubt on steroids and it’s obvious you find
it amusing whenever it happens. Even so I suspect you quite like it too, regardless of how
unnecessary it might be.

As predicted your lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile. “It’s fine,” you say, right on cue.
“They’re here for Il Macellaio, not for me.”

I open my mouth to reply before realising, a bit too late, that I don’t have anything much to add and
am forced to close it again. Then I just frown for a few seconds before taking hold of your arm
instead, tightly clinging onto it as if we’re a pair of pensioners. From the corner of my eye I see you
glance at me with surprise. I don’t blame you: normally I’m too self-conscious to be affectionate in
public, but anxiety seems to be pushing me beyond the point of caring.

“So what do you think?” I say. My voice hardly sounds like mine: low and urgent, threaded
through with agitation. “Do you think she’s following you?”

You straighten the collar on your jacket then flex your neck a few times, relaxed and casual like
someone without a care in the world. “Who?” you say.

“What do you mean who?” Now I sound annoyed instead; almost teacherly. Probably no one’s
spoken to you like this since you were about 12 (possibly not even then) but you never seem to
mind. “That woman, of course. The one in the café. It’s the second time you’ve seen her.”

“Well if so she’s doing a very poor job at it,” you say airily. “A desecration of the fine art of
surveillance. She’s never made any attempt to conceal herself.”

You seem amused at the idea and I immediately feel the familiar twinge of envy merged with
irritation. Seriously – it’s like you never have even the slightest shit to give about anything. Not,
admittedly, that I think that myself: it’s obvious she wasn’t following you. The question is more to
satisfy my private paranoia that your interest in her really was as superficial as you claimed it to be,
and the awareness of probing in such an underhand way makes me feel ashamed of myself all over
again. It’s not like your overt possessiveness is any better than my more conniving variety, but at
least there’s a kind of honesty in how direct you are. Then I have a brief fantasy of searching her
name online before persuading myself that such semi-stalking will achieve nothing except
needlessly stoke my resentment. After all, it’s clear she’s just visiting and after tonight it’s almost
impossible that I’ll ever see her again. And neither, I amend grimly, will you.

Since we started walking you haven’t spared so much as a backward to the woman – Clarice – yet
despite having got what I wanted the knowledge of my own petty possessiveness means I’m not as
happy about this reassurance as I should be. When did I become so jealous and grasping? I don’t
like it. Then I start wondering if I should apologise to you before noticing how the police have
started to stare at us and realising that I like this even less. Most likely it’s just the sight of two men
arm-in-arm that’s caught their attention, but I tug on you anyway in an attempt to swerve you down
a nearby alley and away from scrutiny. I’m expecting you to follow me, but needless to say you’ve
decided you want to be awkward about it and are ignoring my increasingly frantic yanks in favour
of grinding to a dead halt in the middle of the street. I give up then. I can’t possibly face pulling on
your arm like a dog on a leash (or possibly a toddler on a set of reins) while a gaggle of Italy’s
Finest stand by and spectate. Not that this is really the best analogy, because if you were a dog then
it would be a hell of a lot easier. After all the average dog (unlike you) is happy to do what it’s told
– not to mention having a perfect grasp of what ‘Stay’, ‘No’ and ‘Don’t attack the police officers’
mean…

“C’è qualche problema?” you call out.

Your tone is withering enough to quell a lump of granite and at the sound of it I feel myself cringe.
You’re always pulling stunts like this, although I never call you out on it because I know it comes
from a rare place of positivity – namely your sense of pride and pleasure at being with me,
combined with an inability to accept anyone else not being equally overwhelmed with joy at the
sight of it. Of course there’s also your extreme arrogance (which cherishes the inalienable right you
think you have to do whatever you want without interference from mere mortals) and the fact
you’re entitled to take offence in this instance unfortunately doesn’t help that much. After all, it’s a
character trait that’s caused so much destruction in the past that it’s hard to not resent it, even in
those instances where it’s fully justified.

In the force of your obvious displeasure the policemen falter then look away, slowly shrinking
before your gaze like schoolkids getting lectured by the principle. I suppose it’s the stern,
aristocratic air you have that radiates authority – that and the way you can season your words with
so much contempt it’s as if they’re getting ready to roll off your tongue and kick the policemen in
the face. You’re often able to achieve this without ever needing to shout or show obvious anger. In
fact your normal speaking tone is so incredibly threatening when you want it to be that I sometimes
expect it to escape from your throat at intervals and start attacking random passers-by. The
policemen call back something awkward in Italian and I look at their sheepish expressions and
have a sudden, surreal sense of what would happen if they had any idea who they were actually
talking to.

“Come on,” I hiss at you beneath my breath. “Let’s go. Now. I mean it.”

I can tell that you’d rather stay and lecture them some more (before graduating to God-knows-what
at the first hint of further rudeness) but there’s something in my tone that’s enough to make you
relent – although not before putting a defiant arm around my shoulder in what’s clearly a wordless
invitation for them to go and fuck themselves. The policemen obediently avert their eyes down the
neighbouring street and I do a hard turn left and practically drag you away until we’ve been safely
swallowed up by the shadows. In my eagerness I move a bit too quickly and as we turn the corner I
end up ploughing into you with sufficient force to send me stumbling against the wall. Even though
it wasn’t your fault you swoop down immediately and grab hold of my shoulder.

“Are you all right?” you say. “You moved so fast I didn’t see you.”

I straighten up then wave my hands around a few times to indicate being fine. “I know,” I reply. “It
was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

I sound incredibly awkward and I’m sure you can tell. It’s difficult to hide it though, because you
always over-react at even the slightest sign of hurting me and the association makes me
uncomfortable. Reading between the lines it’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to showing guilt
for what you’ve done in the past, and I honestly wish you’d just relax a bit and stop being so
cautious. Only I can’t bring myself to mention it – and it’s obvious you won’t either – so
ultimately I just do what I always do when it happens, which is to ignore it completely. Then I sigh
quietly beneath my breath and take hold of your arm again, gripping it protectively as if I can keep
you safe by sheer force of will.
We walk the rest of the way home in silence, my hand slotted comfortably in yours, until we’ve
turned the final corner and I notice a large Mercedes parked nearby. It’s gleaming softly in the
moonlight, rakishly sprawled across the curbside like it’s got drunk and fallen over, and at the sight
of it I can feel my heart sink straight into my feet. “Oh shit,” I say wearily. “Isn’t that Matteo’s
car?”

Beside me I hear you mutter something in a foreign language: a single, sharp syllable that draws
your tongue back against your teeth. This is almost certainly the sound of you swearing and no
matter what the situation is it never fails to be hilarious that you won’t do it English. Considering
all the things you will do it seems such a pointless boundary to draw; yet you’ve clearly drawn it
anyway, because while there’s no doubt you can curse fluently and fearsomely in all five of your
different languages you’ll never do it around me in a way I’ll understand. In spite of the stress I can
feel myself starting to smile before I tighten my grip on your arm.

“You stay here,” I say. “I’ll go myself.”

“No,” you reply with excessive politeness. “You will not.”

I draw to a halt then glare at you, even though I’m not expecting it to have any impact (it doesn’t).
“Well you’re definitely not going,” I snap. “I don’t want him anywhere near you.”

“Then it appears we are at an impasse,” you say in the same polite tone. “Because I do not intend
to have him anywhere near you.”

Throughout this exchange my eyebrows have been elevating up my forehead and they now draw to
a halt before descending again in a truly spectacular scowl. Briefly it seems like we might be on the
verge of a full-blown argument but then I see you glance across my shoulder again as your own
stern expression starts to soften into a smile. “It appears that neither of us will have to go,” you add.
“Look.”

I turn round too then let out an audible sigh of relief as a blonde woman glides out from one of the
nearby houses towards the direction of the car. “A false alarm,” you say in confirmation. “It’s not
him at all.”

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious at a sense of over-reacting. “No. Seems that way.”

“You’re so tense Will.” You wait a few seconds, regarding me intently in the moonlight before
reaching into your pocket for the keys. “You need to calm down.”

“You mean like you?” I say irritably.

I’m being openly rude by now. In fact I’m half-expecting you to snap something back at me, but as
usual you don’t show any signs of annoyance and just place a calming hand on my shoulder instead
before silently following me into the house. Once there you make me sit on the sofa then vanish
into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a tray of pizzelles and some of the orange
blossom tea that I first tried during a trip to Rome and have developed a bit of a mania for. It’s
fragrant and soothing and after the first few sips I can feel some of my previous tension start to ebb
away.

“Thanks for this,” I say eventually. I smile then tilt the teacup rather sardonically in your direction.
“Cheers.”

You gaze back at me for a while then smile too as you raise your own cup. “ Santé.”

“Why are you toasting me in French? We’re in Italy.”

“Why are you toasting me in English?” you reply. “We’re in Italy.”

This makes me laugh. I always like it when you unwind a bit and lower yourself enough to my
level to be mischievously dumb. “Touché,” I say.

“Oh yes, very good – I suppose that means I should reply to you in English this time? Only I’m
afraid the right word escapes me. You’re going to have to assist.”

“Actually, I’m not sure what the English equivalent would be.” I realise I’ve started smiling again,
but I can’t really help it because it’s so rare for you to struggle translating something and the
admission of weakness is always rather endearing. “You know, I don’t think there is one. ‘Good
point,’ maybe? Or ‘Got me’?” I pause then give a faint smirk. “’Burn’?”

“What?”

“’Burn’.”

“What on earth does burning have to do with it?”

“Sick burn, bro.”

Your eyes begin to narrow, the same way they always do when you know I’m making fun of you
but can’t quite understand how, and I smile even harder then replace my cup on the table so I can
stretch out to rest my feet across your lap. “You know I really like this couch,” I add. “It’s
comfortable.”

“Yes, I’d assumed as much. You are always rolling about on it.”

“The upholstery is so soft. Like velvet…it reminds me of that other couch.”

“Which couch?”

“That one in my old place.” I half want to clarify ‘that one we made out on for the first time ’ except
that this is the kind of slang phrase that’s impossible to say to you. Anyway, I bet you do remember
it. I bet you’ve got it stashed away in your Memory Palace somewhere, sentimental old bullshitter
that you are. I smile to myself for a second time then stretch out to give you a small prod with my
foot to make sure I’ve got your attention.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier,” I say. Predictably you don’t reply. I knew you wouldn’t:
you’re doing it on purpose to see how much I’ll admit to on my own. “It’s just that you’re always
so blasé about everything. So casual. I feel like we might be heading towards serious trouble and
you don’t even care.”

“Is that so? I suppose I could feign some anxiety for you if it would make you feel better.”

“Yes,” I say drily. “You do that.”

You smile too then reach down to begin massaging my feet (successful training continued: I allow
myself a mental high-five). “Don’t mistake my calmness for complacency Will,” you add. “I never
direct my attention to sheltering from threats as opposed to being bold in facing them. But you
should rest assured that if a threat did appear then I would be the first to act.”

For a few moments it’s a genuine struggle not to let my annoyance show; I finally content myself
with a quick, impatient sound between my teeth. “You mean instead of planning how to avoid it in
the first place?” I say. “Okay, that’s great. You really don’t really learn from your mistakes do
you?” You give me a rather ominous little smile then calmly resume massaging my feet with one
hand, the other one resting comfortably across my leg. “You know I once read a forensics report
about you,” I add. “It said your IQ was immeasurable by the standard tests.”

“Did it?” you say politely.

“Yes, it did. And I have to say that for someone whose IQ is immeasurable by the standard
tests…” I pause again; you raise your eyebrows expectantly. “…Then you’re actually a bit of a
dumbass.”

This makes you laugh out loud, which doesn’t happen very often so it’s always nice to hear. “Yes I
dare say,” you reply. “I suppose I shall have to rely on your superior judgement. It’s fortunate for
me that you’re not just a pretty face.”

I reach out to give you a harder prod with my foot. “What did I say about calling me pretty?”

“I believe you said you would end me.”

“Well, there you go. One more strike and you’re out.”

“Understood.” You glance up then give me a long, slow side-stare. “From now on I shall keep my
raptures to myself. It’s still true though. Physically you are very beautiful; I’ve always thought so.”

“Have you?” I frown rather sceptically, briefly falling silent again as I try to picture it: you sitting
in your office, fixing me in place with those gleaming eyes while plotting my destruction, only to
pause every so often to amend to yourself ‘…even so, he is very physically beautiful.’ There’s no
real reason for you to lie about it but somehow I still find it hard to imagine.

“Naturally I have.” You sound amused now; you always enjoy the sense of catching me off-guard.
“Why would you find it so surprising? I might not always have been as ardent as I am now, but
even you can’t have been blind to the admiration.”

“Well, I was,” I say firmly. “Completely blind.”

“I don’t believe you. You must have been aware, whether you want to admit it or not. After all, our
entire acquaintance has been one long process of tantalization.” You smile a bit more then take
hold of my foot and start to stroke along the arch. “In anecdotal terms it could be described as the
‘world’s longest first date.’”

Now it’s my turn to sound amused. “Oh shut up. You don’t even know what a date is.”

“Do you mean literally or figuratively? Surely you don’t believe I’ve never heard the word
before.”

“I mean it every possible way,” I say. “It’s like, just – look at you. No offence…”

“None taken.”

“…But you’re not exactly what rom-coms are made of.” I can see your eyes start to narrow again; I
suspect you don’t know what a rom-com is but don’t want to admit it. I give you a rather
triumphant smirk then follow it up with another prod with my foot. “Your entire idea of seduction,”
I say firmly, “is to call someone a mongoose and then try to murder them.”

For a few seconds it seems like I might have finally achieved my ambition of shocking you into
silence because you don’t even attempt to respond. Instead you just lean against the sofa then stare
at me without speaking before abruptly pouncing forwards to wrap your arms around my chest.
Even after all this time the sight of you making any sudden movements instinctively freaks me out,
but it’s not like you to be so exuberant and I immediately start laughing at the sight of it. You smile
back then pretend to swipe at me before burying your face in my hair.

“I adore you,” you say. “But you are enough to drive a person to distraction. You are a little
horror.”

“Says you.”

“Says me.” You nuzzle my hair again then lean back so you can give me a rather sardonic look.
“But with the important caveat that I am not as little as you are.”

I roll my eyes at you (at which point you roll yours right back) then struggle free so I can settle
down again across the cushions and replace my feet on your knee. “Yeah, well, I guess I know
what you mean,” I add. “About a date. It’s a stupid analogy,” (you promptly start smirking again),
“but it makes a certain kind of sense.”

“So it is sensible yet stupid? I suppose I can understand your objections. Date suggests something
overtly romantic and trivial – and far less arduous than our relationship has been. Besides, anyone
can find a lover; it is not especially difficult. I desired something far more…substantial.”

“I know,” I say drily. “You wanted an alternate version of yourself.”

“Is that really what you think?” you reply. You sound genuinely surprised. “Because if so you are
entirely wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Of course you are.” I was being flippant before, but the tone of your voice is now so serious that
it forces me to sober up a bit before glancing round to look at you directly. “Do you want to know
why I acted the way I did?” you add. “It was actually very simple. Selfish, perhaps, but simple.
Because I never wanted a version of myself, Will: I wanted something which in the whole of my
life I’ve never had before.” You wait a few moments, presumably for dramatic effect, then let your
gaze slide slowly across my face, from eyes to lips then back again. “I wanted an equal. Why
would I have chosen you otherwise?”

You don’t add anything else, but then of course you don’t really have to. What you actually mean
is: because otherwise you wouldn’t have survived me for as long as you did. And it might be the
truth, and we might have moved past it, but the raw implications of it still manages to chill me to
my core. My sense of unease must show in my face, because you now take a quick look at me then
lean a little further forward.

“Will,” you say quietly. “Aš tave labai myliu. It’s in the past.”

I know you’re telling me you love me, just like I know that choosing to do it in your native
language rather than English is significant. In the early days when we’d first arrived in Europe you
once explained why, although it was clear the disclosure made you uncomfortable because you’ve
never referred to it again. But apparently the first time you remember using the phrase was to your
sister, and it wasn’t until decades of waiting – patient and pensive – that you finally found
someone else to inspire the same pure sense of devotion.

‘My fantasy has always been that what was done could be undone and one day she’d be restored to
me,’ you’d said. ‘Should the universe contract…should time reverse and teacups come together.’
For a brief time you’d looked genuinely sad, your eyes focussed in the distance somewhere beyond
my shoulder. ‘It’s a reflection of the physicist Stephen Hawking: the broken cup is a metaphor for
turning back time. I called you that myself once, didn’t I. Do you remember? Jack’s fragile little
teacup…’ This time you’d left an even larger pause before you’d finally turned back to look at me,
your face still wearing that grim, haunted expression of the same old ghosts you must have carried
with you for most of your life. ‘Occasionally I do the same: I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor
on purpose. I am not satisfied when it doesn’t gather itself up again, yet of course it’s impossible –
God’s most malevolent deceit.’

‘God can't save any of us,’ I’d replied. ‘It's inelegant. Elegance is more important than suffering.
That's his design.’

‘Then we shall have to save ourselves,’ you’d said. ‘Won’t we?’ You’d smiled then, very soft and
sad, before adding in an even quieter voice: ‘I’ve only had cause to shatter a single cup in the past
few months. Would you like to know what my conclusions were?’ I’d nodded without speaking and
you’d waited a little longer before tracing your finger along my jaw like you were trying to
memorise the contours of my face. ‘My conclusion was that as long as I have you near me then I’d
be content for it to never gather together.’

Amid the previous flash of bleakness my memory of this conversation feels grounding and I let out
a breath I didn’t even realise I was holding. “Yes,” I say slowly. “I guess so.”

“It is not a matter of guessing,” you reply. “It’s in the past. And where we are concerned, the past
is not destined to be prologue.”

“I hope not,” I say, with a rather lop-sided smile. “Besides, I know how the saying goes: when the
past calls you, ignore it. It never has anything new to say.”

“Indeed. Although I understand your discomfort – a persistent caller is always a strain.”

“I know.” Briefly I catch your eye, doing my best to hold the gaze. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to
get too busy living to answer.”

As I watch you start to smile again then reach out to take hold of my hand so you can kiss the back
of it. You do this in a rather theatrical way, and I know it’s on purpose to try to break the tension
and make me laugh.

“Look at you,” you say fondly, without letting go. “You’re so charming when you want to be.”

Seeing how I loathe being called charming (which is basically just a slightly more macho cousin of
‘sweet’ or ‘cute’) I roll my eyes at you then carefully remove my hand. “And look at you,” I say.
“You’re really running with that whole first date idea, aren’t you? Are you going to buy me flowers
as well?”

“I am not.” Your own voice sounds much lighter than before, just like mine does. It’s hard to
imagine you have a threshold for intensity, but it seems that last conversation might just have come
extremely close to breaching it. “Yet for all your mockery I maintain that I absolutely could have
seduced you earlier if I’d wanted to.”

“Yeah, right,” I say smugly. “You keep telling yourself that.”

“I intend to,” you reply (equally smugly), “because it is entirely true. It just so happened that I was
more intrigued with possessing your mind than your body.”

Coming from you I’m aware that this is an enormous compliment – not to mention an apt analogy,
considering that slow throb of temptation undoubtedly was a form of seduction. But I still start
frowning anyway, mostly because any reference to your skill at seducing people is always
guaranteed to annoy me. I even made the mistake of asking you about it once. It was during one of
those ‘So go on then, how many people have you slept with?’ conversations that people often have
with new partners, and which tend to feel profound at the time but are always highly mortifying
when remembered afterwards. The problem – not to put too fine a point on it – was that you ended
up looking like the most enormous Man Slut, because you’d thought about it for a while before
replying with a completely straight face that you couldn’t remember. I mean you really couldn’t.
You couldn’t remember their names, how many were women or men, or how old you were. You
couldn’t even remember which country you were in the time.

‘Are you kidding me?’ I’d said incredulously. ‘How could you forget something like that?’

‘Because it’s not worth the trouble to memorise,’ you’d replied. ‘Why would I?’

‘Yes, but…most people would at least know.’

‘But I am not most people,” you’d said crisply. ‘Besides, it’s nothing so remarkable as to be worth
remembering. It’s hardly impressive to acquire a sexual partner; even the lowest grade of animal
can do it.’

‘Okay, great – that’s so romantic. You should work for Hallmark.’

‘I suppose some people obsessively inventory such things,’ you’d added in the same idle way. ‘No
doubt there are many modern Don Giovannis, all neurotically clutching their catalogue of
conquests. Personally, I’m not remotely concerned unless it was someone significant. You, for
example. If it’s any consolation, I remember our first encounter extremely well.’

I’d been tempted to ask who the other significant people were, but in the end had decided I didn’t
want to know. Thinking about it now I find myself scowling even harder before catching your eye
again and deciding that it’s not really worth the hassle. After all, you’ve always acted like the
Seven Deadly Sins are a daily to-do list; it’s hardly surprising that you’d have Lust thoroughly
covered as well.

“Very sure of yourself aren’t you?” I say irritably. “I think if you’d really believed that you would
have just done it.”

“Oh I undoubtedly could have done it,” you reply. You’ve got that arrogant smile on your face
again now – it’s clear you’re deriving a certain satisfaction at the idea. “You were so ferociously
adorable; the temptation to possess you in your entirety was extreme. But think how it would have
disturbed the balance of things. A few hours in bed, idyllic as they would have undoubtedly been,
were hardly worth the risk of losing your confidence in me. Physical intimacy would have
sacrificed the emotional connection, and it was the latter I desired more than anything else.” You
repeat the smile, this time with a rather sinister little twist. “The opportunity to whisper in your
ear.”

“I don’t know,” I say after a pause. To be honest I’m not enjoying this conversation as much as you
are, mostly because it’s so weird to imagine. “Possibly.”

“No – definitely. It would have depended on the timing of course, but I suspect your sense of
shame and vulnerability would have overwhelmed you. Although admittedly that was rather
tempting in itself: how beautifully broken you would have been.” I make a huffing noise of dissent
and you deliver another slow smile from over the top of your teacup. “There were so many
interesting opportunities Will. For example, you were so thin back then that your clothes barely
fitted you. It was practically an open invitation. It would have been the easiest thing in the world
for me to slide a hand beneath one of those appalling garments without even taking the trouble to
undress you.”

“Jesus, you’ve put way too much thought into this.”

“You would have been so nervous,” you continue rather dreamily. “Desperately uncomfortable but
doing your best to hide it. Then you would have enjoyed yourself immensely, despite trying not to,
and been left sweetly and stunningly humiliated straight afterwards.”

“Ugh, I completely disagree,” I say. I sound a bit pompous, but I can’t really help it because I’ve
got defensive over this alternate version of myself and the idea he would have been blushing and
wilting across your bedroom floor. “That’s not what would have happened at all. I would have been
fine with it. I’d have made some small talk with you then got up, got dressed, and got out.”

“Yes, that last part is certainly true. You would have been very aloof – rather as if you were doing
me a favour.”

“I would have been doing you a favour,” I say. Now I sound almost as smug as you are. “You’re
the one obsessed with seducing me, remember? You should be grateful I’ve given you what you
wanted.”

“Rest assured my appreciation is extreme.”

“Good,” I say. “It should be. Oh, and for the record my ‘garments’ weren’t appalling.” I stretch out
a foot and deliver another prod, time followed up by a sharp little dig with my toes. “Unlike yours.”

“Whatever you say, beloved.”

“They weren’t. They were…practical. Utilitarian. Appropriate.”

“Yes, I agree with you there.” You pause very briefly then run a fastidious eye across my shirt as if
silently commiserating with it for being so awful “They were entirely appropriate clothes with
which to wade through mud in search of corpses.”

I make a spluttering noise, then am about to give you a second prod when you dart out and catch
hold of my foot before I can manage it. “Monkey toes,” you add fondly, giving them a stroke.
“Look how long they are.”

“Shut up, they’re not.”

“They are. You have extended phalange bones: very slender and well-shaped…”

“…and monkey like?”

“Indeed. Such remarkable specimens should not go to waste; I propose we put them to some
practical use. The fruit trees in the garden, for example. I was considering hiring someone for the
harvest, but from now on shall just dispense with that plan and send you up instead.”

I start to laugh then finally haul myself upright so I can climb onto your knee, straddling you rather
clumsily until I’m facing you with my legs on either side of yours. You smile up at me then reach
out to remove my glasses and set them carefully on the arm of the sofa. “Do you want to know
what I think?” I say.

You smile again, using both hands to take hold of my waist. “What do you think?”
“I think I would have seduced you. Only not sincerely – I would have done it to manipulate you
into acting how I wanted.”

“But you achieved that anyway.”

“Then I guess I miscalculated, didn’t I? After all, this would have been a lot quicker. Far more
efficient.”

“Indeed it would. Much more.” Your tone has dropped now: so low and resonant you almost sound
like you’re purring. “What a magnificent creation you are Will Graham. So bold. So audacious. Yet
still so haunted by your own sense of yourself.”

This theme has become so well-worn that it’s hard to resist an urge to roll my eyes at the mention
of it. Instead I smooth your hair off your forehead and give it a gentle tug. “Hardly.”

Needless to say this isn’t enough to stop you – it’s nowhere near enough. Sometime I wonder why I
even bother. “No: certainly,” you reply. “You embody the observation that ‘Behind every exquisite
thing that existed, there was something tragic.’ Yet what a greater tragedy it would have been if
you’d never realised your potential and were doomed to languish and waste away in the custody of
Jack Crawford. That was always my choice wasn’t it? Whether to sacrifice or save you.”

“Then it looks like I overestimated you didn’t I?” Slowly I begin to grind my hips against yours;
partly because I like the way it makes you catch your breath, but mostly because I’m not in the
mood to be analysed and it seems like the easiest way to shut you up. “I acted like you were some
kind of epic adversary when all the time you were just as dumb and gullible as a normal person.”

Your eyes flash slightly at this, yet despite your obvious irritation you still don’t try to contradict
me. I know I’m being a dick to you, only I can’t help getting a charge out of being so rude while
knowing you won’t do anything to retaliate. There’s something rather thrilling about it; a bit like
having a tiger by the tail. Not that it really matters, because by this point the verbal sparring is
nothing more than foreplay. We both know we’re going to end up in bed – or, more likely,
sprawled across the living room floor because we were too impatient to make it as far as the stairs.

“Perhaps I should give Jack a call?” I now add. “What do you think? Let him know he can relax
because it’s so easy to bring you down.” The idea of me taking Jack’s side over yours, even
hypothetically, is always guaranteed to piss you off and I can immediately tell from your
expression how annoyed you are that I’ve said it. “Yeah, we all gave you more credit than you
deserve,” I continue airily. “I shouldn’t have wasted my time trying to reason with you and just
taken you to bed instead.”

Your eyebrows promptly descend across your forehead. “And how would you have contrived to do
that?” you say. Hmm, yes – you’re definitely pissed off. I give you a faint smirk to show I’m onto
you and for a few moments you look like you’re struggling not to roll your eyes. “Perhaps you did
miscalculate,” you finally add. “If you’d known I found you so fascinating you could have used it
to your advantage. You could have exploited my captivation and used it against me. What do you
think Will? Do you think you would have succeeded?”

I take hold of your hair at the back then give it a tug; hard enough to pull, but not enough to hurt.
“Maybe.”

“Yes – maybe.” You repeat the word very slowly, rolling the first part across your tongue like it’s
several syllables longer than it actually is. In the darkness I can see your eyes gleaming at me.
“Maybe you could have stopped me from attacking you and seduced me into making love to you
instead.”
You almost never refer to times you’ve hurt me and despite my best efforts I feel myself flinch. I
can’t help it though, because it’s hard not to be shocked by the fact you’ve actually gone there.
Without fully meaning to I find myself remembering your comments from this afternoon: Loss is
something I have almost no tolerance for at all. To lose someone I love touches something primal
in me. In fact I find it insufferable – and it makes me strike out. I suppose this current mind game is
a version of you doing just that, because pretending I’d betray you to Jack – even as an obvious
joke – seems to have triggered you more than I realised. Not that this is especially surprising. You
can’t handle the idea of me rejecting you; you never have. In the resulting silence you continue to
stare at me, radiating coiled control and with same inscrutable expression on your face, before
leaning forward to brush your lips along my jaw. It’s gentle enough to make me think you regret
what you said and are about to backtrack, but when you speak again it’s obvious you intend to do
the exact opposite and push it even further.

“You felt so fragile at the time.” Your voice has taken on a rumbling smoky quality and you skim
your palms across my ribs as you’re speaking, slowly drifting further downwards until you can dig
your thumbs into the hollow of both hipbones. “Perhaps that’s a strange thing for me to remember,
but I do. It’s a lasting impression: just how frail and slim you were, as if too rough a touch would
cause you to shatter. So vulnerable, Will. You must have felt it too, but you still didn’t beg did
you? Most people would have been pleading and imploring and you just stood your ground and
stared at me with that cool defiance you always wear so well.”

My breath has sped into a kind of pant and you pause for a few more seconds like you’re admiring
the way my ribcage is pulsing. “Of course I could have killed you,” you add softly. “You know
that don’t you? If I’d chosen a different area for the knife to go in. Here, for example: straight into
the heart.” You press two fingers against my chest, very delicate and precise, then cradle my head
with the other hand to prevent me pulling away. “How it races. You still wouldn’t have begged
though, would you? Not even then. You’d have just carried on staring at me, much as you’re doing
right now.”

By this point there’s an uneasy, angry part of me who wants to protest that this is too much – way
too much – and that I don’t want to play this game. Look, you know I was joking about Jack, I
could say. Just chill out can’t you? You always take thing too far. Yet it’s clear you’re laying it out
as a kind of challenge, and while I know you’d stop immediately if I told you to a stubborn streak
of pride prevents me admitting defeat. Instead I rest my head against your neck then let out a half-
laugh at the sheer deranged, fucked-upness of the whole scenario. It’s so typical of you – which of
course means that’s it’s typical of me as well.

“Yes,” is all I say.

“Yes,” you repeat languorously. “Undoubtedly yes.” You pause again to prop your head against
mine then lightly kiss my temple; a display of genuine tenderness which feels like a reward for not
backing down. “All you would have needed to do was fully catch my eye because a single look
from you would have been enough. It would have been so inconvenient for me, wouldn’t it Will?
My compassion choked by your charisma – and you being so cunning and resourceful the entire
time. If only you’d decided to try it. You could have taken the opportunity to overpower me.” You
lean forward again then scrape your teeth very lightly against my throat. “Do you think you would
have been able to do that?”

For a few moments I can feel myself quivering beneath your hands before abandoning all control
and twisting round to search out your mouth for a rough kiss: deep and wet, all tongues, teeth and
hot panting breath, with you cupping the back of my skull to keep my head still and me fisting
rather desperately at your neck and shoulders. “Yes,” I say when I finally pull away. Slowly I ghost
my hands up and down your ribs; I can feel your lungs expanding. “You know I would.”
“Would you? You’re sure that confidence isn’t misplaced?”

“Of course,” I say, with a touch of arrogance to rival even yours.

This makes your face flicker into another smile before you let go entirely and lean back against the
sofa. Then you just gaze at me for a while before reaching up to cradle my face with your palm,
your eyebrows ever-so-slightly raised. The questioning expression is obvious and I understand
without being told that you’re well aware you’ve crossed a line and, while you won’t actually
apologise, that this gesture is your way of checking I’m okay with it and to offer an escape route if
I want one. It often happens like this. You’ll say or do something totally outrageous, then leave
yourself unintentionally vulnerable by handing the power back to me over whether or not I’ll
forgive you for it. It means I end up in the position of giving rather than you actually taking, and
sometimes I will and sometimes I won’t. Except tonight I’m in the mood where I don’t mind
playing along, so give you a faint nod to indicate agreement.

“Go on then,” you say when it’s obvious I’m not intending to walk away. “Show me your best
attempt. I want to see what you look like when you’re on your knees. Only you wouldn’t have had
long to change my mind, so I suggest you put some effort into it. In fact, I’d advise you to work
extremely hard to convince me.”

I smile back at you, beginning to unfasten your belt with one hand while stroking the edge of your
cheek with the other. “Just one thing,” I tell you. “For the record: I want it officially known that I
think you’re demented.”

Your own smile starts to broaden. “Yes, I dare say. But you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so,” I reply. And then, because I can’t help myself (and because it’s not like you don’t
deserve it): “Anyway, I suppose I’d have to do something to distract you until I let Jack out your
cupboard and we come after you with the handcuffs.”

There’s no way you’ll let me get away with that of course, so I decide not to give you a chance and
just drop down to the floor instead (partly because it’ll stop you saying anything, but also because
I’ve realised I can’t quite manage your belt one-handed and don’t want to admit it). Then I take a
second to catch my breath and get my bearings, because the whole scenario is borderline deranged
and it’s hard to process the real-life implications. Could I really have won you over all those years
ago simply by falling to my knees like a penitent to go down on you? It’s almost impossible to
imagine myself doing such a thing; even harder to imagine you not seeing through it straight away
for the clumsy attempt at manipulation it would have undoubtedly been. Knowing you you’d have
let me do it and then still stabbed me anyway just to prove a point. Yeah, you almost definitely
would have done that. Honestly, you’re such a massive asshole…I don’t know why I love you so
much. I lightly nip your leg with my teeth as punishment for being a five-star bastard, then resolve
not to think about it anymore and let out my breath in a long sigh so I can luxuriously slide my lips
along the entire length of your cock. The way it’s hardening against me feels incredible and I lap at
the head with messy open-mouthed kisses before slowly leaning backwards; widening my mouth
as far as possible then wantonly gazing upwards so you can see your cock stretched out along my
tongue. Your catch your breath then mutter a few sharp words in a foreign language before
reaching out to take hold of my chin, gently tilting it further upwards until I’m looking right at you.
It’s intensely intimate and I wait a few seconds before temptation finally overtakes me as I bob my
head to dive back in again, slipping my tongue into the slit of your cock then doing my best to
swallow the entire length. Oh God, you’re really fucking into my mouth now. I can feel you
slamming against the back of my throat, so thick and hard it’s almost too much to take. I can just
about cope with it, although still make sure I exaggerate the noises I’m making because (not to put
too fine a point on it) the sight of me choking on your cock is always guaranteed to drive you a bit
wild.

You now gasp even louder, exactly as predicted, and the sound makes me get even harder myself,
barely aware anymore of how I’m starting to gag for real as my mouth gets stretched and filled to
the limit. My whole spine’s arching with the motion of it as I ease myself forward, taking you inch
by inch until my nose is almost pressed against your stomach. The competing sensations are close
to overwhelming: the way you taste, the ache in my jaw, how wet and slick my mouth feels, or the
sounds you’re making above me. In fact it’s your reaction that’s consuming me more than
anything, because you’re so rigidly controlled for most of the time that watching it unravel never
fails to be addictive. Admittedly I’m so feverishly turned on I’m contributing more enthusiasm
than technique by this point, although it’s safe to say you probably don’t mind.

“Good boy,” you say, as if you’re reading my mind. “You look beautiful doing that.” You sound
enraptured; it’s a bit weird. Would you have responded in the same ecstatic way if this had
happened several years ago? You’re so unpredictable it’s hard to know for sure. I’ve never been
able to read you the way I can other people…it seems equally plausible that you’d have been
coolly contemptuous the entire time, quietly despising me for trying to indulge your baser instincts.

“You know how to use your mouth don’t you?” you add. I swirl my tongue in agreement and you
sigh appreciatively then tangle your fingers into my hair, gently but firmly pushing my head further
down. “Asides from being provoking with it, of course. Because you are provoking, Will –
incredibly so. It makes me feel you might need acquainting with some of the penalties for
rudeness. A little punishment to show you the error of your ways…do you think you’d like that?”
As you’re speaking you rub your thumb against my jaw so you can feel the way it’s sliding round
your cock and I give a loud (embarrassing) moan then move my head even faster. “Is that a yes?”
you say, your voice practically a purr. “It certainly sounds like a yes.”

This time I just quiver rather uselessly before pulling away to nuzzle my forehead against your
abdomen and draw a few ragged breaths. My eyes are watering slightly and my lips feel swollen
from the friction; I dart my tongue out to lick the smears of pre-come and saliva off them. It’s
crazy, really – we’ve done this so often, yet even now the frisson and chemistry are still as intense
as they’ve always been. I find that it can often hit me like this: just an overwhelming sense of
urgent, craving desire. At some point I seem to have started clinging onto your thigh and above me
I hear you sigh again then tenderly tuck some loose strands of hair behind my ear as you stroke my
cheek with your other hand.

“Will,” you say softly. “Mylimasis. Beloved.”

I mutter something nonsensical in response, deliberately letting my legs fall wider apart so you can
see how hard I am and know that I’m enjoying it as much as you are. Then I manage to pull myself
together enough to let go of you and attempt to shift downwards again, because by now the only
thing I really care about is feeling you come straight down my throat. It’s clear you have other
ideas though, as when I try to lower my head you catch hold of my chin to stop me. I make an
irritated noise but you just carry on holding my face, tilting my head up and forcing me to look
straight at you until I realise that you’ve started slowly jerking yourself off with your other hand.
It’s incredibly sensual and the sight of it turns me on so much I lose control completely: chanting
‘Oh fuck, oh yes’ until I hear you groan and feel the thick, hot ropes of come start to spatter against
my skin. I’ve opened my mouth as wide as I can but you deliberately get most of it on my face
instead, taking care to avoid my eyes because you know I hate the way it stings.

“Oh God,” I say. “That was…fuck.”

In the resulting silence I hear myself panting as I slump back against your leg, blindly fumbling
upwards at the same time to try to take hold of your hand. Only nothing happens, and I’m about to
ask you what’s wrong when you make a growling noise – a sort of rich vibration, deep in your
throat – then roughly hoist me up onto your knee. You’re always able to lift me like I don’t weigh
anything and despite being used to it the display of raw strength still feels vaguely unsettling. You
pull me backwards until my head is tipped across your shoulder then jam a hand down my shirt as I
let out a breathy moan – quickly followed by an even louder one when you start unfastening my
jeans with the other.

“Mylimasis,” you murmur. Your voice is so low and intense; it feels like your teeth are scraping
against every bit of skin you can reach. “Mano mieloji. Who do you belong to? Say it.”

“You.”

“Again.”

“You. I belong to you.” Deep down I think we both know this isn’t entirely true – at least not in the
way you’d like it to be – but in the moment it still feels like it’s true enough to deserve repeating.

“For how long?”

“Forever. For always.”

“Correct.” You pause for a few moments, inhaling deeply as you drag your nose from my jaw
down to my throat. “That’s better Will. You’ve been incredibly rude – are you going to behave
yourself now?

Internally I feel myself smirk. I knew you hadn’t forgiven me for the Jack comments; no doubt
you’ve been sulking about it the entire goddamn time. I refuse to answer and you make an amused
noise then kiss the side of my jaw.

“You’re a rebellious boy,” you say. “But I know you can do what you’re told when you think it’s
worth your while.”

As you’re speaking your thumb is rubbing lazy circles round the top of my thigh, the touch so slow
and tormenting that I’m soon making small whines of frustration. You completely ignore me,
letting me writhe around instead before tugging my head back by the hair as you drag a finger
across my face to collect the stray beads of come.

“Open your mouth,” you say. I do it immediately, letting out another moan as you slide your finger
in so I can lick it clean. “That’s it,” you say approvingly. “I knew you could obey if you put your
mind to it. You’re going to orgasm for me soon, aren’t you? All over yourself like a needy little
teenager. Or…perhaps not. Perhaps I won’t let you. It may be that some punishment is in order
first.” Slowly you glide your palm back down my chest, deliberately drawing to a halt just above
the abdomen. “Maybe I should put you over my knee instead? A reprimand for your appalling
rudeness.”

The whole time I’ve been nudging the side of your face with my forehead but I now pull back a bit
and let out an indignant hissing noise instead. “Ugh,” I say. My voice is hoarse from all the panting
so I clear my throat then give it another try. “Don’t even think about it. You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” you reply in an overly innocent way. “Oh yes, I’m sure you’re right Will: I’m sure I
wouldn’t really dare. Although admittedly it might defeat the purpose because you’d probably
enjoy it too much. I think you secretly yearn to be disciplined. After all, you’ve been pining for a
father figure for most of your adult life.”
“Jesus. I have not.”

“Of course you have,” you say airily. “You are the proverbial Lost Boy. Why else would you have
grown so reliant on myself and your Uncle Jack?”

In the darkness I feel myself starting to blush. There’s no way I’d ever admit it, but deep down I
know there’s just enough truth to this last part for it to feel vaguely humiliating – which I suppose
was the whole point of saying it at all. It’ll be the extent of your revenge though, as the playful
tone is clearly your way of showing that while you were offended by what I said about Jack you’re
not genuinely angered by it. Anyway, it appears I’m forgiven (at least for now) because you finally
relent enough to give me a rough kiss before holding your hand in front of my face and telling me
to spit into it so you can reach down to jerk me off in a series of quick, tight strokes. I make a
helpless moaning noise, which quickly turns into a wail as you force my head to the side so you
can press your mouth against my throat and suck a deep bruise against the skin.

“Oh that’s good,” I say. I sound a bit shocked. “Oh fuck.”

“That’s better,” you reply softly. “You’re so aloof, but even you can’t maintain it indefinitely. Your
body always gives you away.”

There’s a possessive twist to your voice when you say this, almost like you think my body is on
your side and secretly plots with you behind my back. Even so, I know you won’t be totally
satisfied with what’s happening. You might be taking the lead but you’ll still resent it, because as
far as you’re concerned there’s only one ‘right’ way for me to come – which is round your cock
when you’re fucking me. But your possessiveness is your own problem, not mine, so instead I
screw my eyes tightly closed then press my lips against your face: murmuring about how good it
feels and how much I like it, until it seems only seconds have passed and I’m giving a desperate
choked-off gasp as I come so hard across both of us I nearly black out. It’s hot and messy and you
kiss me through it before I finally groan again then struggle free of your arms so I can flop across
the sofa in a boneless heap.

“God,” I say. I let out a loud sigh and fling my arm across my face. “That was…fucking hell.” I
wait a few seconds then slowly lower my arm so I can peer at you over the top of it: as predicted
you’re looking extremely smug. “Yeah, nice try,” I add, “but I’m taking credit for that one.”

“As you wish,” you reply, looking smugger than ever.

I roll over to prop myself upright on one elbow; you gaze back serenely and I smile a bit more then
lean across to run my finger along your cheekbone. “Well, maybe most of the credit,” I say.
“Maybe 90%.”

“So much? I suppose I ought to haggle, but I don’t really have the energy – I shall accept my 10%
with reasonably good grace.”

“Okay, 15% then. That’s as good as you’re getting.”

“A full 5% raise?” you reply, pretending to sound impressed. “You are a true philanthropist.”

I laugh again, slowly moving my finger downwards so I can stroke your jaw instead. There’s a
light covering of stubble, which is unusual; normally you’re so meticulous about shaving.
“Seriously though,” I say after a pause. “You’re okay?”

“Of course I am. I’ve just gained 5%.”

“Yeah, but all those things I said,” I add cautiously. “The insults. You know I didn’t really mean
it?”

You look like you’re basking beneath the stroking but as soon as I say this you open your eyes and
stare at me rather sardonically. “Yes you did,” you say. “More to the point, you weren’t entirely
wrong. I have few sources of weakness, it’s true, but it seems that you’re one of the more pervasive
ones.”

While this has been true for some time it’s only recently that you’ve been so candid in admitting it
and I can’t help feeling touched. “Thank you,” I say. Admittedly gratitude probably isn’t quite the
right thing to express, but I know you’ll still realise what I mean. “Listen,” I add gently. “I want
you to understand something. I won’t ever apologise for ‘betraying’ you to Jack.” The sound of air
quotes is obvious but there’s no way you’ll acknowledge them: to you the betrayal was genuine,
and as far as you’re concerned a near-fatal stabbing and me refusing to run away with you are
completely fair equivalents. “But all that’s in the past. You know I’d never leave you now.”

You dip your head in acknowledgement then lie very still for a few moments as you stroke your
eyes across my face. “You’re so passionate,” you finally reply. You sound unusually pensive; it’s
almost as if you’re thinking out loud. “That’s good Will, because we’re going to need it. Passion is
like fire: it’s a force to meld and liquefy. It solders two things together. Then afterwards they cool
and set, and as they solidify it becomes harder and harder to prise them apart. Day after day, one
night after another. Until they gradually become inseparable: fused together as one.”

Your pillow talk is always absurdly intense and depending on my mood I’ll either find myself
laughing or feeling overwhelmed by it. This is undoubtedly one of the latter times and so I don’t
even attempt a proper response. Instead I just lean over then press my lips against your forehead.

“Ditto,” is all I say.

“Ditto?”

“It means…” I pause then start to smile. “It means ‘good point, I agree.’ Touché.”

“Touché,” you reply. “Indeed.”

I’m still smiling but once more find myself falling silent again almost straight away. Then instead
of snapping out of it I just stay like that: gazing at the ceiling for what feels like hours with my
eyes fixed aimlessly on nothing. I still do this quite often and it’s a bad habit I’ve never been able
to fully break – the inevitable backlash that almost always follows a period of good mood. I
suppose I’m just not used to being happy, because it’s like I’m haunted by the sense that too much
contentment is dangerous: a kind of hex that will tempt fate too far and inevitably lead to
misfortune. And yes, it’s stupid and superstitious, but somehow this time it really feels like the
pessimism is justified.

“What’s the matter?” you ask. Your tone is one you don’t often use, very gentle and subdued. It’s
obvious you can tell something’s wrong.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say quietly. “And I think there’s trouble ahead, Hannibal. I’m sure there is.
I’ve just…I’ve got a really bad feeling about it.”

I’m half-expecting you to tell me to calm down or to stop being so paranoid, but you don’t. “Like
what, exactly?” you say.

Wearily I start to catalogue the various sources of disaster in my head before sighing out loud at the
sheer extent of the task. Oh God, there’s just so many of them: I don’t even know where to start.
Matteo’s cryptic comments, the ever-looming threat of Jack…even our own relationship and how
I’m still not sure where we’re going to end up. But it all seems too much to unburden out loud and
I’m not even sure that I know how to try.

For a while you don’t reply either and just stoke your palm along my back, very slow and rhythmic
like you’re smoothing out fabric. “Will,” you say finally. “Are you listening?”

“Yes.” My voice is muffled from where it’s pressed against your shoulder; I relocate it then have
another go. “What?”

“I know you feel apprehensive,” you say. “And I know my own responses don’t always help with
that. But whatever may happen in the future, I promise you that your resources are more than equal
to dealing with it. You have excessive reserves of resilience. You have intelligence, you have
tenacity, and more to the point – you have me.”

“Yes, but…” I take a deep breath then let it all out in a rush. “Not-if-something-happens-to-you.”

“What did I tell you before?” you reply in the same soft voice. “Mylimasis. Have you forgotten
already? I said that I won’t allow anyone to separate us.” I make a sceptical sound and you pull me
a bit closer then press your lips against the top of my head. “Be calm,” you say. “I understand you
believe a crisis to be brewing, but consider – what is there left to face that we haven’t already
overcome?”

“That’s not the point,” I say. My voice sounds rather tragic; I frown a bit then clear my throat to try
and convince it to lower in pitch and resemble something more masculine than anxious bleating.
“It’s not always the big dramatic things. Sometimes it’s things no one would ever expect.” I frown
a bit more, trying to think of a suitable example. What is a good example? Fucked if I know.
“Remember how they brought down Al Capone for tax evasion?” I say eventually.

This makes you laugh before burying your face in my hair. “Ever the investigator,” you reply.
“Jack would be proud of you. I guarantee my tax returns are impeccable.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I say crossly. “You know it isn’t.”

“Indeed.”

“Idiot.”

“Brat.”

“Oh come on, I’m serious.”

“So am I, I promise you. Deadly serious: serious about protecting myself and protecting you by
extension. Besides, where you and I are concerned things have a habit of turning to our advantage.”
For a few moments you fall quiet and I can feel a soft ruffling motion of your breath against my
face. “Do you want to know something interesting?” you say eventually.

“What?”

“About your predictions of disaster.” This time your voice has taken on a slightly smouldering
tone: a shadowy energy which I recognise from long experience as a sign of anticipation. “When
the Chinese write the word ‘crisis’ the hànzì has two brushstrokes in it. The first one signifies
danger; but the second – the second one means opportunity.” You pull me even closer, inhaling
deeply as if breathing me in, and when you speak again the anticipation in your voice has
mellowed into outright relish. “So if your premonition does come true then we shall have to do
what we’ve always done. To be mindful of the threat – and then exploit the opportunity.”
 Chapter 6

The next morning, I wake up early. The house is so still and quiet it’s like it’s holding its breath
and I watch the dust motes dancing in front of me, drawing in my own lungful of air as I revel in
the total stillness and solitude. It’s so incredibly peaceful. I suppose I should be used to this by
now, yet somehow I’m not and the sense of safety still feels unfamiliar, a bit like wearing someone
else’s clothes. No shouting or sirens, no calls to judgement I’m not ready for, no questions I can’t
answer…just me with my own thoughts in the empty air and the sound of silence.

We didn’t bother drawing the curtains last night, which means the first stirrings of dawn are
growing very visible as they glide across the sky. The sight of it is striking and I lie still a little
longer so I can watch it as an audience of one: glints of stars on the horizon as the sun creeps in
from the east to stain the clouds with purple streaks and splashes of crimson the same colour as
blood. Morning has broken, I think hazily, because it really does look like someone’s tried to break
it – as if it’s bruised and bleeding, yet stunningly defiant regardless. In fact the sunlight also seems
to be chasing away my own shadows from the night before, because I’m aware of how their former
intensity already feels foggy and almost dreamlike. I often have this sense around you; I’ve
probably had it ever since that night in the alleyway when you first came back. Sometimes I think
I’m in shock but I’m not really sure…it seems like the type of thing someone else would be aware
of before I was myself. That’s the main point of shock after all: a little mental insulation from a
world that’s capricious and casual in its cruelty. Even so, I still spend a few moments trying to
recapture what’s been happening and deciding how I feel about it (and failing at both) before
finally rolling onto my side to see if you’re awake too. It turns out you aren’t, so I tilt my head until
it’s resting on my arm to enjoy the novelty of simply being able to watch you. The tints of the
sunrise spill dramatically across your face like your own personal spotlight and I’m aware of a
weird feeling of resentment: the sense that you’re currently somewhere I can’t follow you.

As I watch you frown very faintly as if your dreams are troubling you, so I gently breathe across
your face while deciding that you don’t look vulnerable in the way most people would. Even your
stillness telegraphs something imposing; as if waking you would bring severe consequences, like a
slumbering giant in a folktale. If you actually are asleep…I never know with you. Your normal
breathing pattern is shallow enough to be deceptive so it’s entirely possible that you’re just lying
there plotting with your eyes closed…in which case you almost certainly know I’m gazing at you
and are internally smirking about it. I now shift a little so I can see you more clearly, unobscured
by the corner of the pillow, while moving as quietly as possible so as not to rouse you; either from
sleep, or into suspicion of what I’m up to. I can feel your breath on my face now, how warm it is in
the morning air. The rising and fall of your chest is so slight (are you really asleep?).

I never realised how sad and pale my life was until I saw yours, I think, although I don’t say it
aloud. I didn’t realise I was barely breathing. I’d quite like to kiss you awake – just the briefest
press of lips against your forehead – but I also don’t want to disturb you, so ultimately decide to
leave you alone and tiptoe silently out the bed and into the hallway instead. I need a shower but
would rather wait to have one with you, so in the end just brew a coffee then ferry it upstairs where
I can listen to the news without making too much noise. The room there is a renovated attic – very
light and airy with sage green walls and a stucco ceiling – and technically counts as ‘my’ bedroom
due to an early understanding that if we were going to live together without driving each other
homicidal then I’d need some private space to call my own. I was expecting you to sulk about it,
but you’ve turned out to be surprisingly respectful and even make a point of not going in without
permission (or at least you pretend to…I guess it’s inevitable you start poking about in it on the
rare occasions we’re not in the house together). The original plan was for me to have it as a kind of
base to sleep in a few nights a week while spending the rest of the time with you in the main
bedroom. Only its’s never worked out that way, and by now the bed is covered in discarded books
and clothes while the room itself has been transformed into a glorified man cave which, depending
on my mood, I’ll either use as a study, a makeshift den, or just as storage to dump the overspill of
belongings that won’t fit in anywhere else. I still like it though. The French windows have a breath-
taking view of the city and it always feels secluded and peaceful, as well as being comfortably
messy in a way that the rest of the house never is. In fact if I’m honest its clutter is also part of its
appeal. Your personality is so consuming that it’s managed to stamp itself on each piece of décor
and design choice in every room but this one, and I like the sense of holding onto something that’s
completely immune to your influence.

I now take a sip of coffee then begin to fiddle absent-mindedly with the radio, which is very old
and clunky and resembles something from a 1950s sitcom. It’s the type of radio a man with a
bowler hat and a newspaper would listen to before strolling past his picket fence, but that was
mainly why I wanted it at all because of how it fit with the room’s central feature: namely the
numerous scraps of American paraphernalia which I’ve bought over the months to ward off bouts
of homesickness. The radio itself is kind of neat, but admittedly the rest is of a tasteless, kitsch
variety that’s been scavenged from tourist shops and flea markets. It’s a synthetic, stereotyped
view of what America is: Route 69 badges, Stars and Stripes buttons, even a tiny Mount Rushmore
clumsily modelled from plaster of Paris, all jumbled together without any particular care owing to
the way the items weren’t chosen out of love of themselves but rather for the patchwork nostalgia
of what they represent. I’ve made sure none of these little junky tokens are on prominent display,
but I know you’ve detected them anyway because of how your eyes inevitably drift in their
direction whenever you’re in the room. With someone else I’d claim I’d bought them ironically,
but there’s no point trying that with you because you understand me well enough to know it’s not
true. Sometimes I wonder what you think when you see them, yet it’s impossible to ask because ‘I
want to go home’ is something I can’t ever say to you – and even if I did, you’d wilfully
misunderstand. As far as you’re concerned my home is wherever you are, so a yearning for
America while you’re in Europe is beyond your ability to empathise with. In this respect home is
no longer a place, but more like a moment in time: a separate snatch of existence with a different
version of myself who lives in it. The past is a foreign country, I think forlornly. They do things
differently there.

I now sigh a bit then turn round to retrieve my cup before jumping so sharply I almost drop it when
I catch sight of a long silhouette in the doorway. You’ll often do this: just stand and watch without
me even realising you’re there. It’s annoying – and to be honest, borderline creepy – but I’ve never
been able to make you stop.

You take a few steps forward then give a faint smile at the awareness of getting caught in the act.
“How are you feeling today?” you ask.

I clear my throat, partly annoyed and partly embarrassed, then mutter something about being “fine”
from over the top of the cup. This is a fairly automatic response by now. In fact it’s so automatic it
borders on meaningless because I’ll tend to just blurt it out without thinking, regardless of whether
or not it’s true. Possibly I could print it on a shirt….possibly have an entire uniform made,
including buttons and a baseball cap, just to emphasise how extremely fucking fine everything is.

You stare at me for a few seconds; God knows if you’re actually buying it. “Good,” is all you say.
I smile rather vaguely and you stare a bit longer then abruptly nod towards the bookshelf and add:
“That’s new.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and I know without looking exactly what you’re referring to: a
small china dish hand-painted with trees and a splash of stretching blue sky. It’s also very ugly and
is clearly something I didn’t buy for its artistic merit (something which nobody would buy), but
rather because it reminded me of the woods by my old house and in a land of starched fields and
sweltering sun was a tangible grasp at home. Sometimes I wish you weren’t so observant. It’s
hardly your fault, but it’s a trait I dislike because of how hard it can become to keep anything back
for myself.

I now take a quick glance to see if you’re still looking (you are). “Hmmm,” I say, deliberately
vague like I’d forgotten it was there. “Yeah it is. Sort of.” There’s a pause: you’re obviously
waiting to hear where I got it from. Also, no doubt, why I felt compelled to buy such an obvious
piece of shit, despite the fact you must surely already know.

“So, um, do you want a shower?” I add instead to distract you. “I was waiting until you got up.”

You make a humming noise then prowl straight past me to the bookcase to inspect the dish.
Internally I can feel myself cringe. “Interesting painting technique,” you say. There’s an obvious
hint of sarcasm; it’s like you’re trying not to but just can’t help yourself. “I wouldn’t have thought
it was your taste at all.”

This time I just shrug then follow it up with a silent sip of coffee. I don’t really know what to say
and for a few seconds it seems like an expression of genuine sadness flickers across your face, as if
you’re disappointed that I won’t confide in you. Then the moment’s passed so fast it feels like I
must have imagined it as you replace the dish on the shelf and turn round again like nothing’s
happened.

“A shower is an excellent suggestion,” you say. “Not least because I have some new hair tonic I
want to try.”

You give me a quick glance as you say this and I promptly start to smirk because I know it’s coded
acknowledgement of how I’ve managed to turn washing your hair into my own exclusive job. I’m
not even sure how the hell it happened, only that I really like doing it – despite the fact I’ll never
let you wash mine (mainly on the grounds that taking turns to clean each other feels like some sort
of weird allogrooming ritual…a bit like a pair of chimpanzees). It’s pretty ironic though, because of
the two of us I’m definitely the one more in need of help. My own hair is shit: far more demanding
than yours is, and requiring infinitely greater attention and maintenance before it can remotely be
convinced to behave itself. At the thought of this I reflexively run my hands through it and frown.

You watch me with obvious amusement. “Yes, it’s getting quite long.”

“I know,” I say. I sound a bit tragic. “It seems like no time since I last had it cut. It just….it just
grows.”

“Indeed it does,” you reply, completely straight-faced. “It’s hair. Its options for activity are
somewhat limited.”

Right on cue a few strands of it tumble into my eyes: I frown even harder then twist my mouth up
to blow it away. The bastard stuff…it’s like it’s self-aware. “I should just shave it off,” I announce.
I say this rather spitefully, almost as if I think it’s listening. “Especially now the weather’s so hot.”

“You should not,” you say firmly. “I like your hair.”

I now avert the frown in your direction and the movement causes my hair to sway perilously close
to my eyes again. Go on you bastard, I tell it silently. I fucking dare you. A few strands tumble
gleefully forward and I give it a bad-tempered swipe then turn round to face you again. “You like
playing with it,” I say.
Of course there’s no way you’ll ever admit to something so un-intellectual as playing with
someone else’s hair, so just stand there staring at me with a quizzical expression on your face like
I’m being deliberately dumb. It’s still true though, because you do: you stroke it and pat it, and if
you come across a particularly springy piece then you’ll stop what you’re doing and wind it round
your finger. Unfortunately what all this playing also means is that my hair will probably stay how
it is, because while it’s not like you can physically stop me cutting it I’m not sure I could tolerate
your look of disappointment when you saw it had gone. Perhaps I could just do it a little shorter
each time and wean you off it slowly?

You take another step forward. “Are you listening?” you say. “I don’t think you should shave it
off.”

You’re repeating yourself now because you think I’m not paying attention; you think I’m being
vague. That isn’t the reason though, at least not entirely. What’s actually happened is that the
conversation has managed to trigger a memory from a few months ago – one of our first really
serious arguments – and while I’d prefer to ignore it the thought has begun tugging at my
consciousness like tiny claws, urging me to notice and pay attention. It happened shortly after we
first moved in and were both still in the long, limping tussle of adapting our living space to
accommodate someone else; a particularly difficult task for two fundamental loners who were
simultaneously yet uncomfortably fixated with the other person. We’d been getting on each other’s
nerves all evening so the atmosphere was already strained, and I remember pausing from whatever
I was doing and wondering out loud if I’d ever get a tattoo. It wasn’t even a statement of intent –
just a random idea prompted by a book I’d been reading – but it made you flinch. You actually did;
I saw you. Then there was a tense silence before you stood up and prowled right up behind me so
you could wrap your arms around my chest. It felt constraining rather than affectionate but when I
tried to pull away you wouldn’t let me. Instead you’d just tightened your grip then run your palm
from my shoulder to waist and back up again, very slow and precise in a way that was
unmistakably possessive. All this belongs to me, you’d replied. And I absolutely will not let you
alter it without permission.

As soon as I heard you say that I’d caught my breath. It was one of those rare times of being
literally speechless and I remember the way my pulse had started throbbing in my ears before I’d
snapped back to life again and gone completely ballistic. I was so shocked and angry – and,
underneath it all, faintly disturbed – that I could barely get the words out. Have you lost your
mind? I’d yelled. Don’t ever say that to me again. Don’t even think it.

But I do think it, you’d replied. I think it all the time. You weren’t remotely ashamed or contrite but
even you must have realised you’d gone too far because you’ve never mentioned it since.
Nevertheless, the memory is an unsettling one. How could I have forgotten it? I suppose I must
have done it on purpose – just one of countless examples of how carefully I curate my mind to
stitch together a version of you that I want to exist rather than the reality of what’s actually there. I
bury such thoughts every single day, one after the other, without ever really acknowledging the
way half of them wind up buried alive. Because of course it begs the inevitable question of what
would you do if I shaved my head? Your ‘property’ – altered without permission? It bothers me
how uncomfortable I feel with the idea of finding out.

I must have got a vacant look on my face (you once described it as ‘the shutters coming down’)
because you now walk over and give my hair an affectionate ruffle. “Shave it if you want to,” you
say. “I confess I prefer it like this, but your features are so good you could easily tolerate
something harsher.”

Once again I’m struck an eerie sense of you being able to read my mind – a realisation that’s
quickly followed by annoyance at how your instinct is to frame the problem in terms of your own
preferences rather than mine. After all, the implication is that if you didn’t think I’d still look okay
you’d be far less happy about it. Ideally you’d be saying: ‘Yes, by all means hack it off. It’ll look
like complete shit, but it’s your hair: I shall simply have to offend my eyes with the sight of your
hideous naked scalp.’ In fact I’m so preoccupied with this new source of grievance that it actually
takes me a few moments to realise the way your palm is still continuing to curl round the back of
my skull. I pull an irritated face at you then attempt to pull myself free.

“Stop it,” I say.

“What?”

“That. You’re touching my head again: you do it all the time.”

“Do I?” you reply, very placid and patient. “I wasn’t fully aware. Interesting...” You say this as if it
actually is: honestly, it sometimes feels like there’s no limit to the weird crap you’ll decide to take
an interest in. I stare at you accusingly, still waiting for an explanation, and you catch my eye then
give an elegant little shrug. “It’s because it houses your mind, I suppose. Such a beautifully
intricate mind Will – how fiercely and brightly it burns. Your empathy is based in there: your
imagination too. And they’re both so artistic in their own way.”

“Oh shut up,” I say. “They’re not.” I’m smiling while I say it though. Your compliments are
always so absurd it’s hard not to smile at them. They’re also carefully timed, and I’ve noticed
you’ll often do it on purpose to rouse me out of whatever bad mood I’ve managed to stumble into.

“But they are.” You smile a bit yourself then slowly trace your finger across my forehead. “After
all, why shouldn’t they be? There so are many different modes for art. Painting, poetry, sculpture,
food…so many ways to assume the perspective of an artist. Or even, one might say, to consume it.”
Your faint smile grows fractionally broader and I have to resist an urge to groan out loud.
“Consume: yes, I suppose one might say that. But as it is, I suspect that you are destined to be my
greatest possible masterpiece. Your empathy for example: I like it very much. Of course, it is often
the case that one is drawn to a partner possessing traits which are disowned in oneself. As the
saying goes ‘love is a glass which makes even a monster appear fascinating’. I generally lack
empathy myself, yet I find myself wanting to remedy that in order to understand you better.”

“Do you?” I ask sceptically. Briefly I fall silent as I try to imagine it: my own maladjusted excess
of humanity – empathetic and imaginative to a disturbingly dysfunctional degree – and how it often
seems submerged by your inscrutable ability to both conceal and showcase your own moral
vacuum.

“I do,” you say. “My failures to empathise obstruct my relationship with you. Therefore I attempt to
improve my capacity.”

Your tone is very solemn and I can’t help feeling touched by how earnest you seem, despite the
fact (as is typical with you) that it’s impossible to tell whether you really mean it. But at least
you’re trying to sound sincere and the obvious attempt to make peace creates a sharp pang of
shame at my own previous bad temper. In fact you seem to have borne the brunt of my various
moods since the first day we met, yet even now you never show any signs of growing tired of it.

I reach out myself then give you an affectionate squeeze on the wrist. “Well I’m onto you now,” I
say lightly. “I’ll be looking out for it.”

“As you should.”

“I might start grading your attempts.”

“Yes, why not?” you say with amusement. “It’s your area of expertise after all.”

The image of you as a student – any kind of student – is inherently ridiculous and I feel my lips
start to twitch at the thought of it. You smile back at me and suddenly it feels easy to pretend that
everything’s relaxed and happy again as you take hold of my hand and tug me towards the
bathroom (me laughing and protesting the entire time, and you refusing to let go while looking like
you’re trying not to laugh yourself). Once there we pile into the shower and you obediently stand
very still with your neck bent so I can wash your hair with the tonic you’ve bought (which, no
matter what you say, is clearly just glorified shampoo). It smells deliciously of cedar and bergamot
and I massage it into your scalp while delivering a stern lecture about wasting money on over-
priced goo, followed with another equally stern sermon on needing a haircut yourself. You nod and
smile, silently absorbing the criticism, and I can’t help smiling too because your patience always
has an inherent charm to it. It’s as I can be as demanding as I like with you and you’ll almost never
push back. Partly I think it’s because you enjoy the novelty of someone who not only isn’t afraid of
you but refuses to constantly kiss your ass; although from the few times you’ve mentioned it, I get
the impression you also just find my bluntness rather engaging (either that, or you have selective
tolerance for me being a rude little shit). Even so it’s a lethal form of distinction, because I don’t
know anyone who could get away with saying even half the things to you that I can.

When I’m done I wrap my arms around your chest then prop my cheek between your shoulder
blades and close my eyes. It’s so warm and humid it’s tempting to just doze off, but it’s clear
you’ve got other ideas from the way you spin me round almost straight away then take hold of my
waist. Luckily, I have enough experience by now to spot this as a warning sign that you’re about to
pick me up, so quickly twist out of reach before I end up in a bridal lift or something equally
horrific. To be honest your enthusiasm for carrying me is only matched by my annoyance
whenever it happens, but we finally manage to reach a kind of comprise where I’m facing you with
my legs hooked round your back and can preserve a few shreds of dignity while you take me
through to the bedroom (at which point romanticism abruptly terminates, because no matter how
tenderly you carry me you’ll always wind up dropping me on the bed like I’m a ton of bricks). On
this occasion I hit the mattress with enough force to bounce up and down a few times and you
smirk a bit then stretch yourself out next to me so you can gaze straight into my eyes in a soulful
way that never fails to be endearing. We can often be very rough with each other during sex in a
way that mirrors temperature extremes: from cold (you – coolly dominant and controlling) to hot
(me – fiery with emotion, very volatile and scrappy). But then there are also languid, luxurious
times like this when neither of us want to be drama queens and it’s simply a process of touching
and loving and being together. Right on cue you now raise your eyebrows, which is your way of
saying ‘What do you want to do?’ and I consider for a few seconds before letting myself go very
limp and boneless, which is my way of replying ‘I can’t really be bothered – you sort it out.’

Fortunately you’re not as lazy as I am, which means I get to loll about on the bed while you
retrieve the lube and get things ready and I just lie there with my eyes closed and order you about.
The blasé act is essentially just that though – an act. The shower was little more than extended
foreplay and I’m already so turned on my stomach is glistening from where I’ve started to leak pre-
come all over myself. It’s obvious how desperate I am; I don’t know why I sometimes find it so
difficult to just admit it.

“Look at you,” you say fondly. I arch my back a bit, followed with a small moaning noise as you
lick away a few stray drops of water from my throat. You smile at the sound of it then kiss my
hipbone before taking hold of my hand to squeeze some lube into it. “Get yourself ready for me,”
you add. “And take your time, please – do it slowly. I want to watch you.”

Until recently I was far too self-conscious for this and would’ve said no (or, more specifically, No
way, are you kidding me…do it your goddamn self). Not anymore though. Now I can lie in front of
you while you hold my legs apart and finger myself ecstatically without giving a single solitary shit
over how it might look. To be fair it probably looks okay judging from the rapt expression on your
face whenever it happens, but as much as it makes me happy to make you happy, right now I’ve
decided I’m in the mood for something different. So instead I tug you down next to me on the bed,
then make you lie close enough for me to curl my palm around our cocks until they’re tightly
pressed together and I can jerk us both off at the same time. We’ll do this fairly often in these softer
moments and it’s always so intimate whenever it happens: gazing into each other’s eyes, your legs
curled tightly round mine, our hips always seeming to slot together like they were made to fit. I
give a gasping noise at the thought of it then tilt my head forward to kiss you – licking into your
mouth, trying to swallow the sounds you’re making – before curling my free hand round the back
of your neck as we rock our bodies against each other. Your skin feels so hot and damp pressed
beside mine. There’s sweat beading at my hairline and the hollow of my throat and so you swipe it
away with your tongue, building up momentum the entire time as an invitation for my body to
move along with yours. The soft panting sounds I’m making seem surprisingly loud in the silent
room, but they’re building with every slide of your tongue, each scrape of your teeth and, most of
all, from the hard thick length of your cock as it thrusts against mine over and over again. As I
speed up the pace you gasp yourself then drag your mouth down my sweat-damp neck, cradling my
head while I bury my face in your shoulder and murmur your name into your skin. We’ve built up
such a perfect rhythm by now: tangled up, locked tight together, making sure we never stop
moving until I finally tense then give a sharp cry, tipping my head back as the thrusts go wild and
messy and I feel a hot wetness spreading over my cock that isn’t just my own.

When it’s finally over I reach up to cup your cheek with my clean hand as you smile at me then
lean into the touch. You look so peaceful and it makes me sad to think that probably no one else in
your whole life has ever touched you this way: not from fear or appeasement, but simply because
they love you. This is admittedly a pointless regret to have because there’s nothing I can do about it
– and it’s not like you’d ever care about it yourself. Even so, the lack of love for you still feels
poignant.

Too much emotion is always guaranteed to make me uncomfortable, so it doesn’t take long for me
to realise I can’t stand feeling sorry for you anymore and wriggle out from underneath you instead
so I can get out of bed to find something to wipe my hand with. There’s a slippery trail along my
thigh from where your come has got all over me, which is…awkward (not least because I can
guess the way you’ll currently be staring at it and looking immensely pleased with yourself). Then
I stretch a bit before hurriedly ducking across the room to draw the curtains, because I’ve just
realised that it’s late enough for other people to be up and I’ve got enough problems without the
neighbours seeing me prancing around butt naked with mad sex hair. In this respect the
neighbour’s opinions are a constant source of mortification because the walls in this building are
thin. I mean they really are: thin enough for me to hear their television, and therefore almost
certainly thin enough for them to hear us having sex. It’s a recurrent phobia of mine that makes it
hard not to blush when I see them, and I now pick up my phone at the thought of it and start
scrolling through the news in a rather manic attempt to distract myself. Only this doesn’t make me
feel better either, because a quick glance confirms that there’s been yet another killing from Il
Macellaio – the second in as many weeks.

“What’s the matter?” you ask. Wordlessly I hold up the phone and you give an eerie little smile as
your eyes flick across the screen. “He’s very industrious isn’t he?” you add after a pause. “A busy
boy.”

“Yeah, busy,” I say bitterly. “Which means even more police.”

“Oh yes,” you reply. “Naturally there will be more police.” You sound as if you’re completely out
of fucks to give about this, and once again I feel my tattered nerves start to fray even further. “Not
that it’s doing them much good,” you add, gesturing towards the phone again. “They seem to have
very little idea of how to properly secure a crime scene.”

“Hmm, yeah, they should have cleared the crowd.” I squint closer at the picture myself, critically
surveying the sea of faces. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in there.”

“Indeed.”

“These guys always insert themselves into the investigation.” I’m expecting you to agree but
there’s no response, and after a few seconds of waiting I glance up to look at you. The room is very
shadowy now I’ve drawn the curtains but there’s a shaft of light across your face so all I can really
see are your eyes.

“I didn’t,” you say.

There’s a strained pause: internally I can feel myself wince. You’ll do this on purpose every so
often to make me uncomfortable – toss these little verbal grenades into the conversation as a way
of forcing me to remember the entirety of you and what you represent. In turn I know exactly why
you do it, because my levels of denial are so ingrained it’s like there’s huge parts of our lives that I
still pretend didn’t happen. You once told me I’d made cognitive dissonance into an art form and it
was obvious you weren’t entirely joking. So while I dislike these ambushes it’s not like I’m ever
surprised by them. After all, it was inevitable you’d exploit my discomfort once you’d detected it
and of course you do (mercilessly), a bit like pressing down against a bruise.

“Hardly,” I now reply. “You were the investigation.” Then I grit my teeth and replace my phone on
the windowsill, overly slow and cautious like it’s something fragile that’s prone to break. I’m
doing my best to sound casual but I’m not sure how convincing it is.

“Yes,” you say. “But not by...design.” In the gloom I can see your eyes flash again. “I suppose one
might say that I inserted myself into you.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” I snap. “Because it’s not.”

You stare at me for a few seconds, very Sphinxy and inscrutable, before finally seeming to relent
and holding out a hand in silent invitation to come and join you on the bed. To be honest it’s
tempting just to tell you to fuck off but after a bit of huffing I still walk over anyway, perching
awkwardly next to you on the mattress and then tugging the sheet across my shoulders as a
makeshift robe.

“So what do you think?” you say. You’re smiling again, although it seems more to yourself than to
me – rather like you’re enjoying some private joke.

“About what?” You gesture towards my phone, still glowing gloomily from its place on the
windowsill, and I feel my eyebrows arrange themselves into an even deeper frown than before.
“Nothing,” I add. “I don’t care.”

“Mmm, yes; you say that, yet the situation clearly fascinates you.” Idly you start to stroke your
finger up and down my arm, very slow and precise. “You miss it don’t you?”

“Miss what?” I ask, even though I already know. My voice is so terse and it makes me cringe in
spite of myself. Sometimes I hate the way I sound when I speak to you: a wailing siren of
discontent. Of course it’s impossible you haven’t noticed yet you still persist with it anyway, cool
and ruthless without missing a beat.

“The hunt,” you say crisply. “The thrill of the chase: leading Jack Crawford’s pack.”
At this point I officially give up and just shrug without speaking, because this is a really difficult
question to answer. It’s also something I still haven’t fully reconciled with myself – and it’s
certainly not something I’m ready to be interrogated over by you. “Not exactly,” I reply. Then I
realise how dismissive this might sound so catch hold of your hand and give it a press. “At least –
not enough to regret leaving it behind.”

This makes you smile before reaching up to brush a strand of hair out my eyes. “Well, at the very
least I suppose your pursuit of me has ended in success,” you say. “I hope that’s been a degree of
consolation for you. I am your most notable trophy.”

“Yeah,” I say wryly “I guess you are. Got you good, didn’t I?”

“Not that I’m complaining of course: I enjoy the sense of you trying to work me out. Because
you’re still doing it, aren’t you Will? Even now.”

This is so absurdly hypocritical I can’t help laughing at it. “Yeah, it must be really annoying. Of
course you’d never do the same, would you?”

“Attempt to make sense of you?” you reply with another smile. “No, I’ve never stopped doing that.
It is my life’s work.”

“Then maybe we should call a ceasefire.”

“Oh no,” you say leisurely. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly agree to that. Besides, even if I was forced
to concede an armistice then I’d simply continue my analysis in private. Call it a habit: a custom
acquired from all the years I spent without you.”

I understand what you mean, yet there’s always something about references to past affection that I
find hard to process. “Oh yeah?” I ask, attempting to be flippant to disguise how emotional I
suddenly feel. “Are you actually saying you missed me?”

“Of course,” you reply. “I’m only human.” You say this last part grudgingly, as if it pains you to
admit it. “You were haunting me the entire time. I went from having all of you to having none of
you. At least…not exactly none. I made sure you stayed with me anyway.”

I know this is meant as a compliment but it actually sounds vaguely sinister; as if there was a
version of me in your head all those years that was being trapped there against its will. Although
fundamentally I suppose that was what happened…at least I can’t fault your honesty.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” I tell you. “So you can obsess over me out loud if you really want
to. Anyway, I did the same – when I thought you weren’t coming back.” You start to smile again
and I smile too then tap my finger to the side of my temple. “I made my own version of you.”

“Yes, I remember you telling me.”

“Although it sounds like your version of me was a lot easier to manage than my version of you.” I
roll my eyes at you then reach out to take hold of your hand again. “I have to be honest – you didn’t
behave yourself very well.”

“No doubt,” you say. You’re really smiling now: it’s obvious the thought of this pleases you. “But
don’t believe for a moment that my own mental image was easy to control. You were a constant
source of aggravation.”

I start to laugh, then on an impulse bend down to press a kiss against your forehead. I wish it could
be like this more often: the spectre of the past losing its power to devastate and melting into
something cloudy and indistinct that’s harmless enough to smile over. I’ve often thought how
much easier things might become if we just sat down one day and worked our way through all the
unspoken issues, yet the task seems so overwhelming it’s hard to know where we’d even begin.
Nevertheless the awareness of it – of how much more peaceful we could be – is still enough to
cause a new pang of guilt at the way I’ve been acting towards you in the past few weeks. The kiss
is an admission of this, but also an apology; a silent promise to try and do better.

“Ti amo,” I murmur against your skin. “I want to be with you. I want this to work.”

You don’t reply immediately and instead just gently stroke the back of my neck with your thumb.
The room is so still and quiet; if I listen hard enough I feel as if I could hear your heartbeat. “Ti
amo anch'io,” you say eventually. “Ti amo tanto. Come back to bed, Will. Let me pay this
beautiful body the attention it deserves.”

Right on cue my phone emits a loud beep and despite the sincerity of the moment I can’t help
laughing again at the comically awful timing. “Hang on,” I tell you. “Let me turn that off.”

As I move back towards the window you let out a quick sigh: a sort of irritated blast of air through
your teeth. “It’s early,” you say. “Who’s sending you messages at this time?”

You sound jealous. Of course you do: you’ve never been able to stand even a shred of my attention
going towards anyone except you. “No one,” I reply without turning round. “Relax. It’s just a news
app.”

“News for what?”

As it happens ‘it’ is updates for the Macellaio case, but after my earlier denials it feels far too
hypocritical to admit this. I perform an awkward little shuffle with my feet without fully meaning
to. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I just didn’t change the settings when I installed…” Then I pick up the
phone and promptly feel the words shrivel and fade into utter silence as I finally see what’s on the
screen.

“What is it?” you say sharply. “Will? What’s the matter?”

I want to tell you – I really do – but in that moment the enormity of it seems to defy explanation. In
fact I can hardly believe it’s real. It’s as if it must be some kind of malevolent practical joke: a
cosmic piece of farce that we can laugh about later as I repeat over and over ‘I can’t believe I fell
for that!’ And I want you to say it’s not true and it hasn’t happened, so the final seconds before you
find out feel like the last refuge of denial before it rips through into reality. I want those seconds to
last. Then I draw in a breath, let it out again, and finally abandon attempts to explain and simply
hold up the phone again so you can see for yourself.

Jack looks older in the photo. Far older than I remember him, as if the toll of the last few years has
etched itself across his face: lots of fine lines, grey hairs, and a forehead as etched and corrugated
as iron. He looks tired and careworn, but it’s not like any of that is relevant – it’s not relevant at all.
It’s just a last futile grab at distraction before the truth of it hits and I can play-pretend that his
appearance matters more than the words beneath the photo. But it’s the words which are important;
only the words that matter. Because it’s the words which are telling me, in starkly merciless
capitals, that the scenario I’ve been dreading all along is just about poised to come true: FBI
EXPERT FLIES TO ITALY TO JOIN THE HUNT FOR IL MACELLAIO.
 Chapter 7

For the next few moments, it’s just…nothing. Just silence. Just you, eerily fixed and motionless,
and me, glancing numbly from my phone to you and back again, waiting to hear what you’re going
to say. If I’m honest I think you’re surprised by it. It’s not as if you’re alarmed or anything – not
like I am – but I think it’s also fair to assume that of all the news in all the world, the idea that Jack
would really come to Italy was low down your list of expectations. The threat of it has hovered
over me for a while now, but I know you never found it especially likely or truly believed it would
happen. Only it’s turned out that it is – and it has. I wonder how troubling it really is for you to
have your predictions proved wrong? My life’s been such an endless stretch of shocks and thwarted
expectations that I’m probably better insulated than you are; primed from birth for the proverbial
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. But then your fearlessness also gives you an advantage I
don’t have, and which is why I’m threatened but unsurprised, and you’re surprised yet supremely
poised and calculating.

“This is not the right occasion to discuss it,” you say finally. “Get dressed.” I open my mouth to
protest and you hold up your hand in a request for silence. “I’m going to make you breakfast,” you
add. “And you are going to eat it, even if I have to handfeed you myself. And then, but only then,
we can talk about it further – and decide what you want to do.”

I suppose this is a reasonable plan. It’s very calm and measured after all; very typical of you. But as
the morning drags on it’s clear that the calmness was only skin-deep because what follows soon
after is one of the worst arguments we’ve ever had. I know that it’s bad because of the quiet
intensity of it, which is always a sign of severity with us. Not performative yelling (me) or
theatrical posturing (you), but rather the kind of coldly brutal intensity that comes from a mutual
conviction that the other person is wrong, matched only by an equally mutual reluctance to even
consider backing down. In fact you’re incredibly stern and inflexible from the offset, and it makes
me realise how long it is since I last saw that ruthless, arrogant side of you on full display. To be
honest, I think I’d forgotten how intimidating it can be.

“This isn’t an issue,” I finally tell you through gritted teeth. “Why are you making it into an issue?
It’s simple. We leave. We leave right now.”

You stare at me for a few seconds and I repeat a variation of this suggestion for what feels like the
twentieth time; which means you have to reply (also for the twentieth time): “And go where?”

“Anywhere!” I snap. “There are 195 countries in the world. It’s actually pretty easy: all we have to
do is pick one Jack isn’t in.”

Sarcasm almost never works on you and of course this time is no different. Your face is as smooth
and hard as a slab of marble: I can almost see the words smash against it before dropping to the
ground like tiny useless missiles. “So what was all that about before?” I add bitterly. “You said we
could leave if I wanted to. And now I do want to, and you won’t go.”

The implication is obvious: that you were only telling me what you thought I wanted to hear
without having any intention of acting on it. In other words, that you were lying to me – which is
something you promised you’d never do. But if sarcasm is futile then calling you out on your
hypocrisy is equally pointless, and even as I’m speaking I catch myself wondering why I bother.
Why do I bother? It’s like that Einstein quote: The definition of insanity is doing the same thing
over and over again but expecting different results. Maybe I really am as crazy as everyone always
thought.
As I watch you seem to bristle slightly before snapping your head bolt upright and giving me an
icy stare. “I meant what I said,” you reply. Your tone is exceptionally cool and cutting. An image
of ice-cubes promptly comes to mind, or even icebergs – glacial and lethal. “But at the time the
suggestion was purely hypothetical. Now it is literal. And better options present themselves.”

“There is no better option.” My own voice was grating out before, scraping through my throat like
rusted metal. Now it’s more of a hiss, as if the anger and frustration are frothing into boiling point
then dissolving once they hit the air. For a few seconds I remember your earlier words – ‘we can
talk about it further and decide what you want to do’ – and realise what a huge red flag they were
in suggesting your own mind was already made up. “He caught you the last time he was here,” I
add ominously. “There’s nothing to stop him doing it again.”

Your own posture is fairly calm but I can tell I’ve annoyed you from the way the muscles round
your jaw have started to quilt. It’s a major tell of yours: probably too subtle for most people to pick
up on, but something that’s always extremely obvious to me. Yet it never occurs to me to back
down, and despite everything I can’t help grasping some small consolation at how I’m no longer
afraid of what could happen if I actually provoked you into losing your temper.

“He did not catch me,” you say now. Your spine has gone completely rigid, the same way a cat’s
does when it’s angry. “You appear to be remembering a different version of events.”

“It was close enough.” I suppose this isn’t quite what happened, but I’m far past the point of
caring. After all, it’s not like you ever have two shits to give about the facts when they don’t suit
your particular purpose. “Staying here now…” I add in a deliberately menacing way. “Is insane.”

“And yet he knows you’re here,” you snap back. “Aren’t you concerned it would look a little
suspicious if you fled the scene the moment he arrives?”

Unbelievably I’d somehow managed to forget about this and the reminder is enough to make me
falter before catching my lip between my teeth. You’re watching me the whole time and for a
second it looks like you might be about to smile. “Yes, that’s somewhat backfired hasn’t it? Yet
you still insisted on keeping up the correspondence. I’m afraid you can hardly blame me for this
particular predicament.”

It’s unusual for you to be so obviously bitchy – in happier circumstances it might actually be
funny. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. My voice is starting to rise and with an effort I force myself to
lower it again and try to speak more calmly. “I explained why I was writing to him. I had a good
reason.”

You lean back in your chair then fix me with another one of your more withering stares (I say ‘one’
because you actually have a whole collection of these, adapted for every conceivable occasion).
“Yes, I’m sure it was a very sensible precaution,” you reply crisply. “Until it wasn’t.”

You look incredibly smug as you say this and I can feel myself gripped by a brief, childish urge to
tell you to fuck off. I content myself with just frowning at you instead before falling silent as I try
to run a few mental calculations about whether going AWOL really would draw unnecessary
attention. After all, Jack knows I’m in Florence but he doesn’t know exactly where – he certainly
doesn’t have my address. “Yeah, well, I suppose I could hang on for a few weeks while he’s here,”
I eventually reply. “And you could leave.”

As I watch I can see your eyes start to narrow. “I am not going anywhere without you,” you say
firmly.

This makes me sigh out loud, mostly because I knew it’s what your answer would be before I’d
even finished suggesting it. Your stubbornness in the face of such a simple solution is frustrating,
although I suppose I can’t really blame you. After all, I wouldn’t go anywhere without you either.

“Okay, then we leave together,” I say. My tone has now shifted to something overly bright and
ingratiating: a parent trying to convince a child to accept a vegetable that’s unwanted but ultimately
good for them. “Jack will probably email me; he’ll ask to meet for a coffee or something. I’ll drive
over, I’ll come back. Simple.”

“Only it is not so simple,” you say. “You know that as well as I do. Jack will expect you to assist.
He’ll want you to investigate with him.”

“So? I tell him no.”

“Would you?” you reply. “Are you sure about that Will? Because I’m afraid I can’t quite share
your confidence on that score. You’ve always struggled to say no to Jack. And despite your
constant attempts to deny it, your interest in the case is obvious. I doubt he would have to work
very hard to convince you.”

You sound very sure of yourself and I find the certainty with which you’re claiming to know my
preferences better than I do enormously irritating. Were you always as bad as this? God knows
how you lasted so long as a therapist if so – surely most of your patients must’ve wanted to kill you
at one point or another in response to such epic complacency?

“I am not getting roped into working with Jack,” I say angrily. “Absolutely not. No way.”

“Not even if he brings his team with him? Are you certain that wouldn’t appeal to you?” You pause
then give one of your eerie little smiles. “Just like old times."

“It’s irrelevant. I don’t care. Why can’t you understand that?”

“I suppose I can try to,” you reply. “It’s interesting, isn’t it Will – like our little exercise in empathy
from earlier. But yes, I can try to see it from your perspective if you’ll extend the same courtesy
and understand it from mine.” You wait a few moments and then lean forward in your chair in a
vaguely threatening way. “Namely my very deep aversion to running away from Jack Crawford.”

As soon as you say that I bring my palm down flat on the table. It’s the most obvious sign of anger
I’ve made so far and as I watch your eyes slowly track down to my hand then back up to my face
again. I have a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that you might actually be enjoying it. You rarely
show any emotion yourself, but there’s no denying how oddly fascinated you are with other
people's – especially (God help me) mine.

“For Christ’s sake,” I say. “Just for once – just this one time – can you not turn everything into
some twisted intellectual game? I don’t care about whatever grudge you’ve got against Jack: being
here the same time as him is a risk. It’s a horrendous risk. And it’s totally unnecessary.”

“No Will,” you reply, in the same steely way as before. “Wrong on both counts. It is a calculated
risk; and debatably very necessary.”

This time I suck all my breath into an angry exhale and ferment it for a few furious seconds before
releasing it again in a long, loud sigh. This, of course, was inevitable – I was naïve to expect
anything else – because I know you well enough by now to understand that it’s your pride which
makes it necessary. Pride, superiority, and an unfailing sense in your own ability to maintain the
upper hand. It’s likely there’s an element of revenge in it as well…no doubt you’ve been planning
how to find an opportunity to take him out as soon as you saw the news page.
You’ve been watching my face very carefully and when you speak again it’s obvious that you’ve
guessed what I’m thinking. “Having him here is an open invitation,” you add in confirmation.
“Removing Jack means removing a very significant obstacle. As far as law enforcement goes
there’s no one quite as dedicated to tracking me down as he is. Imagine how much simpler things
would be if he were no longer part of the equation.”

“That’s bullshit.” My voice is practically a snarl by now, and I hate the way it sounds but still can’t
seem to stop myself “You know it is. He’s not even looking for you! Whether he’s alive or not
makes zero difference to us.”

You shrug. “Perhaps not to you. It makes a great deal of difference to me.”

“I don’t care! Your vendetta with Jack is irrelevant: I want you safe and I want you gone.”

Even as I’m saying this I know it’s nothing more than a shameless attempt to manipulate your
sense of better feeling – just as I know it’s also completely pointless, because all it means is that
you’ll do the same thing straight back again (only ten times more shamelessly). “Well, I don’t
want us to be always on the run,” you reply, right on cue. “I want us to have a home together. A
permanent home. One where we’re not always looking over our shoulder.”

I was already prepared for a manoeuvre like this, yet somehow the hypocrisy of it is still enough to
stretch my fragile patience almost to breaking point. “Don’t you dare,” I snap. “Don’t you dare
pretend you want to stay here for my sake. This is about you.” I take another breath, briefly letting
down my guard as I allow a tinge of genuine emotion to leak into my voice. “Everything you’ve
ever done in your life is about you.”

For a few seconds you stare at me: it’s obvious my outburst has got to you, although there’s no way
you’ll admit it. “Remember what I told you before?” is all you reply. “Yes, this is a potential crisis.
But all you’re seeing is a threat where you should be seeing opportunity.”

Fretfully I reach up to remove my glasses and then realise I’ve already taken them off. “An
opportunity for you to get caught,” I say bitterly. “And then me as well.”

“He is not going to catch either of us,” you reply. Yeah, you’re definitely annoyed now: the tension
in your voice is obvious, stretched and taut like overwound cello strings. “But even if he and I did
cross paths, do you really think I’d turn you in?”

I give another, even louder sigh, then drag my fingers through my hair. “No,” I reply in a softer
voice. “Of course I don’t think that. But this is a situation that’s so easy to avoid and the only thing
that’s stopping you is your ego. Not logic, not pragmatism – not concern for me. Just pride. And
arrogance. And your fantasy feud with Jack. And it’s going to make you walk straight into the eye
of the storm.”

“But that’s what I’ve always done,” you say. “And so have you.” You’re still staring straight at me,
cold and faintly reptilian, with a voice that’s already returned to normal. It’s a trait of yours I’ve
often noticed; that the angrier you are, the more serene you outwardly appear. “You’d hardly be
here otherwise, would you Will? You’d still be in America slowly suffocating to death.”

“Yeah, and instead I’m here,” I say bleakly. “Watching you play Russian Roulette and expecting
me to hand you the gun.”

“Then it appears we’re both watching each other, doesn’t it?” you reply. “You watch me, while I
watch you, still doing what you’ve always done. Which is to try and control your life rather than
simply live it.”
There’s a long, unpleasant silence. For a few seconds I don’t entirely trust myself to speak from a
risk I’ll snap out something harsh and hurtful that I won’t be able to take back. “Okay we’re done
here,” I finally reply. “That’s enough. I just can’t with you. Not right now.”

One thing I promised myself when we started living together was that I’d never turn my back on
an argument. I’d felt it would be an admission of weakness, like I was allowing you to gain the
upper hand through your force of personality and perceived right to pronounce. Closing the door as
I walk away feels symbolic for a profound sense of failure, knowing that I’m breaking my rule and
letting emotion take over because my words have run out. Only I really can’t help it this time
because there’s just so much at stake. Your freedom, my happiness…our life. In that moment I’d
give anything to make you change your mind. And it’s that, more than anything else, which is
driving my frustration because of how incredibly helpless I feel to make it happen.

*****

That night I sleep in my own room.

I don’t turn it into a big deal or make a scene out of it. I don’t even tell you I’m going. Instead I just
spend the evening with you as normal, chafing beneath the strained silence of a conflict which
never really stopped as opposed to simply running out of energy. I’m doing my best to focus on a
book and I can feel your eyes on me the entire time from across the room; I think you’re hoping
that I’ll walk over and stretch out next to you, ruffling your hair or putting my feet on your knee,
the same way I usually do. Only I can’t, so I don’t, and I know you won’t try to make me.
Coercion has never been your thing. For you it’s all about persuasion, so compelling me to let you
touch me will never satisfy you as much as me choosing to do it because I want to. Except I don’t
want to, so finally toss the book aside and go to have a shower, then instead of turning left into our
bedroom I just walk straight past it and keep on going. I’m half-expecting you to turn up straight
afterwards to demand an explanation but ultimately you don’t. Possibly it’s because you’re
respecting my space, although I can’t help feeling such restraint would be out of character. More
likely it’s just that you’re just too proud to come.

This is the first night we’ve spent apart in a very long time and I find it depressing how much your
absence bothers me. In fact if I’m honest it feels outright pathetic: like I’m too childish and
dependent to manage sleeping alone. But it’s clear I must be both these things, because after an
hour of fretful tossing and turning I’m still nowhere near getting settled. In the corner of my eye I
can see the crazed flickering of a moth flinging itself against the window, accompanied every so
often by the desperate thud of its small furry body crashing against the glass. The hopelessness of it
depresses me even more so I get up to let it out then shuffle back to bed again and tug the sheet
over my head until only my hair is showing. At first I try to blame the room for my wakefulness –
how the mattress is harder than I’m used to, or the way the linen has the impersonal, detergent
smell of a hotel – but of course this isn’t the real reason, and I know if you were here I’d be able to
sleep just fine. This awareness is humiliating, not least because it’s impossible to imagine you
pining and fretting in anywhere near the same way. Even so, it’s also likely that you’re still awake
yourself (in fact you almost certainly are), because even at the best of times you don’t rest like a
regular person. It’s like you just lie there in the dark, silently recharging like a giant cell phone.

After a lot more sighing and fidgeting I finally wear myself out enough to fall into an uneasy sleep.
Only it’s not the sort that’s fallen into gently and peacefully, but instead is the fitful fearful kind
that’s stumbled inside with the same violence of falling down a pitch-black hole. It’s been a long
time since I last had a nightmare, but tonight I make up for it by pitching into one of the worst ones
I’ve had in recent memory. It’s like I’m trapped in a kaleidoscope of crimson and black, stalked by
something with a dripping mouth and grasping claws; something blood-streaked and bone-tinged
with tattered black feathers like flecks of tar which crouches and crawls in the shadows. You’re
there too, only this time it’s the old version of you: the one I never want to talk about, or even
acknowledge could still exist. This is the version which lies and smiles and is coldly cruel and
lethal – pale and hollow-eyed with a face as planed and angled as a solid piece of ice. What are you
doing here? I ask it, but it refuses to say. So on instinct I pull myself away from it but no matter
where I turn it’s still just standing there, impossible to escape from, and I finally wake up with an
oily layer of sweat clinging to my skin and a throat that’s raw from screaming.

From the floor below comes the quick sound of footsteps before a silhouette appears in the
doorway a few seconds later. You’re treading very softly, presumably not to freak me out, but I’m
too disoriented to make sense of what’s happening and when I feel your arms around me I
immediately make a frenzied attempt to fight you off.

“It’s all right,” I hear you saying. “Be calm. Will. Mylimasis. You know I’m not going to harm
you.”

Your voice is unusually gentle and the sound of it is enough to steady me as reality finally reasserts
itself. “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is hoarse from all the yelling and I clear my throat a
few times. “Did that hurt?”

“No.” Your hand is on my back by now, gently stroking up and down. “Not at all.”

I’m sure you must be lying: I definitely landed a solid punch to your jaw. “I didn’t mean to,” I say
gruffly. “You should have just let go of me.”

“Yes,” you reply, “I suppose I could have done that. Only I’m not entirely made of stone. If you’re
distressed my instinct will always be to comfort you – even if I get attacked for my trouble.” You
make an amused noise then lean down to lay a kiss on my forehead. “I suppose I should learn to
say no to you, yet somehow it seems a talent which is still beyond me. You are a constant source of
strength while also being my greatest weakness. It’s really quite a paradox.”

“Save it,” I say irritably. “Don’t try and placate me. This doesn’t change anything – I’m still mad at
you.”

“Yes, I expected you would be.” You don’t sound remotely concerned about this; instead you just
flex your neck a few times then settle down very happily, rather like it’s your own goddamn bed
and I just happen to be borrowing it. “Could you kindly move to the side?” you add. “Your legs are
taking up rather a lot of room.”

“You’re unbelievable,” I say. “This is my bed. Move your own legs.”

“But where can I move them to?” you reply politely. “You are occupying all the available space.”

I make an angry huffing sound between my teeth. I suppose I could try and make you go, but I’m
not all that confident of success – and if I’m honest, I don’t really want you to. I shuffle grudgingly
a few inches to the left then roll onto my back again and stare up at the ceiling. At some point your
arm has managed to sneak its way round me but it seems like too much effort to get you to move it.

“I can almost hear you seething,” you say. “Why don’t you just commence with your lecture and
get it out of your system?”

“Oh shut up.” Without fully meaning to I turn round a little until my face is snugly pressed against
your shoulder: there’s a rustling sound as you lean down to rest your cheek against my hair. “I can’t
be bothered to lecture you,” I add. “Anyway, I don’t have anything new to say.”

“I find that rather hard to believe.”

“That’s your problem,” I say crossly.

“Well, if you truly don’t want to lecture me then talk to me about something else. Tell me what
you were dreaming about.”

In the darkness I bite my lip; I wonder if you’ve already guessed that it was about you. “I can’t
remember,” I reply after a slight pause. “It was just a nightmare…just the usual.”

“You haven’t had one for a long time.”

“Yeah, not until tonight,” I say bitterly. “What an unbelievable coincidence.”

“I know – and I apologise. I’ve clearly caused you some anxiety.”

I stiffen slightly then raise my head so I can look at you directly. “Don’t, Hannibal. Don’t say
you’re sorry when you’re not. If you were really sorry then you’d change your mind about
leaving.”

For a few seconds you stare back at me without speaking, your eyes gleaming in the darkness like
little flinty stars. “I want you to trust me Will,” you say finally. “Can you do that?”

“I don’t know.” I’m aware how cautious my voice sounds: I’m not sure what I was expecting your
response to be, but somehow it wasn’t that. “It depends what you’re going to say.”

“And what do you think I’m going to say.”

“Something stupid.”

It’s too dark to see your mouth but from your tone I can tell that you’re smiling. “What do you
mean?” you ask. “Define stupid.”

“I mean reckless. I mean you’re going to suggest something that no one in their right mind would
ever do.”

“So ‘stupid’ is to break with convention? In that case I’m afraid I’m always destined for stupidity.
Because I am a voice, Will – not an echo.” I sigh impatiently and you wait a few more seconds
then reach out to cradle the side of my face with your hand. “Now listen,” you say. “The first point
I wish to make is that you and I…we are the only two people who matter. There is no one on
whom my life focuses as much as you.”

“Don’t say that,” I snap. “You can’t turn me into your only chance to be happy.”

I’m waiting you to fire something back but this time you don’t. To be honest I think I’ve shocked
you. Your eyes are still catching the light but now it’s in steely pinpricks which look actively
sinister: still like stars, only not the romantic cosmic kind but ones which are cold and dead. They
remind me of a documentary I saw once on the notorious White Dwarves – cannibal supernovas
that linger in the bleakness of space and consume any stars around them which are unlucky enough
to stray too close. Carnivorous stars. You now run them over my face again, very slow and
appraising, and as I watch they catch the moonlight once more and seem to flicker. It’s like my
heartrate is rising beneath the strength of them and I have to force myself to calm down and
remember that this is you; the real version who exists right now, not the nightmarish one from my
dream. My hair, damp with sweat, is tangling in my eyes and I try to brush it away before realising
that you’ve reached out to do the same which means our hands end up clashing above my eyebrow.
The absurdity of it breaks the tension and despite the stress of everything I find myself starting to
smile.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I tell you. “I didn’t mean that: I’m not really thinking straight. Finish what you
were going to say.”

Your head dips in acknowledgement, although you keep on staring for a few more silent seconds
before finally deciding to speak. “Understand this Will,” you say. “I know you think my desire to
stay here comes from hubris – and you are not entirely incorrect. But you should also know that
my pride has never once overwhelmed my judgement. If I thought that remaining would genuinely
endanger either of us then there would be no question I would leave. But I do not think that.”

“No,” I say quietly. “I know you don’t. The trouble is that I think you’re wrong.”

It’s clear you’re dying to tell me how you’re never wrong but for once have managed to read the
situation well enough to know it would make me lose my shit. The restraint is unexpected; maybe
you have been practicing your empathy skills after all?

“Regardless, I’m still confident this decision is the right one,” is all you say instead. “It is also
utilitarian. It is consequentialism in its purest form: a choice that will produce the greatest good for
the greatest number.”

“No it’s not. How is that consequentialism? The greatest number in this scenario is two.”

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “Haven’t I already established that you and I are the only ones who
matter? Which is why I wish to stay here and settle a score which will keep us safer in the long-
term. And it’s why I wish you to stay in order to face your fears and learn to overcome them.”

In the resulting silence I hear myself sigh again. Only this time it’s not so much angry as tired: tired
and defeated as I feel the last strains of resistance slowly seep away. It’s so tempting to call you out
for the bullshit this clearly is, yet despite my reservations the force of your confidence is somehow
enough to keep me mute. My hand’s still clasped in yours. Pulling it away would be such a simple
way to indicate disagreement, yet for some reason I don’t do that either. Why don’t I? It’s
frustrating. So many times – ever since we first met – I’ve allowed my choices to be submerged by
yours, and despite the endless wrangling I have a terrible feeling that this is going to be just another
instance to add to the list.

Oh God, the whole equation is so supremely fucked up. Both for his sake and yours, I know
there’s no way I could ever let you hunt down Jack; but then what use is that when there’s no way I
know how to stop you? And there’s no way I could ever leave you behind, yet perversely I also
hate the thought of forcing you to follow me out of Florence while knowing that when the moment
came I wasn’t ‘brave’ enough to take a stand with you. It’s an impossible choice – set up entirely
by you with all your usual precision – and either way the decision to stay or go feels choked with
conflict. But rather than argue about it anymore I ultimately just do what it feels like I’ve always
done: which is to sigh one last time then screw my eyes tightly closed, a wordless expression of
‘Okay, we’ll do it your way…at least for now.’

Your own response is likewise unspoken. You don’t gloat about your success in persuading me to
back down or express any satisfaction at having temporarily ‘won’ the argument; instead you’re
very quiet and humble in a way that’s out of character, like you’re grateful I’m prepared to see
things from your point of view. Then you kiss me and pull me close to you, stroking my face while
telling me you love me (this time in Russian) and I suppose it should feel like a positive moment
but I’m too numb and resigned for that. So instead I just take tighten my grip on your hand then
cling onto it as hard as I can, imagining that somehow I can keep us both safe through sheer force
of will. I’m thinking of what you said before about how your pride has never overcome your
judgement, and how much I wish the same was true for me. Only it’s not. It’s not at all. If anything
the opposite is the case, because my fitful irrational love for you has overcome my judgement
almost from the first day we laid eyes on each other…and in that moment it seems like a real
possibly that maybe it always will.
 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

Hey my lovelies, I’m so happy and honoured to say that there is now fanart for this fic
and it is gorgeous! For an exquisite portrait of Hannibal (and lots of other stunning
Hannigram art), please visit Vapidus’ Twitter page. If you’re in the mood for
Hannigram feels, there is beautiful cover art by sparklingjoy and chapter art by
wendywendigo, or if the angst is getting to you then browse around MrsSteampunk’s
fan-sass-tic Sassy Will Gallery (all three linked in the Related Work section at the end
of the fic). This fandom is full of fabulous artists who are so generous with sharing
their time and talent, we Fannibals are such a lucky bunch xox

See the end of the chapter for more notes

I’m hoping a night’s sleep will make me feel calmer but predictably enough it doesn’t. This lack of
improvement is annoying. Actually, it’s so annoying that I’m getting to the point where I can’t tell
if I should be more frustrated at events themselves or myself for having so little control over the
attention I’m giving them. We are at the mercy of events, even though events have no mercy in
them…who was it who told me that? I’m sure it was you. It’s certainly the type of ominously
cryptic shit you seem to favour, although admittedly it’s also a bit too gloomy and fatalistic to fit
your general philosophy so maybe it wasn’t you after all. In fact, it almost definitely wasn’t: you’re
much more inclined to tell events to go and fuck themselves. Even so, the contrast between your
calm complacency and my own special brand of mental anguish is enough to make me realise that I
don’t want to you to witness any more of it and that I should probably take myself (and, by
extension, it) out of the apartment for a while. The fact you hate me going anywhere without you
means this solution could also become another source of conflict, but even if my anxiety didn’t
need an outing I know I’d still go anyway. You’ll never acknowledge how unreasonable your
demands can be, which means the only way to deal with them is by setting clear boundaries – in
this instance showing that I refuse to be surgically attached to you 24/7. Then I spend some time
brooding over whether you’d literally surgically attach me to you if you thought you could get
away with it (you almost certainly would – it’s exactly the sort of fucked-up statement that would
appeal to you) before heading to one of the local caffetterie with the sole plan of lolling around like
a hipster for a couple of hours while pretending to be a normal person with normal problems.

The place in question is only a few blocks away and because the owner knows me (and always
gives me free coffee) I tend to visit it quite often. I got talking to him by chance a few months ago
and a sort of rapport has struck up in the meantime, mostly for no better reason than he’s also
American and it seemed like an easy point of contact. He’s even got a quintessentially American
name – Hunter – and an accent that’s stronger than mine is, despite having lived in Italy for much
longer. After my first few visits he finally asked me my own name and I actually thought he was
hitting on me. He wasn’t of course, but it made me realise how much I’d grown conditioned to see
relationships as a form of transaction where nothing’s ever offered without the expectation of
something in return. Only it turned out he didn’t want anything except the company, so now I’ll
visit a few times a month to linger over multiple coffees and enjoy the sort of mindless, easy
conversations that I can’t really have with you: American politics and sports teams or the best parts
of Tuscany to go fishing in. Sometimes we’ll even abandon talk completely and just sit there and
grunt at each other while the baseball game plays above the bar, muttering ‘Shit’ and ‘Oh man’
whenever the Ravens miss a hit, even though I don’t care all that much and I suspect he doesn’t
either. In fact, if I’m honest, the lack of conversation is maybe the best thing of all, because it’s
something that’s almost impossible to have while living with someone who enjoys dissecting every
word I say.

Hunter’s latest overture is lending me crime novels, which he appears to have a low-level
obsession with and orders online by the crateload. They’re always set in New York or LA and
follow identical tropes where the murders are like jigsaw puzzles: each piece neatly marked out
and just waiting for an enterprising detective (who’s inevitably lantern-jawed and charismatic as
opposed to sad, deranged and socially awkward) to saunter in and slot it into place. Complete
bullshit, in other words, because in real life it’s more like a puzzle where most of the pieces are
missing and the remaining ones have lost their edges or are printed on both sides – and even when
they’ve been assembled there’s always a few left over which can't be made to fit. But despite their
obvious crappiness the novels offer a certain guilty pleasure and I still end up reading them
anyway. The only hitch was when I realised how disappointed he became that I could always work
out who the killer was. I think he wanted me to be as captivated by them as is he himself, so now I
pretend to be amazed when I get to the final chapter and everything is revealed. I suppose this is
the sort of small attention a friend would pay, even though our interactions don’t seem advanced
enough to constitute anything as meaningful as actual friendship. Not that I would really know. I’m
not used to having friends and all my acquaintances tend to slot into the category of either
colleague, crush, confidante, mortal enemy, or you (who’s always occupied a sprawling category of
your own that manages to cover the other four).

Hunter, on the other hand, is too informal for a colleague, too detached for a crush or a confidante,
and shows no signs of turning into a mortal enemy (although with my life, who fucking knows) and
in many ways it’s a comfortable arrangement that’s low-effort and restful in the way of pulling on
an elderly pair of slippers. In fact there’s only one big, maniacal elephant in the room amid all this
cosy companionship which, of course, is you and what might happen if (when?) you found out
about it. It’s safe to say you wouldn’t like it, but the most obvious solution – introducing you so
you can see he’s not a serious competitor for my attention – feels too risky in case he recognised
you. Admittedly this doesn’t seem likely, but I’m still not willing to take the chance. Besides, the
obsession with crime stories feels like a warning sign that his interest might extend to true crime as
well, in which case he’d almost certainly spot you on sight.

Out of habit I now check behind to make sure you’re not following me (you’re not) then push the
door open and begin the same routine I always do, which involves tucking myself into my usual
spot by the window then ordering my usual espresso until Hunter finally spots me and comes over.
He’s carrying a book under his arm (also as usual) which he triumphantly drops on the table then
slides towards me. I take a covert glance at the cover but it’s so indistinguishable from all the
others that there’s not all that much to see: a photo of a bleakly deserted cityscape with the colour
saturation turned to zero and the authors name in shrieking red font.

“Hey man!” he says. “How are you doing?” He always calls me ‘man’; in fact he does it so often
there seems a genuine possibility he’s forgotten what my name is. Likewise his greeting is pretty
much a rite of passage by now, so I dutifully respond with the predictable (Fine thanks, yourself?)
then attempt to show some interest in the book.

“You’ll love this one,” says Hunter excitedly. “It’s a real page-turner. Cage is on awesome form.”
Cage is the name of the lead character: lantern-jawed homicide investigator extraordinaire (and, as
far as I’m concerned, a smug insufferable shit who I keep hoping will die spectacularly and
horribly before the series is done). He’s also such a collection of cliches that the author might as
well have named him Badass McToughcop and been done with it, although judging by the record-
setting sales figures no one else seems to mind this but me. I now smile politely then continue
studying the cover like I’m trying to absorb its awesomeness through osmosis. “Yeah, it’s worth
anyone’s time” continues Hunter. “And it’s got a really smart red herring halfway through.”

This makes my mouth quirk into a smile without fully meaning to. Red herring. It’s such a quaint
expression: the sort of term beloved by old-fashioned detective novels where an elegant middle-
aged lady discovers who murdered the butler and stole the church restoration fund before driving
off in an Edwardian motor car as the local constables arrive to haul the miscreant off to the
magistrates. It bares no resemblance to the carnage and chaos I used to witness day after day where
there was never any room for the romance and intrigue of red herrings. Because there wasn’t, was
there? No room at all. We never had red herrings in Behavioral Sciences. We had misleading facts
and SUs, and where detective novels have inklings and suspicions we had swabs and evidence
bags and bits of human bodies on slabs. Real homicide work isn’t Clue. It’s never going to be
Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick, as opposed to Il Macellaio in a filthy back alley
with a meat cleaver.

“Thanks,” is all I say. “I’ll give it a go.”

“Yeah you should. Let me know what you think.”

I give one of my trademark vague smiles and he smiles back then settles down in the opposite chair
– although not before inviting me to choose from a plate of panettone which I didn’t order, and
don’t actually want, but seem like I’m going to have to eat anyway on the basis that he’s caught
whatever weird compulsion you and Giulietta have for constantly trying to feed me up.

“So what have you been up to?” he adds. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

I shrug then take a tentative sip of my coffee. “Oh you know,” I reply from over the top of the
mug. “Nothing much.”

I’m trying not to sound evasive but I’m not sure how convincing it is. Questions like this always
feel risky, although I’ve admittedly been very successful so far at spinning a fictitious version of
my life that’s true enough to sound convincing (on sabbatical; travelling round Europe) while also
being sufficiently boring to never invite any follow-up questions. Currently my main cover is an
imaginary fondness for art, which means he thinks I spend all day trudging round galleries and
museums, guidebook clutched solemnly in hand like a typical tourist. Hunter now nods and smiles
in response, but predictably doesn’t ask for further details. This was expected: the café décor
helped me deduce early on that he wasn’t interested in classical art, which was an added incentive
to choose it for my cover story. Admittedly living with you for so long has diluted any aversion I
might once have had for lying, but at least a lack of questions reduces the chance of accidentally
slipping up.

“Well I’m glad I’ve seen you,” adds Hunter. He sounds like he genuinely is…God knows why. It’s
not as if the real version is particularly loveable, but the fake version with the art gallery fetish
feels like the most boring self-righteous bastard imaginable. Which of course means that this is
also me, even though it’s not. Hmm, no, it is though, isn’t it? I am the boring self-righteous bastard.
I take another thoughtful sip of coffee, mulling over this rather interesting dilemma.

“How are you fixed on this weekend?” adds Hunter. He sounds very eager; he hasn’t noticed I’m in
the middle of an existential crisis. “I was thinking of heading to the Arno on Sunday. The fishing is
out of this world. There are Wels catfish that top 100 kilos.” He spans his hands in an exaggerated
‘check out this monster’ gesture of fishermen the world over. “What do you say? We could grab a
few beers and spend the afternoon there.”

I automatically open my mouth to refuse, only to find myself struck by a sudden mad urge to say
yes before the words can fully form. This enthusiasm is unexpected, and not entirely welcome, but
the problem is that I’d quite like to. In fact, I’d really like to. It’s been so long since I’ve had any
escapism and the idea has a genuine appeal to it: hours of companionable silence, trading tips and
insights while watching the water with someone who (unlike you) doesn’t find fishing both boring
and pointless. For a few seconds I stare at this allure like a kid in a candy shop before regretfully
forcing myself to turn my back on it. It’s not like you could stop me going, but there’s no way
you’d be happy about it – and even if I wanted to lie to you, which I don’t, it seems inevitable
you’d find out about it anyway.

Without meaning to I let out a very small sigh: it occurs to me, a bit too late, that I’m opening and
closing my mouth like one of the monster catfish. “Thanks,” I say forlornly. “That would have
been great. But I’m afraid I can’t this weekend.”

“Oh okay – no worries. Some other time.”

I nod in agreement then pick up a slice of the panettone and begin to nibble it rather half-heartedly.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Some other time.”

Hunter smiles to indicate no hard feelings then leans back in his chair again before launching into a
rambling, good-natured narrative about his brother, a rainbow trout, and a capsized boat on Lake
Erie. It’s the sort of story that goes round in circles and doesn’t require much input beyond the
occasional smile, so I lean back in my own chair then take another pensive sip of my coffee. It’s
ironic that this trip was supposed to make me feel better, but the longer I stay the more I realise it’s
making me feel worse. Contact with ordinary people tends to do this, even though I know that as
long as we’re together then it’s always going to be like this. It’ll always be lies and evasions and an
eternal inability to establish any sort of intimacy with anyone who’s not you…your mere existence
an enormous secret that I’ll have to spend every waking moment struggling to keep. For a few
seconds I find myself staring wistfully at the large window that stretches across the wall of the
café. It’s like I’m on the other side, one hand pressed against the glass as I gaze at a vision of
normality I’ll never be able to have. It reminds me of how I once pressed my palm against a similar
glass with you on the other side – and the way that now I’ve moved round to join you there’ll
never be space for anyone except the two of us.

Possibly this pining is perverse. In fact I know that it is. It’s the sort of masochistic ‘grass is
greener’ mentality that chases aimlessly after what it can’t have. After all, it’s not like I cared that
much about normality when it was available; it’s only now it’s been snatched away that I’ve
stubbornly decided I miss it. It’s not a case of regretting my choices either, because I don’t. I
wouldn’t give you up for anything. And yet despite that – despite all of it – I can’t deny the way
that every so often I’ll catch myself with a yearning, guilty sense of wanting something more.

*****

I’ve barely been gone two hours but I still get back to find you acting as if I’ve been missing all
day. This is annoying, but not surprising, because while you’ve learned to be more tolerant of me
spending time alone anything over an hour away is still guaranteed to bother you. There’s no point
asking you why you react like this because you’d never admit it, but I suspect it comes from a
combination of factors. Partly I think it’s possessiveness, and partly it’s resentment of me having
interests which don’t include you, but mainly I think it stems from a deep-seated sense of bitterness
that I might revert to my old self and betray you; that one day I’ll simply walk out the door and
never come back.

Regardless of the reason your scrutiny still isn’t especially appreciated, so I now push past you
rather irritably then stomp upstairs to change into a more comfortable shirt. This is because I’m
wearing one of yours again, and while it’s undeniably stylish it’s also incredibly unforgiving in
how stiff and unyielding the fabric is. God knows how you can stand them yourself, although you
never seem to mind. As expected you follow straight behind me then sit on the bed; I don’t even
need to turn round to know that your eyes will be beaming in my direction with one of your special
high-intensity stares.

“What?” I say finally. It comes out harsher than intended and I pause slightly then turn round and
deliberately soften my tone. “What’s the matter with you?”

“There is nothing the matter with me,” you reply (yeah right). “Although I might ask the same
question of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you disappear for hours then return home in a singularly foul mood.”

“I wasn’t gone for hours,” I protest. “It was less than two.”

“It was far more than that,” you reply, even though it wasn’t. “You’ve been in a café haven’t you?
You have a smell of cheap coffee all over you.”

I roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out of my head then turn round and give you A Look. “Don’t
start with that,” I say. “I mean it. Anyway, I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I’m
always in a foul mood – I’m not sure how you can even tell the difference.”

This makes you smile, despite looking like you’re trying not to, before leaning back against the
headboard and holding out your hand. “Come here,” you say.

“No. And don’t talk to me like that, I’m not a dog.”

“Certainly you’re not.” You’re still smiling; still holding out your hand. “Please?” you add.

I make the usual performance of rolling my eyes again, although the effort is pretty half-hearted
and in the end I go over anyway and arrange myself next to you on the bed. “Thank you,” you say.
“I appreciate your forbearance. Now, please tell me what’s wrong.”

I make an irritated sound between my teeth. This pantomime is so typical of us, because despite the
severity of yesterday’s argument it’s clear that we’re both going to pretend it hasn’t happened.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I finally say, which confirms I’m turning into almost as big a bullshitter as you
are. “I just feel…rough. I don’t know. I don’t feel like myself.” You open your mouth to reply and
I quickly press my finger against your lips. “Spare me the philosophical speech about identity,
please. Just let me feel like crap in a straightforward way.”

“I’m sorry that you feel…” You hesitate, obviously reluctant to utter such a plebeian word as
‘crap’. “…Unlike yourself.”

“Thanks,” I say. Then I give a loud sigh without fully meaning to before disentangling myself from
your arms until I’m lying on my back and can prop myself against your chest. You reach down to
run your fingers through my hair.

“You are quite correct that you are not a dog,” you say fondly. “Yet how much easier it might be if
you were. No, don’t look so offended; it’s an observation against myself rather than you. It’s
merely that a dog is extremely predictable and easy to…” There’s a small pause and I have a sense
you were about to say ‘control’ before catching yourself. “Easy to understand,” you continue
smoothly. “There is nothing especially complicated about a dog: its needs are few and its
contentment is simple to attain. I, on the other hand, now find myself sharing a home with a
beautiful complex being and I confess that I don’t always know the best way to manage you.”

“Well that’s an easy problem to have,” I say sharply. “Because you don’t have to manage me.”

“You’re right, my phrasing was poor. I should have said ‘to best take care of you.’”

“You don’t have to do that either.”

“No, I suppose I don’t – yet I find myself wanting to all the same. I’m not completely immune to
your emotions, Will. We’ve travelled on too long a journey together for me to settle with seeing
you so unhappy.”

“I’m not unhappy,” I say in a softer voice. “Not at all. I’m just stressed.”

“Perhaps you are. Yet those things do tend to overlap.” I shrug without replying, and you give a
small sigh of your own at such an incredibly obvious attempt to dodge the conversation. “I suppose
I need to study you a little more diligently,” you eventually add. “We are so alike in many ways,
yet fundamentally we are not the same. I sometimes forget that you are younger than I am and that
our lives have taken such different courses. It’s unreasonable of me to assume that your response to
adversity will always mirror my own.”

“I’m not that much younger than you,” I say; I sound a bit defensive. “Only a few years.”

“It’s rather more than that; we have an entire decade between us. However, it’s not merely a
question of age. It is as I said – our experiences have not been the same. You were formed in quite
a different crucible.” You smile to yourself then begin to gently stroke my hair again. “Such
contrary paths: you in your little homespun corner of America and me in my European wilderness.
You know, I sometimes entertain myself imagining alternate scenarios in which we might have met
one another, yet regardless of which scenario I spin my conclusions always remain the same:
namely that I would have been determined to have you. No obstacles would have been enough to
prevent me. Forbidden fruit, Will. The greater the prohibition, the stronger my determination
would have been. Whether you were a student of mine, a paying patient – even a son-in-law.”

I make a groaning noise then screw my eyes closed. “Oh God, just…don’t. That’s gross.”

“Yes,” you say happily. “I dare say.”

“You’d really try to seduce a son-in-law?”

“If he were you? Absolutely I would.”

“Then you are a terrible person.”

“Am I?” you reply in an exaggeratedly innocent voice. “Surely not.”

Despite trying not to I still end up laughing (which is always a mistake because the absolute last
thing you need is encouragement) then settle down contentedly against your chest again. You
resume the stroking motion on my hair, although while it starts off casual it quickly grows more
persistent as it shifts towards my face: tracing your finger along my cheekbone, my jaw, then even
pressing against my lower lip like you’re hoping I might open my mouth to let you slide it in. I
don’t, but you still carry on anyway, the stroking never changing to become either harder or gentler
but continuing at the same smooth pace like you’re just patiently waiting for me to catch up with
you and start to respond. I suppose the last conversation has left you feeling amorous, although this
isn’t necessarily surprising. After all, any chance you get to imagine yourself acting like a massive
asshole is guaranteed to set you off.
“Stop it,” I say without opening my eyes. “I don’t want to. I’m tired.”

“My poor boy, I suppose you are. But you are also beautiful and available – so what am I to do?”

“Ugh, you’re insatiable.”

“I am not.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes you are.” I crack open my eyes then stare up at you disapprovingly. “Behave
yourself. Or else I’ll re-set your puzzle box and you’ll have to start the whole thing over.” I pause
then give you a rather smug look. “And I won’t help you solve it again.”

“Would you really? What a little monster you are.”

“Yes, I know. Cry me a river.”

“But on this occasion I am not insatiable,” you say, opening your eyes very wide in a way that I
suppose is meant to look innocent. “On this occasion my concern is with you rather than myself.”

“Is that so?” I ask with obvious sarcasm.

This time your only response is a long slow smile before reaching out to flick open the top button
of my shirt. “Take your clothes off,” you say leisurely.

“No, I won’t. And again with the orders – don’t I even get a ‘please’?”

“P-l-e-a-s-e,” you reply, deliberately drawing out the syllables. “I guarantee it will be worth your
while.”

“Convince me.”

“As I said: because I intend the focus to be on you.” You unfasten a second button then dip your
finger beneath the fabric to lightly stroke my collar bone. “I want you to run your hands over your
body mylimasis: to touch yourself and give yourself pleasure. I know you’d like to – and I’d like to
watch you.”

Considering how jealous you usually get when I do this makes me suspect that the invitation is
meant as a concession; possibly your way of trying to apologise for being so controlling earlier. It’s
also deeply manipulative (in the way most of your apologies tend to be) although remains pretty
tempting despite it – not least because it seems like ages since I’ve had a chance to jerk off and I
always get a bit of a kick out of you watching me. It’s honestly hard not to: there’s just something
incredibly addictive about being the subject of such tender, intensely focussed regard. I falter for a
few seconds and you take my silence as enough sign of agreement to abruptly hoist me up until I’m
lying on top of you with my back pressed against your chest.

“Hey, cut it out,” I say crossly. “You know you could have just asked? You don’t always need to
fling me about.”

“Well, you are here now,” you reply, pressing a kiss on the side of my throat. “The end result is the
same.” I automatically roll my eyes, even though you can’t see me do it, then shift aside a bit to
give you better access to finish unbuttoning my shirt. “I confess, I am glad to be rid of this,” you
say, slowly smoothing your palm across my shoulder. “You should have kept mine on. It suited
you better. And I like to see you wearing my clothes.”

“I know you do – but it was uncomfortable.”

“I know it was – but this is ugly.” I make a protesting noise and you smile again then unfasten
another button. “Don’t you want to do this yourself?” you add. “You don’t usually like me
undressing you.”

I lean back further until my head is resting on your shoulder. “No. It was your idea, you sort it
out.”

“As you wish.”

“I do wish. Put some effort in.”

“Very well. I suppose you are going to be expending all the effort within a few minutes so it’s only
fair to share the division of labour.”

“Thanks for the concern,” I say smugly. “But I’ll choose my own amount of labour.”

You make an amused sound then begin to lever the shirt off my shoulders. “You’re pretending you
don’t care but I know that you do. You can’t wait to begin, can you? Tell me when the last time
was that you did this?”

“Hmm, I don’t remember exactly. Maybe last week.” In fact it was the week before, but I can’t
help feeling you already know – it’s exactly the kind of thing you’ll be doing your best to monitor
(then sulking massively because I didn’t ask you to join in).

“Then tell me something else,” you add, as if reading my mind. “I’m curious. Did you ever do it in
the past while thinking of me?”

“You mean before we…” I’m about to say ‘got together’, yet somehow it doesn’t feel right and I
end up trailing off into silence. It’s like we’ve always been together, even before we technically
were.

You kiss my throat again, appearing to understand without being told. “Yes,” you say. “Before.”

“No. At least not for a long time.” This isn’t the most flattering answer, but I know you always like
it when I’m honest with you. “Not until after the cliff. When you’d disappeared.”

“Yes,” you say thoughtfully. “I would have assumed as much. It felt safer then, didn’t it? You
could give yourself permission to indulge because there seemed less risk of it ever coming true.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “Pretty much.” As I’m speaking you reach down to unfasten my belt and I catch
my breath a little then shamelessly roll my hips towards the pressure.

“Of course it did. I must have felt fairly forbidden by that point.” You sound very happy about this.
Being a source of temptation clearly pleases you; probably because you assume (correctly) that it
meant you occupied a greater share of space in mind. “So where were you when you had this
fantasy for the first time?” you add. “Please provide the details.”

“Nowhere special.” With a bit of effort I kick my jeans off then lean back again until my entire
weight is resting against your chest. “In the shower, I think. In my old apartment.”

“Oh yes, that terrible little hovel of yours – the least said about that the better. Tell me where you
went to in your mind? Where did this imaginary encounter take place?”

“It was your old office.”

“Interesting. So not in a bed; not in my house or yours?”

“I said so didn’t I?”

“You did,” you say, leaning in to kiss my throat again. “And it is another intriguing choice. You
arranged your scene with minimal intimacy: somewhere relatively neutral where you could leave
straight afterwards. Even in your fantasy you were trying to maintain some distance from me.”

“Mmm, yes…I guess so.”

“I don’t blame you. You weren’t going to simply accept me into your bed, were you? Not even in
your mind. You expected me to prove myself first, to do something to earn your trust.”

“Oh shut up,” I say fondly. “You know you don’t mean a word of that. You’d have thought you
were doing me a favour.”

You laugh again then return both hands to my shoulders, digging your thumbs into tight knots of
muscle. “And I suppose you ensured that I was the one who made the first move?”

“Yes.”

“Naturally yes. You would have wished to minimise your own responsibility for what happened.”

This time I just nod instead of replying then trail my hand down my abdomen, deliberately teasing
both you and myself. By now it’s obvious that when you said the focus would be on me what you
actually meant was that it would be on you, but I don’t really mind. It’s admittedly rather shit that I
can’t even jerk myself off without getting psychoanalysed, but I’m so used to you by now that I
can’t be bothered to complain about it. Besides, it’s not exactly doing any harm because I’m
already so hard it’s almost embarrassing: it makes it look as if I’m getting turned on at the thought
of myself (in other words, the exact sort of thing you would do). Above me you sigh
appreciatively, wrapping a palm across my forehead to keep my head still while stroking my chest
with your other hand. Your touch is gentle yet persuasive and I give a breathy moan then finally
take hold of my cock, slowly rubbing the soaking wet tip with my thumb.

“Good boy,” you say softly. “You look beautiful like this. Keep talking, please: tell me how I
behaved in this vision of yours.” There’s a pause followed by a light scrape of teeth on my throat,
your breath very warm and damp against my skin. “Was I rough with you?”

“No,” I manage to say. Your hand is playing me like an instrument now – just the lightest, most
delicate caresses across my ribs and chest. “That’s never been your style. You don’t pressure. You
persuade.”

“A seduction fantasy.” You sound enraptured and it’s clear how much you’re enjoying the thought
of it: me in my ugly lonely little apartment, guiltily getting off to the thought of you without
knowing if I’d ever even see you again. “I could have done it for real, my love – all you had to do
was ask. You were so sad and solitary, always yearning for someone to touch you with kindness.
You didn’t even expect desire, did you? Just comfort would have been enough.”

I moan in response then give a small shudder, reluctantly slowing my hand to a gentler rhythm as
I’m confronted with the real risk that I’m about to ruin things by coming too soon. I’m already so
close, it’s ridiculous; there’s a bottle of lube nearby on the nightstand, but I’m leaking so much pre-
come by now I’m not sure I even need it. You make another satisfied sigh at the sight of it then run
a finger across the glistening trail on my stomach before pressing it against my lips as invitation to
open my mouth. I obey immediately, swirling my tongue across it then moaning slightly at the
sense of being able to taste myself.

“That’s it,” you say softly. You go quiet for a few moments to listen to the sounds I’m making then
move your hand so you can curl it round my neck and push my head back until my face is pressed
against yours. “You really like that don’t you? Were you as excited in your fantasy as you are right
now?” You pause again then resume kissing my throat, each word punctuated with a light press of
lips and teeth. I tip my head back even further to give you better access, my breath hitching into a
sharp little oh sound whenever I think you’re going to bite me. “So hard…wet….wanting.”

“God, yes,” I gasp out; you make an approving sound then run your tongue along my lower lip.
“Yes I was.”

“Yes, of course you were. You’re rather luscious that way, aren’t you? So very responsive. I can’t
deny it, the sight of you like that always overpowers me: my sense and reason just abandon me and
instinct takes over. It’s almost like do it on purpose, although I never doubted it would be the case.
To be frank, beloved, you were always very difficult in the capacity of a friend or colleague. Those
mercurial moods and acerbic temperament; rather hard work at times. But as a lover I never had
any doubt that you’d be perfect.” There’s another pause as you tangle your fingers into my hair,
gently tugging at it while running the other hand across my torso. “Now…tell me exactly what you
imagined me doing to you.”

This time it’s my turn to pause because it’s so hard to think of the right way to describe it without
killing the mood. This is entirely your fault: for someone widely renowned as a cold-hearted
bastard you can be weirdly sentimental about sex and are inclined to treat it as something solemn
and sacred that shouldn’t be degraded by excessive slang words. Being explicit or vulgar is
acceptable, but it has to be phrased the right way (I remember saying ‘rimming’ in front of you
once and you looked like you were going to pass out with horror). I’ll have to say something
though. Otherwise you’ll start offering suggestions yourself, and the last thing I want is for you to
murder my erection by having to listen to you waxing lyrical about ‘fellatio’, ‘penetration’ or (God
forbid) ‘anilingus’ in that clipped aristocratic voice. You would as well; you’re more than capable.

“You walked up behind me,” I finally manage. “Then started to kiss me.”

You make a contented sound, deep in your throat; it’s almost like you’re purring. “Did I undress
you?”

“Yes.”

“All your clothes? Or only enough to obtain the necessary access?”

For a few seconds I go silent again. Honestly, how the hell do you expect me to remember it in that
much detail? Not, admittedly, that I’d want to remember it in that much detail. It would have
required some conscious effort, and the idea of committing a Sad Wank to memory with that level
of forensic precision is a particularly depressing combination of both creepy and tragic.

“Everything,” I say eventually, because why the hell not.

“And myself?”

“No, you kept your clothes on.”

“You mean you kept my clothes on,” you reply with typical smugness. “Another attempt to keep
me at a distance I suppose. Plus the power imbalance would have suited your purpose – you placed
me in a dominant role to absolve yourself of responsibility.”
“Oh yeah,” I say wryly. “It was definitely your fault.”

You make an amused sound. “Yes, I know how much you would have disliked the idea of losing
control of yourself. I would have needed to go slowly with you, wouldn’t I?”

I reach up to twist my fingers into your own hair so I can give it a playful tug. “Hey, whose fantasy
was it?” I say. “Mine or yours?” In fact I’ve just remembered another part, where I’d imagined
getting on my knees for you on your office floor: gazing into your eyes as I licked up your pre-
come then slowly taking your cock into my mouth as I watched you start to unravel. You’d had
your hand on the back of neck, murmuring my name; suddenly vulnerable in a way you never were
back then. The memory of it is making me get even harder, but for some reason I feel self-
conscious admitting this – it’s like I still want to keep something private for myself. In the end all
is add is: “As it happens, you were holding yourself back too.”

“Perhaps I was,” you say. “Would you have enjoyed seeing me lose control Will? Leave you
afterwards trembling and empty because I’d taken you so hard?” My breath gives a loud hitch at
the thought of it and you lean in even closer, smelling my skin from jaw to collarbone in an
unmistakable gesture of ownership. You’ll often do this; sometimes it seems you can almost get
yourself a bit high just from inhaling the smell of my skin. “You would have had bruises on you,”
you add softly. “Would you have liked that, beloved? Little mementos all over your body as a
testimony to my lack of control. Your colleagues would all have commented on them; you were so
pale back then that they would have stood out like amethysts in the snow. I’d have made you press
your fingers over them the next time I saw you, just enough to hurt – remembering all the pleasure
and passion which placed them there.”

“You would not,” I say indignantly.

You laugh at this obvious bit of bullshit (because obviously, of course you would have done) then
begin to kiss my throat again even harder than before. I immediately push back against you,
enjoying the way your shirt’s come unfastened from how roughly I’m thrashing about on it. Your
chest feels so warm pressed against my back, the skin incredibly soft compared to the firm strips of
muscle underneath it.

“Mano mieloji,” you murmur when you finally pull away. “So what happened after that?”

“You bent me over your desk.” Hearing it out loud makes me realise what a cliché this is, despite
feeling pretty profound at the time.

“Did I really? That was rather thoughtless of me. I should have laid you across my couch and made
love to you, very slowly and tenderly as you deserve. Yet there you are stranded across my desk
instead. My poor boy. How uncomfortable you would have been. And of course we would have
had nothing nearby to use for lubrication.” By this time I’ve sped my hand up so you wait until I’ve
caught my breath before dipping your head to lick into my mouth with a deep, rough kiss. “How
did we improvise? Did you imagine I used my tongue to get you ready for me?”

Ludicrously I can feel myself blushing slightly. “Yes,” I say.

“And my fingers? Slowly working you open?”

As you’re speaking you reach to the nightstand to retrieve the lube and any response I want to
make gets lost in a helpless wail as you flick off the lid and I feel warm fingertips sliding across
my ass in a series of delicate, slippery strokes. The tight ring of muscle yields to the pressure so
quickly and eagerly it’s almost humiliating; even so, you hover just shy of pushing in. Instead you
press your thumb down next to where your fingers are caressing me, creating another loud moan as
I feel my cock twitch against my stomach. You murmur my name at the sight of it then roughly
search out my mouth before pressing down again even harder. The effect is immediate, and I cry
out into your mouth over and over as a visible ripple of pleasure runs through my entire body.

“Yes?” you murmur, kissing my temple.

“Yes. Yes.”

“That was rather daring of you.” You sound so calm but I know you’re not – not really. “I’d have
thought you’d confine your imaginings to something resembling an encounter with a woman.
Something familiar…oral sex, perhaps? But instead I have you spread out in front of me, naked and
vulnerable, getting you ready to take whatever I decide to give you.”

I give a small gasp, helplessly aware of how I’m starting to arch my entire body against yours. “Oh
God, yeah, I did. I did think that.”

“Is this what you wanted all that time?” you say, your voice very low and intense. “My fingers
exploring you in such a private place? You only had to ask me; you know I’d have given you
whatever you wanted. Although perhaps that’s beside the point? After all, you wanted more than
that didn’t you? Much, much more.”

This time my only response is to rock my hips, gasping slightly at how hot and heavy my cock feels
as I desperately fist at it with my right hand. I know you’ve noticed too because of the way you
catch your breath. “You weren’t even sure if you’d like it,” you add in the same soft voice. “Yet
you wanted it all the same; and you wanted me to be the one to give it to you. You showed good
judgement, beloved. The idea of you experimenting with someone else is intolerable. I could never
have stood seeing you in hands that were any less adoring or competent than my own.” Slowly you
trail your free hand back up my chest then along my throat and jaw, stroking my lower lip until I
open my mouth to suck your fingers. “I would have killed anyone who tried to touch you Will…
you know that don’t you?”

By now my breath is coming out in a series of desperate pants. I hate the fact such fierce
possessiveness turns me on, but it’s impossible to deny it because I know that it’s true. It’s why
you’re saying it all: you want to hear me admit it. Right on cue you brush your mouth against my
jaw – soft press of lips; barest hint of teeth – then slide your hand back down again to dig your
thumb into the hollow of my hipbone.

“You’d never felt like that before, had you?” you say. “Not with anyone else – no one except me.”

I give another helpless gasp then shake my head; the pressure from your teeth seems to be all over
my skin now, even though I’m not actually being bitten. “It’s not…I…oh God.”

“No one except me,” you repeat softly. “Say it.”

I gasp again then reach to wrap an arm around the back of your neck, vaguely aware of an
enclosing sense of safety that means no matter how hard I push back against you I won’t be
allowed to fall. “No one except you. Oh God. God…it feels so good.”

You make a contented sound then briefly bury your face in my hair like you’re trying to breathe
me in. “I’m afraid it would have hurt you, my love. I’d have done my best to take care of you, but
you were so inexperienced back then. You wouldn’t have known how to relax enough to take what
I wanted to give you. Although perhaps you intended to imagine the pain? A brief bit of
punishment for your transgression before the pleasure took over. You would have enjoyed it so
much more by feeling you had earned it.”
I moan with agreement then turn my face until it’s pressed against your neck and you can feel the
heat of my breath against your skin. By now I can’t manage else anything beyond a series of gasps,
my cock growing slicker and heavier in my hand as I pump my arm in a kind of frenzy. You inhale
sharply at the sight of it then tighten your grip on me before leaning down to kiss me again. It’s
slower and gentler this time and I give a low, breathy sigh as I push down against you.

“Spread your legs for me,” you say. Your voice is roughened by desire and the sound of it makes
me pant even faster. “Wider, mylimasis; really open them. Although it’s true that I can barely see
you when I’m holding you like this. I need to buy us a mirror, don’t I? I’ll put it at the end of the
bed. I want to be able to watch you more clearly – and I want you to be able to watch yourself. You
are achingly beautiful this way. Exquisite. So delicate yet so passionate. So debauched.
Practically…edible.”

I open my mouth to protest (‘edible’…for God’s sake) and you smirk a bit then press your fingers
over it to stop me before sliding round again to grip hold of my throat. I gasp at the sudden sense of
pressure and you duck your head to run your tongue along it in a hot wet swipe.

“Look how slim your neck is,” you say approvingly. “All these little curves of bone. They slot into
my hand so perfectly it’s as if it was made for me to hold. I confess, beloved, I find the idea of
seeing it in a collar almost unbearably appealing. I could put you in it for special occasions,
couldn’t I? Black leather, I think: something profane and beautiful to stand out against all this pale
skin.”

My eyes promptly snap open. “No,” I say sharply. “Don’t you dare.”

You make an amused noise then shift your head further down so you can rhythmically rub your
cheek against mine. “It’s all right, little wild thing. Be calm. I know you’d never allow it.”

“No I would not. No way.”

“I know,” you reply, almost dreamily. “Just let me keep the image for myself to savour privately.
Such a striking image, Will. You’d look sublime in the intensity of the moment: so deeply aroused,
yet so sweetly humiliated, doing your very best not to enjoy it yet helpless to prevent yourself. I’d
use oil to prepare you, I think. I’d apply it very slowly with my fingertips then make you spread
your legs apart so I could watch it glistening in the candlelight. Just imagine how beautiful and
vulnerable you would look in your collar: quivering with anticipation for the moment you’d feel me
slide inside you and show you who you really belong to. Your head would be tipped down with the
weight of the leather, throat exposed like a young martyr, your skin covered with a sheen of
perspiration that would make it seem to glow.” You pause again then run a finger along the edge of
my cheekbone. “I’m fascinated by your skin. Have I ever told you that? It’s pale without being
pallid and has such a creamy, luminous quality that’s warm and smooth to the touch. Just like
ivory. Or even bone…”

Despite being fully clothed you’re grown so hard that I can feel the hot thick line of your cock
pressing against my spine and the sensation turns me on so much I could nearly scream with it.
Fortunately you seem to sense my urgency because you promptly lower your head then thrust your
tongue deep into my mouth at the same exact same moment your fingertips push upwards to rub
against my prostate. I moan almost wildly then angle my neck into a painful twist to pillage your
mouth, clawing against your shoulder with one hand while fisting almost brutally at my cock with
the other. Your fingers are so slippery they’re gliding in with no effort at all: your hand
withdrawing nearly all the way, lingering a few seconds, then pushing straight back in as my cock
spasms in my hand with a hot rush of pre-come. Oh fuck, you’re buried so deep inside me now.
You’ll be able to feel how tight I’m getting; feel the way I’m clenching helplessly around your
fingers like I’m trying to grip onto you. You must know I’m about to come.

“No, don’t hold back,” you say when you notice how I’ve started to bite my lip to stifle the sounds
I’m making. “I like seeing you lose control. I adore it. You have no idea. Just take it, mylimasis.
You want it don’t you? Take it deeper. That’s it; that’s perfect. Now arch your back. Imagine
you’re laid out across my desk again, displaying this beautiful body to me. You’re afraid, aren’t
you? You’re concerned I might be too much for you to take. Yet you’re still so excited. You know
you’re about to feel me inside you for the very first time.”

You’ve wrapped your arm around my chest now: rocking me in the same rhythm as you’re moving
your hand and easily able to take my weight to push me down at the exact moment you bring your
finger up. I give a sharp cry, exposing my throat so you can scrape your teeth across it then
frantically rocking my hips against the long slide of your fingers as another stream of pre-come
spills over my fist.

“Yes, just imagine it,” you say caressingly. “Imagine it the same way you did back then. You’re
about to be stretched open then filled up, and you’re going to love every single shameful second of
it. You can feel yourself trembling can’t you? You’re leaking so much you’ve left a damp patch on
my carpet; you know I can see it too and it’s humiliating. You wish you could stop yourself doing
it, but you can’t – your body is giving you away. And now I’m standing behind you, taking hold of
your hips: savouring those last few moments before I sink deep inside that tight, trembling body
and take total possession of it. It’s going to happen any moment, my love. Are you ready? I’m
going to show you that you belong to me; that you’re mine – that you’ve always been mine. I’m
going to give you what you want, I promise. Any second now. You’re already so close to the edge
aren’t you? All that’s needed is a little push to send you spinning over the side. Just…one…little…
push…”

You crook your finger upwards as you’re speaking, expertly exploring and caressing before
pressing down hard with your thumb at the exact same time. I give a breathy moan in response
then gasp out your name: tensing, quivering, then going totally rigid as I feel my hips give a final
frantic jolt.

“Perfect,” you say reverently, pressing rapturous kisses against any part of my face you can reach.
“My beautiful boy. Yes. Here it is.”

“Oh God,” I pant out. “I can’t…I'm going to…Oh Hannibal, fuck. Oh…I’m coming, oh God I’m
coming, I'm coming…I…”

The sensation’s so overwhelming I collapse back against your chest and you wait until it’s finally
over before giving a last, slow thrust with your finger. My cock promptly twitches again and I
make a soft moaning noise as you press a kiss against my forehead then retrieve some tissues to
wipe my stomach clean. It feels a bit infantilising and normally I’d be annoyed by it, but this time
I’m so boneless and spaced-out I just let you. Your legs are also tangled with mine in a way that’s
uncomfortable, but even sorting that out seems too much trouble so I just give them a half-hearted
prod instead. Anyway, I don’t really mind. If I’m honest I’ve got a bit of a fascination with your
legs – which is something I’d never admit under pain of death, although isn’t necessarily a bad
thing considering you’re so tall and rangy that most of your body seems to be made up of limbs.
They’re extremely strong and well-muscled while still managing to stay lithe and sculpted, a bit
like a dancer’s or an athlete’s would be. Come to think of it your wrists and hands are the exact
same way: it’s as if your natural build is slimmer and more statuesque than the powerful outer
covering implies.

You now finish cleaning me up then drop a rather playful kiss against my abdomen. “An
unorthodox technique,” you say smugly, “but therapeutic nonetheless. You seem a bit more
relaxed now, mylimasis. It does you good to let the noise in your head go quiet for a while and
allow your instincts to take over.”

I mumble something incoherent in response then allow myself my usual quick panic over how
much of that the neighbours might have heard, despite being far too late to do anything about it (I
actually feel a bit sorry for our neighbours sometimes…they’d probably have a more peaceful time
living above a meth lab). You lean back against the bed yourself, briefly falling silent again as you
gently stroke my damp hair off my forehead.

“In all seriousness though,” you finally add, “I wish you felt more able to be open with me about
what’s troubling you.” You certainly sound serious when you say this – unusually so – and I crack
open my eyes to look at you. You gaze back at me for a few seconds then give the tiniest hint of a
shrug. “You’re so fiercely independent, Will. It makes you reluctant to ask for help when you need
it, but try to remember what I told you before. Real strength is having the courage to seek
assistance – the courage to risk being vulnerable in front of others. Your vulnerability is the source
of some of your greatest power.”

I promptly close my eye again then give a small, restless sigh. “Yeah, I remember,” I say wearily.
“Only it’s a lot easier in theory than practice.”

“Something else to grow accustomed to then,” you reply in the same soft voice. “Perhaps I ought to
lead by example? I’ll have to work harder in presenting you with some of my own more vulnerable
aspects.”

“Do you have even have those?” I say – and then regret it almost immediately, because of course I
know that you do. The problem is they tend to be so destructive that it’s easier to pretend they
don’t exist. Only they do exist and there’s no doubt you share them; even your obvious restlessness
at my absence today was a sign. In fact it illustrates your point about vulnerability not being a sign
of weakness, because when you show me how much you need me you’re simply having the
courage to be open. You’re telling me that I have the power to hurt you, yet you’re still trusting me
not to – even though you know that I could. In silent acknowledgement I now reach up to cradle
your face, gently stroking the side of your jaw with my thumb to show I understand.

“I want you to be happy and peaceful,” is all you say. “And free of fear.”

“Yes, I know…I know you do.”

“So please stop worrying about Jack – or anyone else for that matter – and give yourself more
credit for how impeccably you’re able to govern the people around you. I would even go so far as
to say you were able to govern me…or at least closer to it than anyone else has managed.”

You sound so grudging at the last part that I can’t help laughing and you catch my eye then start to
smile too. “Yes, it is quite the accomplishment,” you say. “Although you are a rare breed so
warrant rare distinctions. Machiavelli would be proud of you Will; you play an admirable game.
You have never once attempted to win by force what you were able to win by deception.”

“That’s just a polite way of saying I’m good at manipulating people.”

“Not exactly. Only that you have been extremely successful at convincing the world of your
inherent righteousness. You have crafted a mask of immaculate proportions. Like Richard III on a
modern stage.” You give a vaguely sinister smile, the quote sounding even more ominous than
usual when delivered in your smoky voice: “And thus I clothe my naked villainy, With odd old ends
stolen out of holy writ, And seem a saint, when most I play the Devil.”
“Actually,” I say dryly, “that sounds more like you.”

“With an important exception,” you reply, beginning to stroke my hair again. “In my case,
camouflage was from choice rather than necessity. Your other conquests, however…for them it
was not a matter of choice. The Great Red Dragons and the Matthew Browns of the world. You
know, I could almost pity such creatures. No wonder they pursued you: the one person capable of
unmasking them. Having perfected one’s disguise, it’s only natural to seek out someone who is not
deceived by it. Yet this is an instance where you should also remember Baudelaire’s advice, Will –
because the finest trick the Devil ever played was to persuade the world he didn’t exist.”

I groan impatiently then fling my arm over my face. “Okay, I get it,” I say. “Just give it a rest can’t
you? I’m not in the mood.”

You smile again then pull me closer and lower your head until our foreheads are touching.
“Forgive me,” you say fondly. “I’m annoying you aren’t I? Sometimes I get absorbed in my own
musings and it makes me forget how preoccupied you feel. You wish to rest and occupy your
wonderful mind with less disturbing topics. And yet, you know, there’s no reason to dread the
Devil…” Your tone is almost caressing now, your lips slowly ghosting the side of my jaw. “God
delights in shame and self-reproach, but the Devil will always celebrate the darkness and intricacy
of who we really are. Destruction, debauchery, the quest for power: the temptations he presents to
humankind don’t contradict our impulses, they merely complement and encourage them. What is
the Devil’s concern, after all, except with our ability to show faithfulness to our true character?
Fidelity to our most authentic self?”

“Ugh, you’re impossible,” I say, half-annoyed and half-amused. “Do you know that? You never
know how to quit while you’re ahead.” With some effort I manage to haul myself upright then
clamber on top of you until I’m straddling your knee; you smile again then take hold of my waist to
help me. “Although I’ll give you one thing, Dr Lecter,” I add, “which is that you know how to
make an interesting case. Shall I tell you what all that sounded like to me?”

“What did it sound like to you, Will? Dazzle me with your insight.”

“It sounds,” I reply, carefully drawing out each word. “Just. Like. Therapy.”

“Just like therapy,” you repeat, never once breaking eye contact. “Indeed. What a disastrously
clever boy you are.”

“So take my advice and quit while you’re ahead. Because appealing to my ‘authentic self’ is not
going to convince me that staying here to face Jack is a good idea.”

“I wouldn’t presume to attempt to convince you.” You give another faint smile then take hold of
my hand to lightly kiss the back of it. “Besides, it won’t be necessary – because you are going to
decide it all by yourself.”

A part of me yearns to snap back that I won’t, only I don’t want another argument so soon after the
last one. Of course at some point we’ll have to have a conversation about it: a proper one, not
whatever the hell this is with all its excess roleplay and metaphor. But that moment isn’t right now,
and until I’ve got a clearer sense of how to manage it there’s no point trying to force the issue. Not
that I intend to admit this uncertainty to you in the meantime. After all, years of experience have
shown how useful it can be to play along with whatever game you’ve created while letting you
think you’ve gained more of an upper hand than you actually have.

To prove this to myself I now raise a hand to take hold of your throat, firm enough to apply some
pressure while teasing enough to let you know I’m not being totally serious. “Yeah, I guess your
therapy is very unique isn’t it?” I say. “Very tailored. Because ‘to constantly deny one’s true nature
is one of the greatest acts of self-violence that it’s possible to inflict.’”

“Did I tell you that? I suppose I might have done. It sounds like the type of thing I would say.”

“You know you did.”

“Then you should listen to me, shouldn’t you?”

“No,” I say wryly. “Not really.”

You smile again, tipping your head back to invite better access to your throat. “Certainly you
should. And that is why you are going to change your mind about staying, because you know that
living a lie reduces you to one. Consider, for example, my previous analogy. God is the one who
tells us what to think – and how to act, and who to believe – but the Devil compels us how to feel.
Then, after that, he preaches how all our human feelings are acceptable.” You pause again then
deliberately catch my eye as your mouth quirks itself into another inscrutable smile. “There is
something so horribly indulgent and self-serving about shame or guilt. The way we reprove and
accuse ourselves before anyone else has the opportunity to do so, then seek a sense of virtue in it.
As the expression goes, it is not the priest who absolves the sinner but the confession itself.”

“So that’s why they call the Devil ‘the Great Seducer’?” I roll my eyes at you then lean further
forward, slowly rocking my hips against yours as I skim my lips against the side of your jaw.
“Everyone wants to dance with the devil.”

“Indeed,” you say lightly. “Then it appears Nietzsche was right and God is dead. Long live Satan.”

You sound a bit too pleased with yourself about this: I give you a quick frown, despite knowing it
won’t be enough to stop you. “Do you want to know why?” you murmur, taking hold of my hips to
encourage me to grind even harder. “It’s because destruction feels good. And why shouldn’t it? It
does to God. I doubt very much that He’d begrudge us, because killing satisfies Him too – He does
it all the time.”

This is a well-worn theme with you and one I’ve never been totally comfortable with. I can even
remember you talking about it in our previous life: the way your eyes gleamed as you spoke while
the familiar Sphinxy smile flickered across your face. Only last week in Texas He dropped a
church roof on the heads of 34 of His worshippers just as they were grovelling for Him…Of course
this is also a recurring risk of playing these sorts of verbal games with you, because you have never
have any restraint for breaking the rules with a particularly underhand move.

“Original sin,” I say, and there’s a distinct edge to my voice. “I think you should leave it now
Hannibal. You’re taking your metaphor too far.”

“Am I?” you ask thoughtfully. “Perhaps so; perhaps not. Or perhaps it’s simply the case that we all
need to learn to live a little. After all, the knowledge that our lives could end at any moment frees
us to appreciate the beauty and horror of everything the world has to offer.” You give me a long,
slow glance from beneath your eyelashes and I have a sudden urge to laugh. It occurs to me that
this might actually be your idea of flirting. “I’ve no doubt that Jack would agree with me,” you
add, “because he knows as well as we do that this is the ultimate gift a predator offers to its prey. A
predator represents mortality, so compels its victim to live as fully and fruitfully as possible on the
understanding they could lose their life at any time. Carpe diem, Will. A predator encourages us to
celebrate and sanctify each minute that we have, and they mostly do so without us even realising it.
A secret Devil in a mask who walks among us and manipulates our beliefs about the world…a
mask just like Il Macellaio’s.” This time you leave a longer pause then lightly scrape your teeth
against my throat. “Or even the Chesapeake Ripper.”

It’s not like you’re expressing anything I haven’t already heard, yet somehow such a ruthlessly
casual reference to your past behaviour still makes me recoil without being able to fully explain
why. “Okay, enough,” I say sharply. “Just stop. You always…” Then I find myself pausing too,
because really – it’s so difficult to define exactly what it is that you do. “You always push things
too far,” I conclude; aware, even as I’m saying it, how inadequate it sounds.

“Yes indeed.” By now your smile has finally turned in on itself, as if it’s enjoying some private
joke. “And yet you do too, beloved; and doubtless will do so again in the future. Pushing and
pushing Will…one day right over the edge.”

I tighten my grip on your shoulders, this time just enough to hurt. “I. Said. Enough.”

“And I heard you,” you reply without missing a beat. “I just enacted your advice a little differently
to how you intended.” My eyebrows gather together in a warning frown and you finally relent and
lift up your hand to smooth them back into place. “Very well,” you add in a gentler voice.
“Enough. Your Uncle Jack is not here right now, and if the news reports are anything to go by will
not be so for at least another week. Tell me what you want to talk about instead.”

I silently clamber off you and roll onto the bed again so I can lie on my back; you smile down at
me then reach across to arrange the sheet around my shoulders until I’m snugly covered up. “How
about you?” I say finally. “And how completely unbearable you are.”

“If you wish.” You make an amused noise then lean over me again so you can run your finger
along the bridge of my nose. “I suppose that would be substantive enough for a long and interesting
conversation. But before we begin, I’d ask you to please remember my earlier confession.”

“Oh yeah – that one where you compared me to a dog?”

“The very same,” you say fondly. “Which is that while I may not always be equal to the task of
caretaker, my intentions towards you are entirely benign. I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for
you.”

Of course a more truthful version of this statement would be ‘I’ve only ever wanted I think is best
for you’, but I know it’s not a distinction you’d be willing to recognise. As far as you’re concerned
what you think and what I feel are fundamentally the same – or at least they should be after a bit of
manipulation, deftly applied like lacquer then left to set and solidify until I’ve come round to your
point of view without even realising it. I suppose it’s always been that way. Even back in the days
when I was still trying to do the right thing I was never so efficient or successful as I was when I
had you inside my mind to pull the strings and guide my final design. We’re identically different,
are we? You and me.

In the resulting silence I now drag my hand across my face then stare determinedly at the ceiling
while doing my best not to catch your eye. It’s the same dilemma we’ve always had, and moments
like this are a grim reminder that when you said you were prepared to accept my limitations you
weren’t really telling the truth. Not that I’m surprised by this. After all it’s not like you’ve ever told
the truth, and it was inevitable that once I’d been lured onto your side you wouldn’t be content
until you’d tried to pull me even further. I’m like a plant that you want to keep sprinkling with little
drops of blood to make it grow. Perhaps we’re just destined to remain stuck in this same gridlock?
Me on one side and you on the other, the immovable force and the unstoppable object, each with
different ideas of how our future should look and neither entirely prepared to compromise. Deep
down I know it’s one of the reasons the thought of marriage makes me feel so wary, but regardless
I’ll always find myself drifting back to the same position. It’s a stance that’s contradictory in its
 own right, but it’s also clear enough to reassure me whenever I feel at odds with myself: namely
the simple fact that we might be incredibly wrong together, yet we’re also so deeply and supremely
right.

My eyes now finally meet yours and you smile at me rather sadly. “Don’t look so troubled Will,”
you say, and it’s the sort of gentle, pensive voice that I only rarely hear you use. “I know you have
a lot of conflicts in you – and I know you’re not ready to confide in me about them – but they’re
still not anything to grieve over. You feel the weight of it every time you cast off morality and
obey your instincts, yet your conflicts have always had the skill to wrench ugliness out of the world
and leave something beautiful in its place. Haven’t I always told you that you are an alchemist?
Indeed, I find the synchronicity of the whole thing to be incredibly fascinating. Because regardless
of what you do in the future, your actions so far have transformed what is unworthy and useless
into something artistic. They set into motion a train of events that yields beauty and purpose.”

“What do you mean?” I say quietly.

You smile again then lean down to press another kiss against my forehead. Your hand is on my
face again now: palm cupped gently beneath my chin so you can stroke your fingertips across my
cheekbone. “Because,” you reply, “they brought you here to me.”

Chapter End Notes

While I’d love to say I was clever enough to think of it myself, some of the dialogue in
this chapter was based on this very fascinating interview with our Lord and Saviour
Bryan Fuller, where he talks about different ways the devil is represented in media xox
 Chapter 9

The next few days are like something from the Phony War in which we tiptoe round each other on
our best behaviour while secretly trying to out-do the other person over who can be the most good-
natured and considerate. Lots of smiling, compromising and exaggerated politeness (‘Oh no, you
first – I insist!’) and so on and so forth. It’s actually a bit ridiculous, and not even entirely sincere.
Privately I suspect that the gravity of the argument over Jack has unsettled us both. Only neither of
us seems to want to address it, so rather than acknowledge what’s happened it’s like we’re trying to
erase it completely by acting like something out a TV sitcom who never argues at all.

At least that’s part of it. God knows what you’re ever thinking, but my own rationale is admittedly
far more paranoid: namely a neurotic, gnawing fantasy that you might get caught and how I
wouldn’t want to feel I’d spent our final weeks together being a massive dick to you. This is
another thing that’s ridiculous, because it’s not like I even seriously think it’ll happen (of course it
won’t; I won’t let it happen). Even so, it appears there’s a subconscious part of me who’s
completely obsessed with the idea and is using it to steer my behaviour without any sort of
permission. I’m sure you’ve noticed something odd in how I’m acting and it’s fortunate you don’t
ask about it because what would I say? ‘What do you mean I’m being nicer than usual? Isn’t it
obvious? It’s because I don’t want you to spend the years in your next glass box remembering how
I was a massive dick to you.’ But then of course I never ask you for an explanation either, so while
a mature discussion would no doubt be the best way forward it seems we’re just a pair of
emotionally stunted Man Children who can’t quite manage it. To be fair you’re always more
outwardly affectionate than I am so your own changes aren’t as noticeable, although they’re
definitely still there. I frown for a few seconds, trying to think of the right word to describe it.
‘Devoted’ is a bit over the top. Possibly ‘attentive’? I think about this for a few more seconds then
frown again because it’s not quite right either. Maybe it’s something in between the two? But
whatever the word is I think you’re mostly just happy I haven’t walked out on you, which makes
me suspect you’re not quite as secure about things as I always assumed you were. It’s ironic really.
I spend so long obsessing about our relationship – and how difficult you are to deal with – that it
never really occurs to me how you might do the same.

If your own changes are focussed on being affectionate then mine are made from sterner stuff and
favour the practical and pragmatic. I suppose this difference was pretty predictable, because you
can be positively lavish in dispensing attention when you want to whereas I tend to be a bit
more….brisk. As such my campaign Not To Be A Massive Dick mostly manifests itself through
doing things: fetching items before you have a chance to ask for them, offering multiple backrubs,
and even attempting to make you several meals. If the situation were reversed I’d probably find it
annoying, but I think you seem to like being fussed over. Possibly it’s your entitled, aristocratic
side coming out. In fact it almost certainly is: having a pseudo-servant is probably a dream come
true. In this respect the fetching and carrying seems like a particular success, although I inevitably
wind up feeling self-conscious over the cooking because it’s so woefully below your own
standards. It makes me think I should probably ask you to teach me sometime because I’m sure I
could learn and I know you’d love to show me. But at the moment there’s no way I can rival your
haute cuisine and it feels overly fake and pathetic to try (not to mention potentially hazardous,
seeing how some days I can’t even seem to operate a potato peeler without mutilating myself in the
process). Instead I revert to the relics from my old life, which tend towards the sort of stodgy
homely staples that form the culinary frontier of single men the world over: bowls of chili, over-
done steaks, and volcanic scarlet sauce on writhing pasta that masquerades as spaghetti. It’s hard to
believe you actually enjoy eating this crap but I’m pretty sure you appreciate the effort. As a
further display of goodwill I even roll up my sleeves and repair the extractor fan in the kitchen for
you, which is one of those random tasks I’ve been meaning to do for ages and never managed to
find time for. I find it boring, yet also strangely restful, which is a feeling I often have when doing
anything mechanical. In fact in the midst of so much uncertainty the logical workings of pipes and
valves are rather reassuring in how predictable they are and I feel like I’ll almost be disappointed
when the job is over.

You always enjoy watching me doing manual work and sure enough you materialise in the kitchen
a few minutes later, pulling up a chair then pretending to read a newspaper (but really so you can
take constant sneaky glances over the top of it). After a while this scrutiny grows annoying so in
revenge I ask you to help me by passing me tools, despite it being obvious that you don’t know
what any of them are and are having to make an educated guess. It’s actually pretty funny, so
eventually I start asking for ones I don’t need – and then imaginary ones that don’t actually exist,
just to fuck with you.

“Sonic screwdriver, please,” I say.

There’s a long pause: I smirk slightly into the depths of the cabinet. “You know you don’t have to
do that yourself?” you finally reply. “The letting agency can take care of it.”

I suppose this is a legitimate point. But contacting the agency would also mean contacting Matteo,
and while he’s recently been demoted on my mental list of problems to make way for Jack the
reference to him still makes me frown. “It’s fine,” I say firmly. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, you don’t have to.”

“You could always just do it.” I wait a few more seconds then finally decide to show a bit of mercy
and reach into the toolbox myself to retrieve a wrench. “Oh sorry I forgot. You can’t.” I turn round
then give you a brief smirk. “Bit useless really, aren’t you?”

Behind me I can hear you settle back into your chair again. “It would appear so,” you say happily.
“I’m evidently not as technically-minded as you are.”

“Evidently not.” You always pronounce ‘technically-minded’ is such a fastidious way that it
manages to sound like an insult; I allow myself a fond, private eye-roll before rummaging in the
toolbox again for some bolts. “I suppose you think you’re above that sort of thing?”

“Do you?” you reply with exaggerated sincerity. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

I give a huff of laughter then push the cabinet closed and lean over to flick on the switch of the fan.
It comes roaring back to life with a contented purring noise and I have a few moments of genuine
satisfaction before levering round to climb off the counter – only to let out a startled ‘oof’ noise a
few seconds later when you abruptly take hold of me to lift me back up again. The unexpectedness
of it makes me laugh and I swing my legs forward so I can wrap them round your waist, tugging
you hard enough to nearly make you lose your balance.

“Got you,” I say.

“So it would seem.” You smile a bit then reach out to adjust my glasses back into their proper
position. “That was a very underhand move. What a little villain you are.”

“What a pushover you are.” I move my face down until I can press it into the curve of your
shoulder. “You’re also annoying.”

“And you are charming,” you say. “You’ve been extremely considerate in the past few days.”

This makes me clear my throat. It sounds very awkward – mostly because it is. “No I haven’t,” I
say. “Not really.”

“Yes: really. And it is both noted and appreciated. Might I ask why?”

I stare back at you then blink a few times. Because I don’t want you to spend the years in your next
glass box remembering how I was a massive dick to you. “I don’t know,” I say vaguely. “Do I need
a reason?”

“Not especially. I suppose you can be as capricious as you want to be.” You smirk a bit then give
me a playful tap on the side of the noise. “It is beauty’s privilege.”

“Oh God, shut up,” I say. “You should be grateful I don’t turn round and vomit over you.”

“Probably.” You smile again before leaning back and adding in a more serious voice: “Just as long
as the consideration is from choice and not because you’re acting from a place of…”

“A place of what?”

This time you pause yourself; it’s obvious you’re trying to be tactful and find the right word. “Of
fear,” you eventually say.

Internally I feel myself sigh. I suppose it was inevitable you’d work it out; I must be even more
transparent than I realised. But then I’ve also got a pretty good idea for why your behaviour has
changed and I won’t address that with you either. We’re clearly both as useless as each other.
Although we’re hardly a model for healthy relationships so I suppose this isn’t exactly surprising.
After all, most people feel they’ve made progress with a partner when they’re ready to live
together, whereas our first sign of positive development was reaching a point where neither of us
wanted to actively kill the other.

“Look, it’s fine,” I reply, even though it’s not. “I’m done here now. Do you want to…I don’t know.
Watch TV or something?”

“Television?” you repeat.

You sound faintly anguished and it reminds me, possibly for the millionth time, of how incredibly
different our social backgrounds are. You’re so cultured and refined in your interests (well…most
of your interests) and I barely have a single shit to give about any of that stuff. Compared to you
it’s like I’m just a few degrees removed from keg stands and beer pong. “Or music or, I don’t
know…whatever you like.” I shrug, slightly apologetic, as my reserve of cultured interests abruptly
runs dry. “I’m just not really in the mood to talk.”

“When are you ever?” you reply in the same fond way. “It’s fortunate for me you’re so easy on the
eye, as you are a positive famine for the ears.”

“Yeah I know,” I say. “Probably because I can’t ever get a word in.”

This makes you laugh – although I notice you don’t even try to deny it – before finally letting go of
me so you can saunter off to the cupboard to retrieve a bottle of wine and two glasses. You then
tuck the whole lot under your arm and saunter off again; this time towards the living room to light
some candles (which is an indulgently dramatic habit I’ve never been able to wean you away from,
despite how much simpler it would be to just turn on a goddamn lamp). I follow behind you then
fling myself across the sofa so I can lie on my back and brood for a bit until you finally return
again to pour out the wine. Unlike you (a hardened grape nerd) I’ve never been able to work up
much enthusiasm for it, although am trying to show a bit more interest for your sake. Admittedly
these attempts also have a limited success rate, and after I put a bottle of Merlot by the fire to get it
to room temperature you looked so appalled that you’ve started politely asking me to show less
interest (or preferably none at all). Even so, this bottle is actually pretty good. It’s rich and dark
with a pleasantly spicy undertone, and two glasses quickly turn into three when you suddenly stand
up again to change the music. Normally your tastes tend to favour the heavy and dramatic – Verdi,
Dvořák,or Wagner; lots of crashing brass and shrieking percussion – but this time it’s soft and
melodious with a little yearning undertone to the lower notes. I can’t remember who the composer
is although I’m sure I’ve heard you play it before in your old house. Briefly I close my eyes, trying
and failing to dredge up the memory. In the grand scheme of things it’s not even that long ago, yet
so much has happened since then it feels like a different lifetime – a gauzy, dreamlike interlude
that happened to someone else.

“This is nice,” I say vaguely. My eyes are still closed but I can tell you’re nearby from the sound of
your breathing. You don’t respond though, so I finally crack open an eye and discover that you’re
actually stood straight over me while holding out your hand. “What?” I ask, squinting upwards at
you from beneath my hair. “What do you want?”

“I want you to dance with me,” you say. “Now.”

The idea of this is so surreal that I start to laugh. “You must be joking? You’re joking aren’t you?”
You start to smile but keep your hand exactly where it is. “No,” I add firmly. “No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because – because it’s dumb.” Then I realise this is open invitation for something torturously
pedantic (‘But why is it ‘dumb’ Will? Define dumb…’ ) so hastily add: “I don’t like dancing.”

You raise a single eyebrow: it’s clear you’re not buying it. “Is that so?” you reply. “I find it hard to
believe you’ve done it often enough to know whether you like it or not.”

“Look I just know, all right? Anyway, I don’t want to.”

By this point anyone else would have taken the hint but you just keep standing there with your
hand a few inches from my face. “I think you just feel self-conscious,” you say. “Which is a waste
of emotion, because there’s no one here to see you but me.” I stubbornly close my eyes again in an
attempt to dismiss you, but I can still hear the smile in your voice as you add: “I warn you, I am
quite determined.”

For a few seconds there’s silence and I’m starting to think you might have actually given up when
you abruptly dart forward to tug me to my feet. I let out a noise that’s intended to be dignified and
imposing, only it ends up going wrong halfway through and instead comes out as a kind of screech
(an image of a pterodactyl unhelpfully comes to mind).

“Stop it!” I say. “I don’t want to. I don’t want you pulling me round the room.”

“Then you may pull me around the room instead. I give you full permission to lead.”

As you’re speaking you manoeuvre my arms until they’re hooked round you then snugly drape
your own across my shoulders (me still wriggling and protesting the entire time with assorted
variations of ‘No…this is stupid...stop it you maniac’). “There you go,” you say. “You dance
beautifully.”

I begin to laugh despite myself then finally admit defeat and let my cheek rest against your chest.
You tighten your grip in response, your palm shifting downwards until it’s resting on the small of
my back as you gently but firmly turn me around to the music. “This is so stupid,” I add. “If you
ever tell anyone I will kill you.”

“Noted.”

“I don’t even mean that as a euphemism. I will literally kill you.”

“But who would I tell?” you reply. “No one here would be remotely interested.” Your greater
height means you’re able to loom over me at intervals so I can’t pull away; I can’t help thinking
you’re doing it on purpose. I make a huffing noise and you pause a few seconds before adding in
an overly innocent voice: “Unless you think I’m going to inform on you to Jack?”

This is the first time you’ve mentioned Jack in several days and the fact you’ve chosen such a
surreal context to do it in feels like a deliberate attempt to provoke me. The urge to call you out on
this is briefly overwhelming, but I really don’t want another argument after we’ve been getting on
so well. Besides, I’m not sure I have the energy for it. Instead I reach round and give your hair a
light tug to show that I’m onto you.

“Whatever,” I say. I sound like a sulky teenager but to be honest it’s the least of what you deserve.
“Although I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure that would definitely be Jack’s main concern following a
message from you.”

You make a vague noise of agreement then dip your head slightly so you can press your forehead
against mine. “Who knows,” you say innocently. “Perhaps it would?”

This is clearly a reference to Jack’s reaction to finding out we’re living together (that we’re…
partners? Lovers? I can never decide the right word) and the way you’re trivialising such a serious
threat manages to stir my simmering sense of anger all over again. You’re always so keen to push
things – it’s like you can’t help yourself.

“Okay, nice try,” I snap. “But if you’re looking for an argument you can have it with yourself.”

“Not at all.” You sound so calm and measured: it’s kind of infuriating. “It’s merely an
observation.”

There’s no way you’ll admit to stirring things, yet your willingness to back down is obvious and I
can’t help smirking at it. You’re actually surprisingly easy to control at times; I’m probably close
to the point that I could author a How To manual for managing you most effectively. I smirk again
then press up against you a little harder before tapping your hand top get your attention. You’re so
close I can smell your hair; can almost imagine I feel your heartbeat against mine.

“Excuse me Dr Lecter,” I say, straight into your ear, “but enough with the tugging.”

“Was I?”

“Yes, you were. I thought you were going to let me lead? That means you have to follow.”

You make an amused sound then shift your face until it’s gently resting against the side of my
head. “Indeed. You may lead me as much as you wish.”

“Good,” I say. It’s a surprising effort not to trample on your feet; your legs are so long they keep
appearing at unexpected intervals. “I do wish.”

I’m not really expecting you to, but to my surprise you stop pulling straight away and obediently let
me dictate the movement instead. In fact you seem extremely contented in a way that’s unusual for
you, and I’m already getting pre-emptive pangs of guilt at how you’ll almost certainly ask to do
this in public at some point and imagining the look of disappointment on your face when I say no. I
reach up then tenderly stroke the back of your neck; a silent apology for something I haven’t even
done yet.

You murmur something soft in a foreign language then brush your lips against my hair. “By the
way I was being entirely sincere,” you add. “You have an excellent sense of rhythm.”

“Do I?”

You smile again, tracing small circles against my shoulder blades before your hands slide back
down my spine to take hold of my waist. “Certainly you do.”

“Oh right,” I say. “Thanks.” The praise seems genuine, but I’m convinced that with a different
partner I’d probably be hopeless. In that respect I guess dancing counts as a type of
communication, because with you it’s more a case of natural synchronisation and connection.
There’s a need to anticipate the other person’s movement and attune with it, very fluid and
aligned…perhaps not all that different to a fight? Actually, yeah, they are somewhat similar. It’s
just another form of interaction and mirroring. They even call it that in movies, don’t they: fight
choreography. And I knew from the first time we killed someone together how precisely and
perfectly we could coordinate each other’s motion…

The realisation of this is startling (and, if I’m honest, vaguely unsettling) and I quickly screw my
eyes closed to banish it. I don’t want to see those things right now: not the fear, or the ecstasy, or
the black blood in the moonlight, not any of it. Such avoidance is hypocritical enough to make me
feel ashamed of myself, but I really can’t help it because even now – even after everything that’s
happened – my urge to suppress is so powerful that I’ll instinctively fall into it like the safety of
clasping arms. It’s a bad habit of mine and something I’ve never really managed to break.

I must look a bit vacant because you give me a sudden nudge with your forehead. “Where have you
gone?” you ask softly. “Stay here with me.”

“Sorry. I’m just…thinking about things.”

“I know, I can tell. That incendiary mind of yours; it never gives you any peace, does it?”

“Sometimes it does,” I say, skimming my hands up and down your back. Regardless of the earlier
praise it’s definitely you who has the dancing skill; for someone so powerfully built you’re
unexpectedly graceful and have a very precise sense of rhythm. If I’m honest I’ve surprised myself
with how much I’m enjoying it. Perhaps we could do this in public some time…possibly.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be so flippant,” you add. “I confess, I can’t persuade myself to feel much
anxiety at the thought of Jack coming here. However, I appreciate that for you it’s not a laughing
matter.”

My only response to this is another humming noise (which is all the response it deserves because of
course it isn’t a laughing matter). Then I’m tempted to remind you of all the trouble your deranged
ego has caused us in the past, only can’t think of a way to do it that wouldn’t tip the line from
affectionate irritation to genuine anger. It’s the kind of conversation I need to be in the right mood
to have. Plus I still have a genuine hope that it’ll prove unnecessary, given that what I really want
is to find a way to talk you out of going after Jack and let him return to America unharmed and
unaware. Admittedly my plan for achieving this hasn’t progressed beyond the initial point of
hatching it, but I still feel like it could be successful when the time comes. After all, I persuaded
you to leave Alana alone. That seemed equally unlikely, but you still did it.
“One more thing though,” you add suddenly. “After which I promise to drop the subject. But when
Jack does arrive, I don’t want you to be alone with him. Do you understand, Will? No contact
unless I’m present as well.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say irritably. “I can’t promise you that: you know I can’t.” I scowl for a bit
then give your shirt a sudden sharp tug as another thought occurs to me. “Look, I promise I’ll do
my absolute best to avoid him.” I add. “But if I do end up having to meet him about Il Macellaio
then don’t even think about turning up too. I mean it, Hannibal – I don’t care how well hidden you
think you are.”

You don’t reply straight away, instead just running your palm across my shoulders in a rather
meditative way. “I spent far too many years sharing you with Jack,” you say eventually. “I have
been extremely generous with him, yet my generosity has its limits. He needs to understand that
any attempts to acquire you again…” You pause slightly then proceed to press against my back
with your fingers as if you’re punctuating each word “are-destined-to-severe-disappointment.”

Your tone is just playful enough to imply you’re not being serious, but I know that you are.
Anyone would think Jack was an old lover coming back on the scene – although as far as you’re
concerned perhaps it’s not that far off. You’re so incredibly poised most of the time it’s hard to
think of you experiencing the same insecurities as anyone else, but admittedly I don’t think that’s
what this is. You’re not speaking from a place of insecurity as opposed to a powerful sense of
possessiveness and resentment, and even the idea of trying to break all that down makes me feel
exhausted.

“Look, let’s just drop it,” I say wearily. “I’m tired. We can talk about it later.” Which of course
we’ll have to, although God knows what that particular conversation will be like.

“If you insist.” You sound sympathetic now, although I’m not certain how genuine this is. “It’s a
real dilemma for you, isn’t it? You yearn for conflict yet wish to avoid it.”

“Hardly,” I snap. “It’s trouble that I want to avoid.”

“Same difference.”

“No, it’s really not.”

“Von Goethe had a suitable summary,” you continue. You sound very thoughtful; sometimes I
wonder if you even listen to a single word I say. “Two souls, alas, are dwelling in my breast, And
one is striving to forsake its brother.” You brush your mouth against my ear. “Rather like you.”

“Oh just be quiet.” I lightly nip my teeth against your throat to make you stop talking then close my
eyes again and press up even closer against your chest. “You’re always ringing that same bell.”

As I’m speaking I stumble slightly and it suddenly occurs to me that I might be a bit drunk. This
seems incredibly unfair. It’s not like I’ve even had that much; just two glasses (maybe three) but on
an empty stomach it’s always fatal. I sigh to myself then decide to use it as an excuse to cling onto
you a bit tighter. “Remind me to quote that back at you when you’re sat in the back of Jack’s squad
car,” I add bitterly.

This makes you laugh. “Thank you in advance,” you say. “I’m sure I will be very much obliged to
you. Although I hardly think you’ll need reminding: I have no doubt you’ll take a huge amount of
pleasure in telling me so.”

Deep down I know that the humour is just another denial strategy, although managing to refer to it
at all without an argument still feels like some sort of progress. “Yeah, Jack’s gonna be pissed,” I
say. “He’ll put you in a box then ship it on the first flight back to America. Then he’ll fly me back
straight after you…like I was your luggage.”

“He had better do that. Otherwise I would refuse to go.”

“Just you wait,” I say mournfully. “They’ll put you in another glass box. Only a worse one.”

“And how would they contrive to make it worse?”

“I’m sure they’d think of something,” I add in a more ominous voice.

“Indeed.”

“I know…maybe they’d put vermin in it? Something that would bite you.”

“Mmm, imagine that.”

“Something vicious.” I go quiet for a few moments, trying to think of a good example. “Like…like
weasels,” I finally add. “Weasels. And vipers.”

“Weasels and vipers?”

“Yes,” I reply with dignity. “That’s what I said.”

You go quiet for a few seconds before finally giving up and starting to laugh. “You are drunker
than I thought you were,” you say. “When did you last eat?”

I screw my face up with the effort of trying to work it out; from the expression on your own it
seems like you’re experiencing a serious struggle not to start laughing again at the sight of it. “I
dunno,” I say eventually. “Maybe yesterday.”

“Then you need some food.”

“Nah, I’ll be all right.” In my head this sounds heroic, like I’m persisting through unspeakable
adversity; I leave a suitably dramatic silence as if waiting for the applause to break out. “I’ll just
get some water.”

“You need food,” you say. “I know you lose your appetite under stress, but you can’t stay healthy
without proper nutrition.”

“Oh give it a rest can’t you? You’re not a doctor anymore.” I pause then glower at you from
beneath my hair. “You were struck off, remember? Twice.”

“Yes,” you say calmly. “I’m aware. But I don’t have to be certified to know you that you need to
eat.”

“I do eat.”

“Not at the moment you don’t. Eating implies vigour. At the very most you could be said to
nibble.”

“I do not nibble,” I say with excessive dignity. “You’re the one who nibbles.” I go quiet for a few
seconds then emit a weird snorting noise. “Hannibbles.”

You wait patiently until I’ve stopped cackling (this admittedly takes a while) then repeat in the
same calm voice: “You should have some food.”

“No. Like I said – I’ll have some water. I mean I’m not drunk exactly. I’m just, I’m…Hmm.
What’s the word for being half-drunk?”

“I think you are what could be described as ‘tipsy’.”

As soon as you say this I can feel my face fall. Tipsy sounds like a character from a Disney film or
a name for a kitten. There is precisely zero dignity in being tipsy: I’d rather be bombed or
smashed. It’s cringe, is what it is. In fact, the cringe levels are so extreme they exceed the existing
capacity of science to measure them; possibly new forms of calculation will have to be invented. I
now get a bit preoccupied with deciding what these might be (quantum cringe…Pythagoras’ cringe
theorum…cringe = mc²) before finally remembering to open my mouth again to inform you of
some of this. But before I can manage it the music cuts out and you immediately hold us very still,
your head tilted slightly like you’re listening to the sound of our breathing in the suddenly silent
room.

“The irrepressible Will Graham,” you murmur, straight into my ear. “So fragile yet so fierce and
resolute. I adore it, Will. I am captivated by it.”

“Oh shut up,” I say grumpily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do. You’re feeling so afraid of what could happen, yet you’re going to face the fear
regardless – then just sigh and shrug whenever I try to praise you for it. Your courage is
impressive, mylimasis. You’re so beautifully broken yet never, ever broken-spirited.”

“No, I’m not.”

“But you are. The two things are not the same – you must realise that? All these pieces of you, yet
you’re not truly fragmented.”

“Oh do shut up.”

“I shall not,” you reply with another smile. “Let me rhapsodise about you in peace. You deserve it,
Will. The way the light shines through your slivers and cracks…luminous in all your damage.
What is it going to take for you to appreciate yourself?”

“Mmm, let me guess. I suppose you want me to say ‘you’?”

Instead of replying you just let your smile broaden a bit further bending down to kiss my forehead.
“I want you to be safe and happy,” you add in a more serious voice. “So once again, I shall give
you my word that I will never put myself in a situation that would risk us being separated.”

“Yeah well, you better not,” I say gruffly. I can feel a surge of emotion at the thought of it which
catches my throat and makes my eyes sting in a distinctly ominous way; I bury my face into the
front of your shirt to hide it. “You can forget about Jack – I’d be far more pissed with you than he
ever would be.”

“Would you indeed?” you say. “Worse than the weasels and vipers?”

This makes me laugh and your smile becomes a bit softer before you lean down to press an
affectionate kiss to the top of my head. “Mongooses are even worse,” I add. I say this very
earnestly, as if I think I’m scoring a serious zoological point. “Mongooses are like…large, vicious
weasels.”
“Indeed they are,” you reply, equally seriously. “They also destroy vipers.” You reach up then
begin to curl a strand of my hair around your finger. “I should have to lodge an appeal to the Prison
Services to instal you in my cell.”

“No, stop it,” I say tragically. “Stop calling me a mongoose.”

“But why when you are such an attractive one? Adorable, in fact.”

I scowl silently into your shirt. This doesn’t seem like a particularly positive development: it
basically means that as far as you’re concerned I’m an adorable murder weasel. I try to think of a
way of explaining this that won’t sound completely demented and you take advantage of the
silence to run your hands across my waist, deftly untucking my shirt as you go so you can stroke
against my bare skin.

“You feel so warm,” you say softly. “Humid, almost. As if there’s a fire inside you.”

Your fingers are dipping lower and lower as you’re speaking and I give a small sigh then arch up
against your chest. “I know,” I finally manage to say. “It’s because it’s too hot.”

“It’s the Mediterranean, my love. It’s supposed to be hot.”

“It must have been nearly 90 this morning.”

“Probably. Maybe a little more.”

“Yes, well, it’s all right for you,” I say. “I suppose you’re in training for the hell-fires.”

Your lips promptly start to twitch, the way they always do when you’re struggling not to laugh.
“What a delicate plant you are,” you reply. “It’s clear you flourish in the shade. I should never
have transported you here, should I? I blame myself for your current predicament.”

“That’s good,” I say. “I blame you too.”

“Then we’ll have to do something about it, won’t we?” You lean forward then kiss my forehead
again. “Go and get some water. It will serve your own purpose of cooling down and mine of
sobering you up.”

“What if I don’t want to sober up?” I say. “Maybe I like being…” Tipsytipsytipsy. “Half-cut?” I
conclude firmly.

“Maybe you do.” You smile again (this time one of your more smouldering, suggestive varieties)
then trail a finger down my bare arm. “But I have several plans for tonight and they all require you
to be at least halfway compos mentis.”

“Ugh,” I say. “You’re such a killjoy.” I go silent for a few moments before emitting the same
cackling noise as before. “Although I suppose you kill everything else so you might as well kill joy
too.”

You finally admit defeat and laugh out loud before ruffling my hair in the sort of casual,
affectionate way that shows how much you’re enjoying seeing me unwind. “You are a true
logician,” you say. “Water, mylimasis – now. Then wait for me in the bedroom. I have bought you
a gift.”

This immediately makes me smile as well because I really like getting presents from you; you
always choose ones which are very beautiful and unusual, the type of things it would never occur
to anyone else to buy. They’ll often be expensive, which feels a bit awkward, but it’s also in a
tasteful understated way that conceals rather than flaunts the money spent on them: antique
cufflinks, a reproduction Schütte figurine, or an Eri silk shirt of such a deep vivid blue it was like a
slice of night-time sky. Your most recent one was a book about fishing, published in the 1800s and
filled with delicate watercolours that some long-dead Angler must have spent years creating; the
loving attention to detail visible in every single brushstroke.

“That was kind of you,” I now say. “Thanks very much.” Secretly I try to work out what it might
be. My best guess is whiskey, because you know I’ve got a weakness for it and I was complaining
last week about how long it’s been since I’ve had any. A package recently arrived for you stamped
from Tyrol and I’m fairly sure there’s a distillery there.

You smile again then run your finger along the side of my cheek. As usual, you opt for the one
with the scar. It’s like you’re weirdly fond of it – you’ll almost never choose the unblemished side
if you have a choice. “You’re welcome,” you say. And then, when I just carry on standing there:
“Go on. I’ll join you in a moment.”

As I watch you turn around and vanish into the kitchen so I turn around too then obediently lumber
upstairs; very slow and deliberate the entire time like I’m having a DUI test. It’s tempting to just
crawl into bed and wait for you there, but I’ve remembered your advice about the water so go to
the bathroom first to down a large glass then splash my face a few times in an attempt to sober up.
My phone is sticking out my pocket and I find myself casting furtive glances at it, overwhelmed by
a sudden urge to see if anything’s happened in the last few hours. No, don’t check the news, I
mutter out loud – and I like the way it sounds, so do I it again. Don’t check it, I repeat under my
breath. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

The phone is still in my line of vision and in that moment it feels like a little avatar of everything
I’m worried about. I might as well have Jack in my pocket. I decide to straighten up so I don’t have
to see it anymore, but as soon as I do I see the mirror instead and it’s then that I realise how pale
my reflection is with a sad haunted expression flickering behind the eyes. The dread in it is
undeniable but I still stare back at it defiantly, daring it to try and contradict me – daring it to try
and imply that I’m walking blind into disaster. We’re fine as long as we’re together, I tell it, even
though I’m no longer sure whether I’m talking about solidarity with that frightened part of myself
or communion with you. Not that it really matters that much, I suppose. You, me: it’s all the same.
It’s the exact sensation I had when we were dancing, and it reminds me of how it sometimes feels
like it’s not enough to simply desire you, it’s as if I want to be you. It’s as if the only way I could
ever be close enough is to step inside you; to climb into your body and wear it as my own. Like I
how I feel I could fuse with you, if such a thing was possible. That if were possible, then I would
absolutely do it.

This is an old refrain that’s pretty much shaped me since we first met: the feeling that the only way
I can truly know myself is through knowing you. It was intense enough before we went over the
cliff but now it’s all-consuming, and while I can’t exactly say for sure when it really took full hold
I know it’s led me to a state where I sometimes feel that we’re not always two people anymore but
one. Me but not-me. That when I look at you I see myself staring back, and how I don’t always
know anymore where I end and you begin. You feel the same of course, and I know it’s what
drives your endless lectures about embracing and appreciating myself because you understand that
the day I accept the darker parts of my own nature is the day I fully accept you. I’m not there yet,
but it’s closer than it was; closer than it’s ever been. What would it be like if I just let go and
embraced it? Two halves of the same whole: myself as you, and you as me. Not that it really
matters because it’s already too late to change. It was too late from the first moment you saw me
and decided you wanted to see how far it was possible to go.
I let out a sudden loud sigh then press my forehead against the coolness of the glass. These are such
deep thoughts and I’m not really sure how to deal with them. Admittedly it’s partly a result of
stress and alcohol but even sober and calm I know they’d still be there…right alongside that
marriage proposal which I still haven’t properly acknowledged. My face is close against the mirror
now but even in this position I can still see the edge of my reflection; can still feel how afraid it is. I
can’t be you forever, I tell it. We have to stay here. We can’t leave. I have no idea if it’s the right
decision. But it’s the one I’ve made – that you and I have made together – and it no longer seems
possible to retract it. So eventually I do the only thing I can think of to do: which is to slowly
straighten up then take one final look in the mirror before I turn my back on it, switching off the
light as I do so and plunging it into darkness as I close the door behind me.
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

Hey lovely Fannibals! So, I decided we’ve all had a bit too much angst recently…
which means this week’s chapter is pretty much nothing but porn with a bit of fluff on
top. Yeah that’s right: pure porn-fluff (over 14k words of it). Apologies in advance for
anyone who’s not really into that, but if you didn’t come for fluffy porn then you
should definitely stay for the exquisite art the very talented sailfin has made for the
fic, which you can feast your eyes on here.

It’s hard to switch off after such intense self-reflection and despite my best efforts I’m not quite
able to manage it. I really wish I could – I’d love to have the sort of personality that shrugs off its
moods like a snake shedding skin. Like you, for example, who can carelessly discard whatever
thought or feeling is inconvenient, whereas I seem condemned to carry each last one like a rock
around my neck. In the end I decide to give up even trying, so just drag myself to the bedroom
instead where I hunch myself cross-legged on the bed with my face cupped in my palm. I feel
pensive yet restless and eventually get so lost in my thoughts that I barely even register when you
walk in a few minutes later. You politely clear your throat to announce yourself and when I glance
up I can see that you’re carrying a small black bag. I suppose this must be the gift, but instead of
handing it over you just lay it on the floor then climb onto the bed so you can sit next to me.

I make a small grunting noise that’s intended to pass as a greeting and you smile then reach out to
touch my arm with your finger. “You make yourself look so small when you do that,” you say.
“Like a kaukas.”

“A what-as?”

You shrug; if I didn’t know any better I’d say you looked slightly self-conscious. “It’s a folklore
creature,” you reply after a pause. “From Lithuania. I’m not sure why such an image occurred to
me, but evidently it has.”

“Oh yeah?” Now I’m intrigued: it’s rare for you to make any reference to your past and even a
trivial little morsel like this manages to retain a quality of intrigue. I’ve actually made a habit of
collecting such snippets whenever you deign to mention them – although admittedly the interest is
probably misplaced in this instance, seeing how there’s a high likelihood you’ve just compared me
to the European equivalent of a garden gnome.

“Feeling nostalgic, are you?” I ask. I make myself sound casual; a deliberate prompt to see if you
can be coaxed into confiding something else.

“No, not especially. As I said: I don’t know why that comparison came to mind.”

“What are kaukas anyway?” I add. The name sounds evocative, and I’ve got a vague idea that they
might turn out to be something impressive.

“Kaukai are small creatures that could form themselves out of dust,” you reply – and which
promptly destroys that particular hope, because it’s already clear that kaukai (far from being
amazing and badass) are possibly the lamest things ever. Even lamer than garden gnomes, if such a
thing were possible. “A kaukas in one’s home meant a preservation of happiness and wellbeing,”
you add. “Their appearance was something to be hoped for.” You smile then shrug again. “I
remember being told about them when I was a child.”

This makes me smile as well. “I can’t imagine you as a child.”

“No?” you say with amusement. “Well, I can assure you I was one. I didn’t just spring into the
world fully-formed.”

“Obviously,” I say, although to be honest it’s not obvious. It’s not obvious at all. If anything, it’s
probably easier to imagine you being hatched than it is with something so mundane as a childhood
and parents, the same as anybody else. I suppose if I try really hard I can just about see you as a
teenager, although only as an older one – maybe about 17. In other words, practically an adult,
which is no doubt what makes it easier to visualize. It’s also impossible to imagine that 17-year-old
you would have had any lower reserves of poise and confidence than the fully-grown version,
although I guess you would still have been slimmer and more willowy back then. Softer edges and
looser limbs…perhaps even some hair tangling in your eyes? You wouldn’t have had time to grow
into the sculptured features that are so distinguished by age and would probably have looked a bit
lean and sinuous: eyes too large in a thin face and the suppleness of a greyhound which is built for
speed rather than strength. A child, though…an actual child. Could you ever really have been one?
For a few seconds I do my best to picture it and eventually manage a vague facsimile of what you
might have been: a solemn silent dark-eyed little boy, intensely curious of everything around you
while remaining strangely detached from it.

I now glance up at you and give you a rather rueful smile. “I bet you intimidated everyone,” I say.
“And that you were the sort of kid who broke all their toys.”

For a few seconds you just stare at me and I realise you must have already intuited a double
meaning that I wasn’t fully intending to make. You’re so sharp sometimes: I feel like I could cut
myself on the corners of your mind. “Is that meant as a rebuke by any chance?” you reply.
“Because if so, I can assure you that I have never seen you as a toy.”

“A plaything, then,” I say. “Something to amuse yourself with.” I’m trying to be flippant, but it
comes out a bit sterner than planned – clearly I haven’t shaken off my bathroom introspection as
well as I thought I had.

Once more you carry on staring, your eyes bearing very fixedly in mine. Your expression is as
smooth and planed as a bit of marble; it’s impossible to tell what you’re really thinking. Sometimes
this quality of yours can be a strain, but over time I’ve also learnt to appreciate it and this is
undoubtedly one of those moments. After all, I get so bombarded with the contents of other
people’s minds that confronting one that’s virtually impenetrable can sometimes be rather soothing.

“Well if I did, I would always re-assemble them again,” you finally reply. “At least the ones which
were precious enough to take the trouble over. And they always came out better than they were
before.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Better?”

This time you start to smile. That faint sense of tension has already dissolved – if it was ever truly
there in the first place. “In my own estimation, yes. But perhaps that answer doesn’t please you, in
which case we can give the result a more inspiring name. Call it invigorated. Call it transformed.”

“Call it whatever you like,” I say lightly. “I’m with Bathes on this one: your interpretation of your
own work is irrelevant.”
“Oh yes, The Death of the Author. Then I suppose I shall have to accept defeat, won’t I? What an
infuriatingly clever boy you are.”

“Only you won’t accept it,” I reply in the same casual way. “You never have.”

Your smile promptly begins to broaden. You always relish these verbal sparring matches (unlike
me, who only manages an enjoyment rate around 60% of the time). “That is because I am very
possessive of my creations. Nevertheless, your point remains a good one. Artworks are orphan
things, after all. Their parents create them and then abandon their offspring for an audience to
describe and interpret.”

“And you still think you can interpret me?”

“I think I should like to try.”

“Knock yourself out then,” I say. I suppose now would be as good a time as any to tell you about
my fraught session in front of the mirror, but even as the thought occurs to me I know I’m not
going to. My head hurts, I’m still too hot, and just for once I want to be able to relax without
playing weird mind games. Not that there isn’t a certain irony to this wish, seeing how the mind
games are one of the things which draws me to you – and always have been.

“Shall we go to bed then?” I say to change the subject. Privately I’m curious about what the gift
might be, but you haven’t mentioned it yet and I feel shy about bringing it up myself (not least
because it’s hard to find a way of asking ‘What about my present?’ which won’t make me sound
like a sulky five-year old, and I don’t think my sense of ingenuity is up to it).

Instead of replying you just lean back on your heels then regard me for a while with that same faint
smile on your face. “What?” I protest. “What are you staring at?”

“You,” you say. “Obviously.”

“Would want like to know what else is obvious?” You promptly raise an eyebrow: please
enlighten me. “Your staring is creepy,” I add with a hint of triumph. “And rude. So stop it.”

“But I can’t stop it. I am a slave to my own fascination. Besides, I am thinking about what I wish
you do to.”

“And what do you wish me to do?”

“I should have thought was also obvious,” you say silkily. “I want you to take your clothes off.”

This makes me laugh; you’re not usually so unsubtle and it’s actually kind of funny. “Take your
clothes off,” I repeat, in an (admittedly terrible) approximation of your accent. “Have you even
heard yourself? You’re so authoritative.”

“Yes,” you reply with a slow smile. “I dare say.”

“I’m tired. And, y’know…tipsy. Can’t you do it?”

“Yes, I suppose I could,” you pause a few seconds then give me a long, slow smile. “But I am not
going to. I want to watch you.”

“But I’m tipsy,” I say.

“Yes, it is a very great tragedy.” You smirk then deliberately fold your arms together. “You will
simply have to persevere.”

I roll my eyes at you, followed up with something that feels dangerously close to pouting. But it’s
clear you won’t change your mind, so finally I just sigh again like someone with the weight of the
world on their shoulders before unfastening my shirt with one hand while tugging at my belt with
the other. Admittedly it’s not very seductive – I’m a bit clumsy with the buttons and my jeans get
tangled with one of my ankles (the bastards) and require some undignified tugging to remove – but
I eventually manage it. Then I settle myself upright and throw you a defiant look from beneath my
eyelashes. It’s strange to think how self-conscious I once would have felt at doing this. Now I not
only don’t care but can even derive a certain satisfaction from it. I’ve never particularly enjoyed
attention, but I can’t deny there’s something intensely addictive about the effect I’m able to have
on you simply by allowing you to look at me.

You reach over to tuck a stray bit of hair behind my ear. “Excellent,” you say. “I appreciate your
cooperation. Now please turn round.”

“Do I have to?” I’ve begun scrabbling at your own clothes now, but you just keep smiling then
batting my hands away. “Lie down, can’t you,” I add bossily. “Behave yourself for once.” In fact
I’m fairly desperate by now to just drape myself across your back and fuck you (I’d wrestle with
you for it if I had to), but it’s clear from the determined set of your mouth that this isn’t what you
have in mind. Sure enough, you reach out to take hold of my forearms, gently but firmly
manoeuvring me round.

“There will be plenty more opportunities,” you say. “But tonight I have other plans for us.”

I groan in a rather martyred way, but I don’t really want another argument so obediently shuffle
away in a neat semi-circle as you reach across the bed to retrieve the bag. You keep a hand on my
shoulder as you do it, which makes me smile – it’s like you don’t want me to feel neglected for
even the few seconds it would take to move away. An intriguing series of rustling sounds then
follow, at which point the urge to swing round for a crafty look grows almost overwhelming.
Instead I just laugh a bit at how inane the whole thing feels and you kiss my shoulder blade before
tugging me backwards against your chest. At some point you must have removed your own shirt
too, because I can immediately feel the warmth of your skin against mine.

“That’s better,” you say, beginning to nuzzle the side of my face with your cheek. “How compliant
you’re being; I intend to make the most of it while it lasts. Mano mielasis…my little wild thing.”

This makes me laugh again. “Okay, stop it now,” I tell you. “You’re being weird.”

“Yes, quite possibly I am,” you reply. You sound very happy about this – it’s like I can insult you
as much as I want to and you don’t give a shit. “It’s true though. You’re so untameable. You
always have been. When Jack Crawford arrives…” I give your leg a quick prod as a warning not to
push things too far and you laugh yourself then catch hold of my hand and kiss the back of it.
“When Jack Crawford arrives,” you add, completely undeterred, “then you can ask him yourself. I
think you’ll find he agrees with my analysis. He could never control you either.”

I’m tempted to prod you again but there hardly seems any point: as far as you’re concerned the
embargo on Jack has been lifted and it’s clear you’re going to make a habit of mentioning him as
much as possible just to be provoking. “Well, at least you’re admitting you can’t,” I say pointedly.

You make an amused sound then pull me against you a little tighter so you can rest your face next
to mine. It feels nice; I swivel my head as far as I can to press a rather clumsy kiss against your jaw.
“Naturally,” you say. “But unlike him that was never my intention. When confronted with
something wild then one can endeavour to tame it by force – which is what Jack tried and failed to
do – or instead invest the necessary time and patience in attempting to gain its trust.”

From the satisfied tone of your voice it’s clear you give yourself a huge amount of credit for
choosing the latter; it’s like you’re expecting a round of applause or something. I roll my eyes a bit
then twist round again, this time to give you an affectionate nudge with my forehead.

“Trust,” I repeat with obvious irony. “Not the word I’d choose myself.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would. But that’s because I haven’t gained it – most likely I never will.
In fact I almost certainly won’t, because the day that happens would be the day I was fully able to
predict you, and I can’t imagine such a thing will ever occur. Do you know what you remind me of
beloved? You’re like a tiger cub who’s been raised by humans. Affectionate and playful one
moment then savage and hostile the next, all because you can’t repress your true nature. It means I
can’t domesticate you – and I wouldn’t presume to try.”

I suppose this isn’t the worst analogy you’ve ever used (in fact, given the kaukai and their epic
shitness, it’s not even the worst analogy you’ve used today) but it still leaves me vaguely
uncomfortable. Even so, you’re still not wrong. It’s been a long time since I was afraid of you
physically hurting me, but the idea of you gaining any serious psychological control remains as
unsettling as it’s always been. My independence is so important to me and I know you’d take it if
you could.

“Domesticated,” I say, trying to aim for a joke to disguise it. “You’re making me sound like I need
house-breaking.”

You repeat the same amused sound from earlier then kiss the tip of my cheekbone (yours manage
to get involved too halfway through and practically gouges me in the ear: seriously, those bastards
need their own risk assessment). “It’s not quite as severe as that,” you reply. “But you can’t deny
you’re not fully adapted to share a living space, at least not with me. You’re so wild and wary.”

This is definitely getting uncomfortable now. I don’t feel like you’re doing it on purpose – your
tone is too tender and fond for that – but regardless of intent you’re still picking at some unpleasant
truths that I’m not really in the mood to acknowledge.

“I’m not,” I protest. Even to my own ears the denial sounds incredibly half-assed.

“Yes you are,” you say calmly. “Don’t mistake me though – I’m not angry with you for it. Who
knows, perhaps you’re right to be so? But regardless, I think your instinct is still to see me as a
threat and that you have to constantly fight to contain it.” You give me another kiss to confirm this
isn’t intended as a criticism. “You’re so fiercely protective of yourself and I wouldn’t have you any
other way; it increases the satisfaction every time I manage to pacify you for an hour or so.
Besides, I’ve always enjoyed protest from you. How else would I have been able to relish your
resistance?”

“Right,” I say vaguely. A long pause then follows, which I suppose I ought to fill with something
profound but at the moment I can’t seem to elaborate on beyond ‘Well you’ve always been a great
big bastard to me so what do you expect?’ I finally decide there’s no other option except to go
nuclear and turn into a five-year old. “Anyway,” I say. “Didn’t you say you’d bought me
something?”

“Don’t worry, I hadn’t forgotten. But I do so enjoy our little conversations.”

“I know you do,” I say wryly. “But I did tell you I wasn’t in the mood to talk.”
“Indeed you did.” You give me another kiss; this time on the neck and followed by a faint scrape
of teeth, just enough to make me catch my breath. “I apologise. Sometimes I am very unfair to
you.”

“What, only sometimes?” I say, starting to laugh. “You’ve truly mastered the art of the
understatement.”

“And as usual we are speaking at cross purposes,” you reply. “You are referring to the past and I
am discussing the present. Which means I can at least make amends for being so unreasonable and
offer you your gift.”

You reach behind you to retrieve the bag and I have a sudden panicked feeling that it might be an
engagement ring. It’s exactly the sort of manipulative stunt you would pull and the thought of the
ensuing awkwardness is enough to make me break into a cold sweat. I still don’t feel ready to say
yes…but then how could I bear the blunt rejection of telling you no? It’s one thing to say I need
more time to think about it; another thing entirely to turn down an actual ring. Fortunately when
the parcel appears I can see that it’s much too large for that – although it’s also too small for
whiskey, so that guess was clearly wrong as well.

“This is nice,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved. “Thank you. I’ll definitely keep the box.” I
struggle free of your grip then run a forefinger across the lid, which is of buttery soft leather with a
small bronze clasp at the side shaped like a fleur-de-lys. The design is simple yet elegant – very
much your taste – and could easily be a present in and of itself.

“You should reserve your thanks until you open it,” you say. You kiss my throat again, slowly
stroking along my arms until our hands are entwined and you can puppeteer me into pulling off the
lid. “I confess, I’m curious what your reaction will be.”

This makes me pause very fractionally, wary in spite of myself. With somebody else this wouldn’t
mean anything, but your curiosity generally signals something ominous and my fears about an
engagement ring promptly spin towards something linked with Jack. “Um, yeah, I suppose I should
try to guess,” I say cautiously. “But I’m not sure I…”

As I’m speaking I finally get the lid off; at which point my words promptly shrivel away into
nothing as I see what’s inside. Then I open my mouth, close it again, and then finally just sit there,
consumed with a huge sense of relief you can’t see me and will be unaware of how I’ve almost
certainly started to blush.

“Oh,” I finally manage. Now I’m battling an urge to laugh; I think I’ve swung the full spectrum
from extreme mortification to cackling hysteria. “You didn’t.”

“But I did,” you say serenely. “Exactly as I told you I would.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Yeah, I’m definitely blushing; I must be full-on Communist red. Carefully
I duck my head down even further to ensure you won’t notice. “I didn’t think you meant it.
Anyway, that was ages ago.”

“A-g-e-s,” you repeat, beginning to lay a trail of kisses across my shoulder blades. “When we were
still in America, in fact. It would appear I have bided my time.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Right.” Then I realise I’ve run out of responses after just two words, so close my
mouth again and simply stare down at the box instead. Part of me want to exclaim ‘I can’t believe
you’ve bought me a butt plug’ (have it officially put on record, as it were) but it feels impossible to
say in front of you. This is admittedly ridiculous for a full-grown adult, but somehow I just can’t.
After all, it took me ages to be able to say ‘sex’ without squirming and ‘butt plug’ is a whole new
frontier of linguistic cringe. Besides, it’s not like you’ll say it either. In fact I’m certain you won’t.
Not because you’re embarrassed (unlike me) but because you’ll think it’s beneath you, the same
way you won’t ever start cursing in English.

I now get preoccupied with trying to devise a way to trick you into saying ‘butt plug’ out loud (and
simultaneously failing, because I can only think of pretending to be confused at what it is so you
have to explain, and which would demote me to a level of naïve dumbassery which even I don’t
want to cross). Then I glance down again at the actual plug, which seems to be glinting in the
lamplight in a distinctly provocative way: obscenely bulbous, gleaming gold, and nestled rather
ludicrously on a bed of sleek black velvet as if someone’s told it it’s a piece of jewellery and it’s
now determined to try and behave like one. Although surely it’s not actual gold; surely even you
wouldn’t go that far? Covertly I lean down to take a closer look at it, briefly scandalised at the idea
of the expense. Oh God, I bet it is…I bet you have. How am I supposed to live with the moral guilt
of that? How is anyone supposed to live with the moral burden of having something shoved up
their ass knowing that its market value could have fed a family of four for a month…

“So what do you think?” you ask, beginning to kiss your way along the edge of my jaw.

“I hope that wasn’t expensive,” I say shrilly.

“Not especially,” you reply (which on the surface sounds an acceptable answer, but in reality
means pretty much fuck all). I glance at you suspiciously and you gaze back with your most
serenely innocent expression. Look at my FACE, the expression seems to say; would this face LIE
to you?

“Yeah, well,” I add mutinously. “It better not have been.”

You wave your hand around in a deliberately casual way then adopt another variation of the ‘would
this face LIE to you?’ expression. I have a sudden real sense that if you start waxing lyrical about
how many karats it is then the urge to punch you might grow overwhelming. “Well far be it from
me to outrage you further,” is all you say. “But I should also warn you that it’s only one of
several.”

You trail off suggestively then begin to skim both palms down my chest and along my waist. This
is a clear invitation for my imagination to go into overdrive as to what these others might look like,
but I do my best to ignore you – not least because I’ve got enough problems dealing with this one
without taking on its assorted family members as well (which are no doubt stashed all over the
house and are going to start appearing at random intervals over the next few weeks as a form of
ambush).

I finally give up and start to laugh again. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know if I want to. I
mean…look at it.”

Both of us now glance down at the same time. The plug continues to roll around between us on its
velvet blanket, almost as if it’s listening to the conversation, while managing to catch the light in a
series of expensive twinkles. The fucking thing looks as if it’s winking at me.

There’s another pause before I feel another light scrape of teeth against my neck. “But it will feel
so good for you,” you say.

You extend the sibilant ‘s’ slightly, the way you sometimes do – and which depending on your
mood can either resemble a threatening hiss or a long languorous sigh. Right now it’s definitely the
former and at the sound of it I can feel my resolve starting to falter. I know you do this on purpose.
You’re well aware how striking your voice can be to native English speakers and have always
exploited it to full effect: deliberately rolling the vowels, dropping the tone, and adding a smoky
inflection to the timbre which isn’t usually there. You once told me that when we first met it would
sometimes made me flush, although I firmly maintain this is bullshit.

“Just consider it,” you add, beginning to kiss my throat again. “I have put a great deal of thought
into obtaining the most suitable design and dimensions.”

I suppose this last past is a reference to how the plug curves at the end, presumably to nudge
against the prostate, and is announced with an enviable lack of embarrassment or self-
consciousness. It’s as if putting A Great Deal of Thought into butt plug mechanics is a highly
worthwhile endeavour. If anything you sound outright pleased with yourself: you could be
describing the thought put into something noble (planning world peace; ending world hunger). It’s
not like I even believe you. I mean how much thought can anyone realistically put into buying a
butt plug? You almost certainly just sauntered into the sort of shop which re-brands them as
‘Gentleman’s Plugs’ then chose the most expensive and eye-catching and left it at that (an eye-
catching butt plug, though…fuck my life). God knows what you even expect me to say? It’s like
you’re waiting for some sort of equally solemn acknowledgement: Thank you kindly for the
thought invested in the design and dimensions of my golden butt plug. You have earned my eternal
gratitude.

“Oh God,” I say, then promptly start sniggering again. I don’t even know why, it’s not like it’s
funny. Most likely it’s just embarrassment. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this,” I add.
“What would people say if they knew?”

I’m not even sure what ‘people’ I’m referring to, only that they’ve assembled in my head into a
huge grey phalanx of disapproval (possibly chanting ‘Shame!’…possibly pointing at the plug while
they’re doing it). Of course you don’t even have the slightest of shits to give about this and just
smile again then stretch rather luxuriously, flexing the muscles in your neck while basking in my
obvious discomfort.

“That doesn’t concern me in the least,” you reply. “There are only two opinions which really
interest me: yours and mine.”

“But it’s so…” I trail off a bit trying to think of the right word. Degenerate is too over the top (and
isn’t even true, considering I’d never think that if it were someone else doing it rather than me). I
audition, then reject, embarrassing, uncomfortable and stupid before finally settling on “Weird.”

“It’s not remotely weird,” you say briskly. “But even if it were I’m afraid I would not accept that as
an objection.” This is followed with a slow smile before you lean back your heels, all feline
glamour and casual grace, both eyes slitted like a cat. “You should understand me well enough by
now to know that I don’t subscribe to rationing one’s pleasure in anything. And if it’s something
that society’s rules encourage me to avoid then I’m likely to pursue it even more…passionately.”

“Only it’s not you who’s doing the pursuing,” I reply gloomily. “Is it?”

As I watch your mouth begins to arrange itself into one of its more inscrutable smiles. “I would
recommend you to at least try.”

This is said in a tone of voice so suggestive and smouldering it should come with an age-restriction
warning. In fact it’s enticing enough to be borderline irresistible, and I shoot you a rather helpless
look that’s intended to convey my resentment of this (You crafty bastard – that’s such an
underhand move) which you return with a few slow blinks (Indeed it is – sue me). I scowl back at
you, determined to have another attempt at protest, but ultimately find myself just drifting into
silence before the lecture has even got started. You, of course, don’t reply at all and instead resume
kissing the side of my throat more persistently than ever.

“Well…okay then,” I say finally. By this point I sound outright martyred; anyone would think you
were pointing a golden shotgun at my head or brandishing a golden baseball bat. “I guess. Maybe.
Go on then. Just for tonight.”

“An excellent decision,” you reply. “I congratulate you.”

You sound unbelievably smug and I decide I can’t stand it anymore so just collapse across the bed
and stare up at the ceiling instead. I’m awkwardly aware of how tense and cautious I’ve gone – less
like the recipient of a golden butt plug (chosen with A Great Deal of Thought) and more like
someone in their doctor’s office awaiting a rectal exam. Possibly you think the same because you
make an amused noise then lean down to kiss me on the forehead.

“Calm down,” you say. “You look positively tragic.”

I glance up from beneath my hair and give you a severe look. “No,” I say with extreme dignity. “I
do not.”

This makes you smile, although you don’t try to contradict me. Instead you ask whether I’m still
too hot and when I nod you start to smile again. “Yes, I thought you might be,” you say. “You
appear to be an intriguing combination of paleness, perspiration and petulance.” I open my mouth
to object to this (spectacularly unflattering) description and you smirk a bit then reach down to
ruffle my hair. “We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? Wait one moment.”

You lean across to the bag again, this time reappearing with a single ice cube (wrapped, rather
absurdly, in a tiny scrap of gingham cloth) so you can trace it across my forehead then down my
cheek. It’s stingingly cold and when I gasp you make a soothing sound then stroke my lower lip
with your free hand, gently increasing the pressure until I’ve opened my mouth and you can slide
two fingers in to let me suck them.

“There you go” you say caressingly. “Isn’t that better?”

As you’re speaking you skim the ice across both collar bones then down towards my chest,
regularly dipping your head as you go to lap up the trails of water. You often touch me like this.
It’s exploratory yet worshipful, paying careful attention to every plane of bone and curve of muscle
with an intensity that’s almost overwhelming. The way your hand drops lower each time makes me
quiver and arch my back, unwittingly letting my legs fall further apart as my breath hitches into
something like a pant. You murmur appreciatively at the sound of it then slowly run your tongue
along the side of my throat.

“How perfectly constructed you are Will,” you say. You sound very thoughtful; it’s as if you’re
musing to yourself out loud. “Your anatomy is exquisite. The length of bone and slenderness of
limb; the firmness of muscle tone balanced by all these smoother contours. The softness of your
skin…the sheer aesthetics of you.”

“I’m not,” I say awkwardly. “Don’t be stupid.”

“On the contrary. It is not stupid at all but a mere statement of fact. You have such a frail façade
but look how strong and wiry you are. You are a true canon of artistic proportions. Le proporzioni
del corpo umano secondo Vitruvio; Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man. Imagine my private rapture if you’d
first come to me in a medical capacity rather than a psychiatric one? How should I have been able
to control myself when required to examine you?”
This makes me groan a bit then screw my eyes closed. In fact it seems I might’ve developed a bit
of a praise kink over the years without realising it, because despite my embarrassment it’s almost
impossible not to get turned on when I hear the raw desire in your voice. I’m hoping you might kiss
me to prove the point, but when I open my eyes and gaze upwards you remain stubbornly out of
reach. I finally lose patience and strain my head towards you, quickly followed by a frustrated
growling noise when you deliberately jerk your face away.

“What are you doing up there?” I say crossly. “Why won’t you come closer?”

“Because I want to watch your expression when you’re being touched. You’re so responsive; it’s
rather captivating.”

I make another frustrated noise, which makes you smile again before finally relenting and lowering
your mouth down to mine. I give a breathy sigh then push up against you. “Look at you,” you say
tenderly as you pull away. “So needy and beautiful. How long do you think you could last like
this?”

“Yeah, about that,” I say. “Can’t you just…you know.”

“What?”

“You know what,” I say pompously.

“You mean slide this interesting little device inside you?” you ask (at which point I start smirking,
because I knew you’d never say ‘butt plug’ out loud). “Is the idea becoming more appealing now?”
you add softly. “Does it excite you?”

I mutter something deliberately incoherent and you smile a bit more then cradle my head with one
hand as the other one trails downward (fucking finally). I cheer up straight away – although
admittedly this doesn’t last long, because you determinedly ignore my cock despite the way it’s
almost painful from lack of attention and lying hard and wet against my abdomen where I’m
leaking pre-come over both of us. In fact the awareness of it makes me self-conscious, a bit like
urinating in public, because it’s such an obvious sign of urgency.

“Patience,” you add, beginning to rub the side of your face against mine. “I’ll do it soon, I promise.
You’re going to take it perfectly aren’t you? I can already tell.”

I push my body forward against yours, biting my lip to try and disguise the soft gasping noises that
have started to escape at intervals. “Hmm…No,” I say. “I don’t know.”

“I know,” you reply. “You’re going to love it when the time comes.”

“You mean when you come,” I say crossly. “Hurry up can’t you. What are you waiting for?”

Your smile immediately broadens before you reach down to retrieve the box, your eyes never once
moving from my face. I’m hoping you might jerk me off while you’re down there, but of course
you don’t and I know I was stupid to expect it – it’s obvious you’re in one of those moods where
you want to make me wait. Instead you make a big performance of slathering some lube onto the
length of the plug before slowly rubbing it against my ass in a series of devastatingly teasing
strokes. The lube must have been stored in the fridge because it’s cold enough to make me suck in
my breath then mutter ‘Uhhh’ in something close to a whisper.

“Not yet,” you say softly. “You’re still so tight, I don’t want to hurt you.” You drop a quick kiss on
my hipbone, followed by a rustling noise as you pour out more lube. “Try and relax, my love.
You’ll enjoy it I promise.”
You now begin to skim your free hand along my ribs and waist, finally coming to a halt against the
top of my thigh. I make a small keening noise then arch my back, overcome with a level of
anticipation that’s getting close to torment. The urgency is embarrassing, yet impossible to control
when the way you’re caressing me feels so good – the blunt head of the plug rubbing back and
forwards in delicate strokes which grow increasingly persistent and probing, despite not actually
pushing in. My breath speeds up further and I give another moan, frantically grinding my hips
against the pressure.

“Perfect,” you say. You sound a bit breathless yourself; it’s obvious how much you’re enjoying the
sight of it. “You really want it now, don’t you? I suspected you’d respond well and it’s gratifying
to have it confirmed. Just imagine if I’d done this to you years ago – what would have happened if
I’d tried to train you in such a way?”

I give a sort of half laugh, half gasp. “Jesus, nothing’s enough to shut you up is it? Just be quiet
can’t you. Keep your mind on the job.”

“It’s true though.” You lean forward, gently tugging my ear lobe between your teeth because you
like the way it makes me quiver (and then, even worse, bite my lip between my teeth to stop
myself from manic giggling). “My poor boy. How humiliated you would have been.”

“Do you have to make me sound like such a victim all the time?” I manage to reply. “Can we at
least assume I’d have enjoyed it if I was letting you do it?”

“Oh, you would have certainly enjoyed it. But your shame would have been considerable.”

“To be honest it’s pretty considerable at the moment.”

“No doubt,” you say. You’re really increasing the pressure of the plug now, sliding it around in a
way that’s oddly similar to how your tongue and lips move when you’re eating me out. It’s clear
you want to discover the sort of state you can reduce me to without actual penetration; I can see
you glancing down every so often to check how much harder I’m getting. “Yes, but you still want
it don’t you?” you add. “You want it so badly, just as you would have done back then. Of course
you were more biddable when we first met than you are now, so it wouldn’t have been too hard to
persuade you. I would have begun with a much smaller size than this one I think, then made you
keep it inside you all day.”

“Oh God,” I say faintly.

You hum approvingly, then pour out more lube before briefly abandoning the plug so you can
work a finger inside me instead. You really take your time with this: massaging in small circles to
test my resistance, teasing me open with the tip, then waiting until you feel the tight ring of muscle
give way before finally pushing in, sighing with satisfaction as you feel me clench around you. It
always feels incredible when you do this. Most people might rush over it as an obligatory bit of
preparation, but you lavish it with attention like it’s something sensuous and pleasurable which
deserves to be lingered over. If I’m honest it always makes me feel a bit debauched whenever it
happens; lying there with my legs spread open, knowing that when the time comes to replace your
fingers with your cock I’ll be so slicked and stretched open that you’ll be able to slide it straight
into me without any effort at all.

“Mmm, yes, imagine that,” you say softly. “Doing your best to converse with your colleagues
while harbouring such a shameful secret.” Your finger’s moving faster now, so slippery from all
the lube that when I pivot my hips even slightly it’s enough to make it sink deep inside all the way
to the knuckle. I make a small mewling noise as I feel my cock twitch across my stomach. “I would
have driven you home afterwards and forced you to sit very still,” you add in the same soft voice.
“All that exquisite pressure just building and building with no possible means of relief. By the time
I got you back to my house you would have been beside yourself. I would have adored watching
it.”

I groan again then give my hips another thrust. Your other hand is skimming across my throat and I
suspect you’re checking whether my pulse has sped up. You’ll often do this; you like to use it as a
gauge of how much I’m getting turned on by what you’re saying. “Yeah, I bet you would,” I
manage to reply. “You’d have loved watching me suffer.”

“Indeed. Mano mielasis…I wasn’t always very kind to you was I?”

There’s something in your tone that catches my attention and when I briefly open my eyes it’s to
see you gazing down at me with a rather pensive smile on your face. This is unusual. Normally
you’ll never admit what you did was wrong (mostly because as far as you’re concerned it wasn’t)
which makes this a rare instance of you acknowledging the impact of your methods, despite an
unwavering belief that they were for my own good. Of course it’s also typical that you’ve chosen
to be self-reflective at a time when further discussion is impossible and I make a mental note to
remind you about it later.

“No, don’t close your eyes,” you add when it looks as if I’m about to. “Keep them open. I want to
watch you while I’m doing this. So, what’s your opinion now then, Will; do you think you’re
ready?” You renew the rubbing motion of the plug as you’re speaking, slowly increasing the
pressure until I let out a low moan. “Mmm, you certainly sound ready. That sounded like a yes to
me, beloved. Are you waiting to feel something slide inside here – something to fill you up? Is that
what you want?”

By now I’m too far gone to talk so just make a whining noise instead (embarrassing). You smile at
the sound of it then quickly lower your head, forcing your tongue between my lips at the exact
same moment your hand draws back to push the length of the plug deep inside my ass with a single
smooth thrust. I wail helplessly into your mouth then snap my head against the pillow, spine
curving and hips jolting as you kiss my throat while starting to rock the handle in extravagant
swirling angles.

“Beautiful,” you say softly. “That’s perfect. Look how well you take it. I knew you would.”

My whole body seems to shudder as I hear myself gasping “Hannibal, oh. Oh fuck. I like it…I
really like it,” in a desperate chant, interspersed with something dangerously close to whimpering.
It’s humiliating, but I don’t know how to stay in control when the sensation is so incredibly
intense; almost like being jerked off like from the inside. I can actually feel myself getting tighter
round the width of plug, the muscle clenching and gripping onto it like if I’m trying to draw the
whole length deeper inside me. At the same time your other hand is moving upwards to grip onto
my hip, pulling me harder onto the plug as you fuck me with it while pressing your mouth against
every part of me you can reach: biting and lapping at my jaw, throat and shoulders before stabbing
your tongue into my mouth for another rough kiss.

Being edged for so long is making me sweat from the strain and as the first sharp waves of
pleasure start to hit I cry out sharply, frantically fisting at my cock as I tug your hair with my other
hand. “It’s good,” I gasp. My voice is hoarse from so much panting and when you give the plug a
twist I yelp then catch my lower lip between my teeth. “Oh God. God. It’s so good.”

“So good,” you repeat. “Sei talmente bello così. You really like it, don’t you beloved?”

“Oh yeah, fuck, I like it. I like it so much.”

“I know you do: your body is very eager.” You pull the plug out nearly all the way then pause a
few seconds before plunging it back in again with another deep thrust. “I’d be inclined to resent it,
except I know that you’ll take me even better when the time is right. Are you going to do that for
me, Will? Are you going to spread your legs like you’re doing now? Are you going to beg me for
it? I’d like to see you beg. You’d do it so beautifully it would be impossible to resist you.”

This time I just groan and you put a steadying hand on my chest as if you’re counting my breaths
before slowly trailing it downwards to push my legs wider apart. For the first time you also move
your eyes from my face, and I can immediately tell that you’re admiring the sight of me stretched
around the glistening end of the plug. If possible the idea of this turns me on even more as I grow
aware of how hot and heavy my cock feels between my legs – the way the blood is pulsing there –
and how I’m helplessly leaking all over myself as my body clenches and tightens, already
quivering on the verge of orgasm. The anticipation is unbearable and your teasing strokes along my
thigh and hipbones are close to outright torture. I make a gasping sound, eyes widening at how
intense it is, then tremble and gulp in frantic gulps as you run a soothing palm up and down my leg.

“Oh fuck,” I whisper. I sound exactly like I feel: desperate and fraught, slightly out of control. “I’m
going to…oh God…I think I’m going to come. I’m really close.”

I really am – I’m so close – but as soon as I’ve said it I find myself getting tugged upright so you
can gather me against your chest. I make a frustrated groaning noise and you nuzzle my jaw then
shower my face and hair with rapturous kisses. “Look at you,” you say fondly. “You seem almost
delirious.”

I repeat the groaning noise then pull back a few inches: flushed and almost cross-eyed with an
overload of sensation. “What the actual hell?” I stammer out. Then I blink a few times, attempting
to gather my scattered senses together, before shoving both hands against your chest in a gesture
that’s only half-playful. “For God’s sake,” I finally manage to add. “Why did you stop?”

“Because,” you reply with provoking calmness, “things were going faster than I wanted them to.”

I attempt another version of the growling noise but ultimately just give up and slump forward
instead so I can rest my forehead against yours. “Yeah: than you wanted them to,” I mutter. “Jesus,
you’re such a sadist.”

“Hmm, yes,” you reply. “Very possibly.” Your tone is eerily hypnotic and is followed up with a
quick smile – flickering and serpentine – which even in my current state I find faintly off-putting. I
know you do it on purpose; regardless of the situation it’s like you just can’t stop yourself. If I had
the energy I’d probably kick you.

“Not this time though,” you now add in your normal voice. “This time I stopped for your sake.”

“You jest,” I snap with heavy sarcasm.

“Not at all,” you reply. “I am entirely serious.”

You don’t sound particularly serious, but it’s not like there’s much I can do about it. When you
make up your mind about something it’s like cement setting: I’d be better off just sorting myself
out than wasting the energy getting you to change it. Admittedly jerking myself off when you’re
just sat there looking smug and self-righteous isn’t the most erotic atmosphere in the world, but I’m
past caring by this point. Anyway, fuck it – I like a challenge. I lie back on the bed and dart you a
withering look (Screw you, the look says, this is a DIY job) but before I can even get started you’ve
pounced down to grab my wrists, gently but firmly twisting them towards the headboard then
holding them in place with one hand. For a few seconds I’m genuinely confused as to what the hell
you’re doing, but then see you reaching into the bag again and give an angry gasp.

“Oh hell no,” I say. “No way are you tying me up. Don’t even think about it.”

You stare back at me without speaking, innocently twirling one of your ties in your right hand.
Jesus though, why do you even have those? It’s like you’re beyond parody at this point. Only you
would bother bringing designer neckties to a sweltering hot country while on the run from
numerous law enforcement agencies.

“Just for a while,” you reply. “Only a little while.” Your expression is very beseeching; for a few
surreal seconds I think you might actually start batting your eyelashes at me. “You’ve been in your
head so much lately, Will. You need an opportunity to get back into your body.”

“No,” I repeat sulkily. It occurs to me, a bit too late, that I sound like a toddler refusing something.

“A compromise then.” You brush your mouth against my jaw – soft press of lips; barest hint of
teeth – then run your fingertips around my wrists like you’re tracing where the binding will go.
“I’ll do it very loosely. Then if you really want to free yourself you can.” You smile a bit then
press another kiss against my nearest wrist. “Besides, even if I didn’t I’ve no doubt you’d manage
it anyway. You are so singularly skilled at slipping handcuffs.”

I summon up an irritated noise which is truly magnificent in its expressiveness (it involves
expelling air between my teeth and nostrils simultaneously, like someone blowing out candles on a
giant cake). Even so I still don’t attempt to move, because despite myself I’m finding I’m not
entirely opposed to the idea. Admittedly you’ve most likely guessed I’m warming up to it, but if so
you don’t give any indication and just secure my wrists instead with a few neat flicks then give
them a tug to test the tension.

“Oh God,” I say. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.” I can feel myself struggling not to laugh
and you smile down at me in an unusually benevolent way before leaning down to secure a second
tie around my eyes. You’re very careful with this last past, gently smoothing my hair out the way
with your fingers to make sure none of it gets tangled in the knot.

“This is dumb,” I protest into the darkness. “How long are you going to be?”

“Not long.” There’s a rustling sound as you bend down to kiss the side of my cheek. “I’ll be back
soon to take care of you, you have my word. In the meantime I just want you to focus on the
sensation. That’s all. Don’t think – just feel.”

You trail a finger along both wrists like you’re admiring your handiwork then climb off the bed
and vanish in a series of soft footsteps. Immediately I give my hands a cautious tug. I’m expecting
the worst, but to my surprise it seems you were telling the truth for once and really have left them
loose enough to get free if I want to. The ties are made from a material that’s very soft and smooth,
most likely silk, and the one across my face has a lingering trace of your cologne on it. There’s
something comforting about the smell and I wonder if you’ve done it on purpose. Then I tip my
head back and strain my ears, struggling to work out where you are and what you’re doing. The
implication was you were leaving the room but knowing you you’ll probably just stay here the
entire time, watching and waiting in silent satisfaction. Then I close my eyes (which is admittedly
pointless, considering I can’t see even when they’re open) and begin to buck my hips, frantic to get
the pressure where I need it. Only I can’t manage it with the position I’m in and after a while I’m
aware of growing so desperate to come it almost feels painful. Oh God, I bet you are here
watching. I bet you’re loving it; you’ve always enjoyed seeing me unravel. The plug somehow
feels much bigger at this angle: stretching me wide open and seeming to sink deeper inside me
every time I squirm.
By now my body’s getting damp with sweat as my focus shrinks and constricts to the intensity of
the sensation. It doesn’t feel like I’ve been here too long, but I have no idea how much time has
really passed: it could be minutes or hours. I draw in a ragged breath. Breath out. Try to
concentrate and find I can’t, because oh God – everything’s so intense. We’re so intense. We’re all-
consuming, and it doesn’t even matter anymore because right now I want us to consume each other
and I want to watch it happen…wind it up and watch it go. A part of me is desperate to call for
you, but each time I open my mouth a sense of pride prevents me and forces me to close it rather
than admit defeat. Instead I decide I’ll count down from 100, promising myself that if I really can’t
stand it then I’ll pull my wrists free when I get to zero. Except this plan fails too because I can’t
focus well enough to keep count – and which means when you do finally appear to give the plug a
slow twist I lose control completely: crying out and then shuddering so hard you have to wrap your
free arm round my waist to make keep me still.

“Mylimasis,” you say. You sound incredibly pleased with yourself; it’s kind of infuriating. “I’m
here now. I promised I’d come back.”

I want to make a sarcastic remark about coming but I’m honestly past it. I just groan instead as for
a few seconds I feel your hand curling round my throat. Your fingers are so firm and dextrous; it’s
bizarre to realise you could crush it right now if you wanted without any effort at all. At some
point you’ve also managed to untie my hands and remove the blindfold, but I’m still too spaced-out
to do anything except lie there with my eyes closed. Then I’m vaguely aware of you talking again,
only it feels like too much effort to focus on what you’re saying. What are you saying? It sounds
like ‘please’, which in itself is vaguely suspicious. You almost never make a point of asking for
things (as opposed to just taking them directly) so I finally open my eyes: at which point I go so
rigid with outrage I nearly sprain a goddamn muscle.

“What the hell,” I say, “do you think you’re doing?” My voice has come out as a kind of hiss and I
have to clear my throat a few times in an attempt to speak more normally. “Don’t even think about
it.”

Most people would have the grace to at least pretend to be embarrassed, but of course you just sit
there with your favourite Mona Lisa smile while casually holding a black leather collar which you
knew I hated the idea of and have still gone out and acquired anyway. Where do you even get such
epic levels of shamelessness? It’s like you’ve found somewhere to buy it (along with all the fetish
gear). To prove how completely unrepentant you are you just lean forward to kiss my neck. I can
feel your hand flitting around my face as you do it: caressing my cheek, stroking my hair, then
tenderly tucking a stand behind my ear.

“It’s all right, beloved,” you murmur between each slide of your tongue. “You know I would never
do anything to hurt you.” You’re using the sort of languid, sensual tone that always goes straight to
my groin, and despite knowing it’s total bullshit it’s still incredibly hard not to feel turned on by it.
Oh fuck! Does that mean I’ve got a voice kink as well as a praise kink? I bet it does. I bet I have.
“Just let me…” you add in the same soft voice. “Just for tonight.” You wrap an arm beneath my
shoulders then continue to stroke my face, your touch tender while also totally relentless. “Please,
Will. Just for a little while. Just let me. Just let me have you…”

I open my mouth to say no, only to find myself falter then close it again. I think it was the ‘please’
that’s got to me. There’s a genuine hint of vulnerability in the way you said it, and it occurs to me
that while I’m the one being asked to submit, I’ve still got the real power in terms of being able to
give or withhold what you want. In fact, I suspect it’s more than something you want; it’s
something you need. It’s not like I’m unaware how possessive you are, but moments like this are a
glimpse behind the curtain of how deeply dependent you are on wanting to believe I belong to you.
Also unspoken – yet somehow incredibly obvious – is how this desire to assert ownership is in
some way linked to Jack. Not that this is surprising, because from your perspective I guess he’s
become both predator and prey. You want to kill him (preferably with me to help you), but at the
same time you see him as the one person who might be capable of luring me away from you back
to America.

Mulling this over I find myself starting to look at you with a renewed sense of understanding. It’s
true that the request is out of order; you already knew I didn’t want to do this. Yet I can’t really
bring myself to resent you for it, because no matter how stressful your desire for me sometimes
feels I know I’d still miss it if it wasn’t there. In a strange way it reminds me of the fires I used to
light on a winter’s night in my old life: something blazing, searing, and a little overwhelming when
left unattended, yet ultimately impossible to comfortably live without. Admittedly I’m no keener
on the thought of wearing a collar than I was when your first mentioned it (like, at all) but it won’t
do any harm either – and ultimately the urge to reassure you and make you happy feels greater than
any lingering sense of self-consciousness. So in the end I just give a small nod (accompanied by a
stern ‘Just this one time’) and you let out a long, blissful sigh before leaning forward to fasten it
round my throat. You do this very cautiously, slipping a finger underneath to make sure it’s not too
tight, then checking none of my hair’s got tangled in the buckle before letting out another breathy
sigh as it snaps into place.

“Beloved,” you say, beginning to press ecstatic kisses against my face. “Look at you. Sei perfetto…
if you had any idea.”

You’re still not fully undressed but I can tell from the tented layers of fabric how incredibly hard
you are and wonder, somewhat hazily, how you’re able to stand how uncomfortable it must be. In
fact the sight of it is more than enough to snap me out of my previous mood, creating little quivers
of anticipation as you kiss my forehead then glide your hands downward until they’re resting on
my thighs and you can trace small circles against the skin. Your fingers glide easily over smooth
sweat-slick skin and I give a stifled moan as you go still for a few moments then gently nudge my
head back to lick into my mouth. I tangle my fingers into your hair without breaking the kiss then
drop my own hand downwards so I can wrap it round my achingly hard cock. A part of me wants to
savour the moment and make it last, but that’s virtually impossible by now. Instead I just rub my
thumb around the head a few times, rhythmically squeezing and stroking before abandoning any
attempt at self-control and thrusting down the entire length in a sort of frenzy.

You make an approving noise at the sight of – a rich vibration deep in your throat – while gazing
down at me like someone transfixed. Jealousy would normally prevent you from being so
encouraging, but this time there isn’t any hint of it and I suspect it’s your way of rewarding me for
agreeing to the collar. “That’s it,” you add, followed by few murmured endearments in Italian.
“Just like that. Give yourself what you need.”

“Oh God,” I say hoarsely. “Yes.” The sensation of the whole thing is phenomenal: it’s like every
nerve is on fire as we rock against each other, searching out each other’s mouths as I let out a
stream of increasingly urgent noises that are breathy and broken, punctuated every few seconds by
pulling away to gasp out your name. Your skin against mine is as hot as a brand as I writhe in your
arms, arching my back into a stronger curve then planting my feet against the mattress to get
enough leverage to grind against you. You’ve got your hand over mine now, guiding the rhythm
and dictating the speed to perfectly match the way your other hand is pounding the width of the
plug against my prostate. In a way it’s close to being too much and a part of me want to ask you to
stop, whereas another never wants it to end…how is that even possible? I angle my neck instead,
bending it into a painful twist to reach your mouth then pillaging like my life depends on it as I fist
at my cock with my free hand. The plug is buried so deep in my ass by now that when I thrust my
hips the double stimulation is so intense it’s almost overwhelming.
“Oh God,” I gasp out. I sound completely wild, like I’m on the verge of unravelling. “Oh fuck...”

“Breathe Will,” you say softly.

“I can’t, it’s…it’s just so…”

“Just breathe with me.”

I bite back another moan then lean forward so I can swipe my tongue along your top lip. “Don't
stop. Just...oh please, please. It feels so good.”

“It’s all right,” you say. “I’m not going to stop.”

The rasp of my breath is loud and harsh in the silent room as you trail a hand between my legs,
carefully cradling my hip with the other. Then I gasp again, jerking my face round to scavenge at
the delicate skin of your shoulder with my teeth. I do it harder than intended – at one point tasting a
coppery tang of blood – then slump back against the pillow, my breath coming out in staccato pants
as I feel my thighs start to quiver with the strain of it. This time when you give the plug a sharp
twist it’s enough to make me cry out, trembling then going totally rigid as my cock spasms over
both our hands with a thick flood of pre-come.

“Mylimasis,” you say. You sound so gentle. It’s unusual; it’s like another side of you comes out
when we’re like this. I just mutter your name again and you gently tug my lip between your teeth
before starting to kiss your way down my chest. You take your time over it – very slow, very
deliberate – then finally settle between my legs so you can slide your tongue around the tight,
slippery skin surrounding the plug.

“Oh God, oh fuck.” I sound a bit unhinged by now: it’s like it’s too much to process. “I’m…oh
God. Oh God, I’m going to come. I’m coming, I’m…oh God, Hannibal…”

I’ve no idea why I’m telling you this – it’s not as if it isn’t obvious. But I still do it anyway (and
then keep on informing you about it, even after I’ve come all over you) before slumping back
against the pillows like someone half-dead. I’m so oblivious, in fact, that it feels like I’ve been
lying there for hours before I finally clue into what you’re doing: namely propping yourself
between my trembling legs so you can leisurely jerk yourself off. You’ve got the familiar
possessive glint in your eye which makes it very easy to guess what you have in mind. Even so, the
fact I’m expecting it doesn’t change how intense it feels when you abruptly yank the plug out and
press the thick, swollen head of your cock against me instead. Not only is your timing perfect, it
seems I’ve been stretched open incredibly thoroughly because you’re able to come deep in my ass
without even needing to fully push in. I’m convinced I can actually feel it – a series of thick, hot
pulses, some of which spurts onto my thigh – and when you pick up the plug again I give another
stifled moan then bury my face in my arm. Instinctively I know that you’ll want to take your time
over the next part, and of course you do: using your fingers push your come as far inside my body
as possible, applying a few teasing strokes with the blunt head of the plug, then finally pushing it
back in as slowly as possible so you can savour every quiver and breathy gasp I can possibly make.
Not that the caution is necessary: this time it slides inside incredibly easily with no resistance at all.
You make a noise of obvious satisfaction then kiss my knee while I just lie there blushing and try
to decide whether extreme enjoyment outweighs extreme mortification at what I’ve just let you do.
Which is it? I can’t quite decide…it’s actually a bit of a dilemma.

“Well,” you finally announce into the silence. “I think that particular experiment counts as a
success.”

For a few seconds I think you’re making fun of me but then I catch your eye and your expression is
so relaxed and affectionate that I forget to feel awkward and just smile back instead. Then I roll my
eyes at you (because old habits die hard) before slumping onto the bed in a dishevelled heap
(because by now I’m done and I don’t care who knows it). You pull me a bit closer then brush
your face against my hair.

“Don’t take it out yet,” you say. “I want you to sleep like this. I want you to keep me inside you all
night.”

I crack open an eye and give you an incredulous look. “Seriously?” I say, even though I know that
you are. It’ll be uncomfortable of course (as well as kind of gross), yet somehow the thought of
how happy it’ll make you means I know I’m going to do it anyway. You glance at my face while
trying (and failing) to hide the colossal smirk which is threatening to break out at getting your own
way, then kiss me again before leaning down to unfasten the collar.

“I apologise,” you add in an unusually tender voice. “I know I shouldn’t have asked you to do this.”
You drop it to the side of bed then gently turn my neck from one side to the other, checking for any
sign of friction burns. “It doesn’t hurt?” you ask. I shake my head and you smile again then skim
your lips against the length of my throat. “I appreciate you humouring me. You are very patient,
my love. You were also perfect – you did so well.”

“So well at what?” I say wryly. “I came all over myself. It’s hardly Nobel Prize material.”

You laugh at this then kiss me for a fourth time, while I just lie there growing increasingly subdued
at the intensity of what we just did (combined with a stinging sense of self-consciousness at the
fact I let you do it at all). It’s clear you’re not concerned by this, but then I suppose you wouldn’t
be. Anyway, you’re used to me having these moods. In the early days you’d attempt to rouse me
out of them, but you’ve learnt by now that the best response is just to stay very quiet (for once) and
let me come back to normal on my own. You now obligingly fall silent and I lie with my back to
you for a while before finally thawing out enough to hitch towards you inch by inch until we’re
tangled together with my head on your chest as you skim your palm along my spine. It’s kind of
soothing but I feel like I need something more, so eventually drape myself across your body then
wrap both arms around you instead (and then, after a bit of contortion, both legs as well). To be
honest I’m not sure why I always gravitate towards you for comfort. It’s not like you’re ever
guaranteed to say anything remotely comforting – as opposed to a string of cryptic remarks, or
possibly nothing at all – and there’s always a chance the conversation will end up incredibly
uneven with me rambling away on one side while you sit there in amused silence on the other.
Nevertheless, I still always do it.

Once I’m fully in your arms you make a contented sound then gather me against you so you can
rest your face against my hair. “I like seeing you like this,” you say eventually. Your voice is
incredibly soft, like all the rough edges have been buffered off. “You look so peaceful. Vulnerable
too: and I admit, I like that as well.”

“Why?” I ask, even though I already know.

“Because it shows you feel safe with me.”

“I guess I do,” I say wryly. “God knows why.”

Briefly you tighten your grip and when you speak again I feel like I can hear the smile in your
voice. “Indeed. I suppose it could be said that I’m not the most…trustworthy of individuals.”

“Yeah, I suppose you could say that.” I laugh a bit then scrub my hand across my face. “I must be
crazy.”
“No,” you reply in the same fond way. “That wouldn’t be my diagnosis.”

Of course I should know as well as anyone that your diagnoses (or lack of) mean jack shit, yet I
still can’t help feeling touched by this. You never saw me as damaged in the same way everyone
else did. In your philosophy, flaws and dysfunctions become badges of honour; something to be
admired. I smile to myself then make a small wriggling movement at the awareness of how you’ve
begun to stroke my arm.

“Stop it, please,” I mutter. “That’s…” I pause slightly, trying to think of a more dignified word
than tickles. “It’s uncomfortable.”

“What, this?” you say innocently, doing it again.

I make a growling sound to discourage you, only it goes wrong halfway through and turns into a
yawn instead – and which I assume you must find endearing, seeing how you promptly return your
fingers to my arm to try and make me do it again.

“Don’t,” I say, doing my best not to laugh. “Ugh, if I wasn’t so tired I would end you.”

“Would you really? Then I suppose it makes sense for me to take advantage of the situation while I
still can.”

I roll off you a little bit until I can see your face then give your hair a playful tug. “Don’t patronise
me, old man,” I say. “You think I couldn’t end you?”

“I think there are very few people who could successfully attempt such a thing,” you reply in the
usual leisurely way. “However, I accepted some time ago that you would be one of them.”

“You don’t believe that at all do you?” I pretend to pull your hair again then smile at you
beatifically. “You’re so vain. It’s just like your attitude to Jack: you think you’re infallible. You’re
turning into the stereotype of a macho alpha male meathead.”

“I am most certainly not,” you reply with dignity. “You are a ridiculous boy.”

“You are a ridiculous narcissist.”

You make a long-suffering noise and I smirk to myself then settle down again until I’m in the
crook of your arm and can rest my head on your shoulder. You press a kiss against my temple and I
squirm a bit then abruptly clear my throat, gripped by a sudden urge to change the subject and
distract from how unsettled I feel at the thought of Jack – despite me being the one who mentioned
him.

“Hey, I’m sorry I bit you earlier,” I say, giving your face a nudge with my own. “I got a bit carried
away.”

“Don’t be. It’s fine.”

“But I hurt you.”

“I’m afraid you flatter yourself beloved,” you say languidly. “It would take far more than your tiny
little teeth.”

I laugh at this, grateful for a way to vent some private tension, then scramble back on top of you so
I can deliver a small bite to your shoulder blade. You make a vaguely inconvenienced noise but
don’t pull away.
“Is that so?” I add. “I’ll show you tiny teeth.”

“Enough,” you say in amusement. “Stop nibbling me.”

“No, I shall not.”

“Indeed you shall.”

“Make me,” I say. Then I remember the conversation downstairs and can’t help adding:
“Hannibbles.”

For a few seconds you look like you’re struggling not to laugh. “You are a menace,” you finally
reply. “You are also unnatural. How is it that you can make rudeness seem positively charming?”

“Because you’re a huge hypocrite.”

“Oh yes,” you say. “I suppose that must be the reason.”

I smile again then reach out for your hand so I can tangle our fingers together. “You know I really
don’t want to think about Jack,” I add in a more serious voice. “I don’t know why I brought him up
just now.”

“Because you’re preoccupied with him,” you say. Your tone of voice makes it clear that you’re not
exactly overwhelmed with joy about this. “Imagine how very flattered he would be if he knew.”

“No, I’m not. And no, he wouldn’t; he wouldn’t care.” I give you a nudge again. “Stop projecting.
Not everyone’s as obsessed with me as you are.”

“It is not a matter of being obsessed.”

“Yes, with Jack it’s not. Anyway, he’d be less interested by me thinking about him compared to the
context I’m doing it in. Namely as your…” I pause again; I’m about to say ‘boyfriend’ but even as
a joke it feels too stupid. “As your housemate,” I finally add.

You make a humming noise of agreement then gently disentangle yourself from my arms so you
can lay me down flat against the mattress and drape yourself across me. As a gesture it’s both
protective and possessive – something you’re particularly prone to whenever aspects of our old life
are mentioned – and while the smothering sensation sometimes bothers me right now I’m happy to
accept the attention. Instead of tugging free I therefore huddle even closer before reaching round to
rearrange the sheet to make sure you’re comfortably covered up. Then I fall quite for a few
seconds, turning over my last statement in my head and trying to grapple with the gravity of what it
means. Not that Jack would ever believe it: he could walk in right now and would probably find it
easier to accept it was a pair of extreme lookalikes than the reality of us in bed together. I wouldn’t
even blame him. Sometimes I still struggle to believe it myself.

“It’s so weird,” I say vaguely. “Isn’t it?”

“What?”

“The whole situation, I guess. I could never have imagined us this way. What we just did – you
know?”

“I do know, beloved. I was there at the time.”

I make a half-hearted attempt to kick your leg. “I just would never have thought we could be like
that.”

“You mean as lovers?”

“Yeah. At least…kind of. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.” I pause again, too tired to devise a
proper response yet also cautious about saying too much and not making sense. “I guess I could try
and describe it,” I say cautiously.

“And do you intend to do so?” you reply when nothing follows except silence. “Or shall I be
required to guess?”

I roll my eyes again. “I’m not sure. Anyway, I feel self-conscious now. I’ve built it up too much.”

You smile then lean down to press our foreheads together. “Then say it quietly.”

“Well, I guess it’s that I kind of saw you as more than that,” I eventually reply. “More than just
sex.”

As a statement this seems pathetically inadequate for the depth of feeling I’m trying to express, but
you don’t seem at all offended. It’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about you: how
skilled you are at decoding the meaning behind words.

“Good,” you reply. “That way we still have something more for which to aspire.”

“You understand what I mean?”

“Yes, of course I do. As it happens I feel the same way.”

“Tell me,” I say. I hate the way I sound: gauche and slightly shy, like something in a novel from
the 1800s where intimacy is the ultimate taboo and people resort to elaborate rituals rather than say
what they mean. I can’t help it though. Even after all this time I still don’t feel I’ve fully mastered
the right language to discuss these things.

“W-e-l-l,” you reply thoughtfully, “what does it really mean to describe someone as a lover? I
suppose in the most basic sense it refers to sexual intimacy. Eros, as the Greeks would have it.
Fervent passion and anguish, like love set on fire…like hurtling headfirst from a cliff.” I groan a
bit at this and you laugh then lean down to nudge the side of my face again. “Of course there are
other ways to love a person,” you add. “Philia: friendship, and a meeting of minds. Or agape:
selfless love.”

“Selfless love,” I repeat. “You really believe that?”

There’s a small pause before I feel you tighten your grip round my shoulder. “No,” you say quietly.
“There is no such thing, because love is selfish. We don’t love as an act of charity. We love for
ourselves, and thus feel elevated and emboldened through the act of bestowing our love. You, for
example – the indomitable Will Graham. You don’t wish to be loved as much as you wish to be
understood. Yet no one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them. With that
love, we see potential in our beloved. Through that love, we allow our beloved to see their
potential. Expressing that love, our beloved’s potential comes true.”

You wait a few moments but this time I don’t interrupt you and after another pause you kiss me
again then take hold of my hand so you can caress the knuckles with your thumb. “Betrayal and
forgiveness are akin to falling in love,” you add in the same low voice. “So that’s why I understand
what you were trying to say, because I also see you as more. More than a lover; more than an
encounter for the body, but as an awakening for the soul. Like Plato’s Symposium: a single soul
inhabiting two bodies. One might have many lovers, yet the true object of desire can never be
replaced. There is only ever one imago, Will. Only one twin flame.”

A long silence now follows this speech where I just continue to lie very close to you, focussing on
the sensation of your breath against my face as I stroke my hand against your shoulder. Really it
should be my cue to go to sleep; it’s not as if there’s anything much more to say. But as tired as my
body is my mind is still racing, and I suddenly find myself blurting out (low, intense, and without
even fully meaning to): “I’m never going to leave you.”

The only response is more silence and I realise I’ve even managed to surprise myself with my
outburst. In fact, I’m not entirely sure what prompted me to say this. Maybe it was that please from
earlier? Or possibly it’s the yearning tone of your voice? But whatever it is, it’s made me recognise
how much I want to make you understand that this time I’m here for good. The fact you’re so
silent yourself confirms I might have triggered you more than intended and I now reach out to take
hold of your face in my hand.

“Hannibal, look at me,” I add. “I’d never go back to America. Not unless you were there too.”

Even now you still don’t speak. It’s lasted long enough now to feel unsettling, but I can’t force you
to confide unless you want to so in the end just push myself nearer to you then hook my arm
around your neck. It’s an obvious attempt for closeness and reassurance, and you react by holding
onto me even tighter than before.

“I love you,” I say softly.

There’s another pause: in the darkness I can see your eyes gleaming. “Please tell me that again,”
you finally say.

This time it’s my time to stare. This is so unlike you; I can hardly believe you’ve asked me. “What,
do you think I don’t or something?” I reply. “What happened to that genius level IQ?” Then I feel
ashamed of myself, because it’s obvious this flippancy is just about covering my own discomfort
when I should be focussing on giving you what you need. It’s unbelievable, really. All the
conversations we’ve had across the years – all the dismemberments of our darkest thoughts and
deepest desires; all the dissections of murder and madness – yet it’s still a frank examination of my
feelings for you which makes me lose my nerve.

“I love you,” I say now, much more firmly than before. “Ti amo. Je t’aime. Aš tave myliu.” Your
lips twitch into a smile at the last one and I smile back then gently stroke your jaw with my thumb.
“How can you need to ask that?” I say. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Yes,” you reply; and the simplicity of this single syllable amid your usual eloquence feels faintly
heart-breaking in how sincere it is. “Yes, I believe you. But don’t forget how long I waited to hear
those words from you, Will – I waited a very long time. The sound of them is never going to lose
its appeal.”

“Not even in my Lithuanian accent?”

“On the contrary,” you say. “It is endearing in how abysmal it is.”

I laugh at this then give your hair an affectionate ruffle before leaning forward to press a kiss
against your forehead. I’m so tired now, my eyes seem to be shrivelling shut. The physical intensity
of the last hour was more than enough, yet it somehow feels like nothing compared to the
emotional force of the past few minutes. I’m not sure I can think or talk anymore…can’t really do
anything except fall asleep in your arms, safe in the knowledge that when I wake up tomorrow
you’ll be the first thing I see. I can feel your hand moving up and down my back now, very slow
and rhythmic as if trying to soothe us both into peacefulness.

“That’s it,” you say softly. “Stay close to me, my love: rest while you can. I know you’re
concerned about the future. You think there’s a storm coming and most likely you are correct. But
it’s nothing to fear. Nothing more than another part of our journey.” There’s a rustling sound as
you reach up to stroke the side of my face; choosing, as usual, the side with the scar. “Try to trust
me, won’t you?” you add in the same soft voice. “Trust me as much as you can. Because it’s all for
you – all of it. And it always has been.”
 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes

Hey guys. As some of you know the comment section’s become a bit of a bomb site
recently and it’s got to the point I’ve had to switch on AO3’s moderation feature :-( I
don’t usually delete threads where people have already replied, but my ability to deal
with this stuff is really low at the moment and I had a big purge on anything that
turned up from Saturday onwards. As such I wanted to apologise to anyone who spent
time writing troll-slaying messages only to see them disappear – rest assured I read all
of them beforehand and your support is enormously valued and appreciated <3 Any
remaining threads have been locked, so please don’t try to reply to them as you won’t
be able to post it.

All this has thrown me off my game a bit and unfortunately I didn’t manage to get
much writing done this week. If the update seems a bit disjointed it’s because it’s
basically just the first half of chapter 11, but I’ll do my best to get part 2 posted ASAP.

Lots of love to you all in the meantime (and don’t forget to eat the rude) xox

The wound on my neck is hurting. More accurately it’s still hurting, which seems excessive. It’s
been over an hour since it happened after all…surely it should have eased off by now? The pain
has a fiery sharpness to it which prickles and stings in bright-edged jags and feels like it would be
blistering hot when touched, even though the wound itself isn’t a burn but a stab. Such a small
blade as well – little more than a pocketknife – and I’m still angry with myself for failing to see it
sooner. Normally, I think I would have done. But instead there was a domino effect of tiny
mistakes and miscalculations that ultimately led to me to move left instead of right and earn a long
gash straight across the trapezius as punishment. The most obvious of these was watching you
instead of the knife, but you’d seemed so striking and splendid in that moment it was difficult not
to. You were a bit like a panther in your long dark coat: powerful and sensuous, all coiled muscle
and rapacious energy. A true danse macabre, rather like that session in the living room all those
nights ago, with each movement choreographed for flawlessly lethal effect. And if I’m honest it
was also the result of overconfidence, because tonight’s target was singularly unimpressive and
well below our usual standards. A shuffling shambling man with the clumsy aggression of a bear,
indicted last year on a string of assault charges then let off on a technicality following a lengthy
court case. The carrying of the knife suggests paranoia, so it seems he was expecting judgement
might one day come for him – although I think it’s safe to say that he’d never expected something
like us.

Not that these reasons really matter though; there’s no real excuse. This lapse of attention could
have been fatal, and I know I need to be smarter than that for both our sakes. Right on cue my neck
gives another flare and I briefly get preoccupied thinking about how many different adjectives
there are for pain (aching, piercing, pounding) and how they’re often used to indicate the source of
the injury when you suddenly appear behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I don’t suppose
you meant to, but you’ve managed to creep up with the usual silent tread and I jump so violently I
let out another yelp of pain (searing).

You wait patiently until I’ve landed on the chair again then give my shoulder a quick stroke. “Cut
it out,” I say sulkily. “Stop sneaking up on me.”

“I apologise.”

“Good. Do it again and I'll have to put a bell on you.”

“A bell?” You place the first aid kit on the table then reach up to adjust the overhead light,
twisting it at several angles until my neck’s been spotlighted to your satisfaction. “Isn’t that what
one does with cats? I’d have thought you’d prefer a more canine-orientated solution. At any rate,
you are very welcome to try.” A faint smirk follows this statement, which I’m tempted to translate
as: ‘and if you ever do, little man, I will end you.’

I have a brief smirk myself at the thought of you in a tiny plastic collar with a bell on the end, then
close my eyes and suck in my breath with a fizzing hiss of discomfort as you push my head down.

“So what’s the damage?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Glue might be sufficient.” There’s a small pause, presumably while you look a bit closer.
“Actually, no. I’m afraid sutures are going to be necessary.”

I sigh loudly then give an unhappy flinch as you start to swab a strong-smelling liquid against the
cut. You stroke along the side of my arm in apology. “I know it hurts,” you add gently. “I’m sorry,
but we’re running low on benzocaine.”

I repeat the sighing sound – only this time against myself because I’ve realised I was the one who
forgot to order any. You tilt my head further down while I’m doing it then massage across my
shoulder blades with your free hand. “Are you injured anywhere else?” you ask.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

Even as I’m saying it I know you won’t listen and sure enough you don’t; instead insisting on
running through the usual checks (which include, but are not limited to, blood pressure, pulse and a
penlight shone in both eyes) despite my noisy protests that none of it is necessary. You give a
satisfied nod when you’ve finished then turn around again to retrieve some forceps and a length of
surgical thread, the sight of which pre-emptively make me wince. I’m feeling seriously sorry for
myself by now, so let out a third sigh for good measure. This one is more martyred than the
previous ones and involves a rather elaborate ritual of inflating both nostrils like a seal. I must look
ridiculous: thank God you can’t see. Even so, I don’t have any genuine concerns at what’s about to
happen and the realisation of this is slightly surprising. When did I become so relaxed about
placing my body’s wellbeing into your hands? I can’t really remember. It seems to have happened
so naturally I wasn’t even aware of it.

“I told you I was fine,” I say vaguely.

“I know you did,” you reply, calmly pulling on some latex gloves. “But it never hurts to be sure.”

“He tried to stab my chest,” I add, “but the blade didn’t penetrate.” Briefly you run your finger
across my cheek but don’t reply. “It wasn’t even close…ow. Ow. Shit, that really hurts.”

You make a soothing sound between your teeth. “I need to do it Will. Try and bear it a little
longer.”
I draw in another lungful of air then grip onto the armrest so hard I can see my knuckles turn white.
Surely I could have borne it better than this in the past? My pain threshold used to be so high: it’s
like it’s softened and dissolved after months of not being needed.

“The edges are clean,” you’re now saying, half to yourself. “It’s wide but not deep.”

“That’s good,” I reply. Or at least I hope it is…to be honest I’m not really sure. Would it be better
if it were deep but narrow? “Are you nearly done?” I add hopefully.

“Nearly.” You make a tugging motion with the thread then reach into the first aid kit again for a
pair of scissors to neatly snip the end off. “It will probably scar but at least your hair will hide the
worst of it. I doubt anyone will notice.”

Of course I know that you’ll notice, although somehow you don’t seem to count; I could be
covered in scars and you’d still enjoy looking at me. I shrug without thinking, followed by a
shuddering wince as a fresh bolt of pain promptly shoots through my shoulder. “I don’t mind,” I
add. “One more to add to the collection.”

“Indeed,” you say fondly. “You are going to run out of room.”

“I won’t.” I reach out and give you a prod with my foot. “Plus I can enjoy the novelty of having
one that wasn’t caused by you.”

“Yes, I suppose I can’t really fault your logic there.” You close the first aid kit then turn round to
give my hair an affectionate ruffle, taking care the entire time not to jolt my head. “I’m afraid it’s
beyond my power to remedy the past ones. However, at the very least I guarantee that anyone
attempting future damage will have to answer to me.”

You sound very forceful, and I have a surreal – and rather amusing – image of sending you out into
the world to wreck vengeance on my behalf like some sort of medieval warlord (or possibly that
witch in the Wizard of Oz with the flying monkeys). There’s no doubt you’d be extremely good at
it. I suppose you do have your uses; unlike me, who has to put way more effort into looking
imposing with far less impressive results. The difference in how Matteo relates to us both is an
obvious example of this and I find myself frowning again, suddenly resentful of the way you’re
able to exude better badass vibes than I can. Although I suppose I at least have a massive badass at
my permanent disposal, which is some measure of consolation. Now I start to cheer up again. If life
gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or, to put it another way: if life has given you a rather feeble
non-badass appearance, than go on the run with a gigantic badass whilst making full use of their
badassery for your own self-serving purposes…

“Will?” you say.

“Yeah?”

“I asked you if you wanted anything.”

“Did you?” I say lamely. “Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

“I know, I can tell. Perhaps you should lie down? You’ve lost a quantity of blood – and painkillers
on an empty stomach will no doubt be having an effect.”

I blink back at you a few times as I silently digest this. Come to think of it I do feel a bit light-
headed: I suppose that explains my deranged mental rant about lemonade and flying monkeys. Oh
shit, I hope I didn’t say any of that out loud? I didn’t, did I? Oh God, I bet I did. I bet I said it out
loud…
You repeat my name again and with an effort I force myself to focus and try to think of something
to say which won’t end up sounding like crack ravings. “Actually I do,” I finally reply. “Have you
got a mirror?”

You retrieve a small lens case from the cupboard and I stagger off into the hallway so I can hold it
in front of the large wall mirror to inspect the back of my neck. “It’s not so bad,” I say in surprise.
“At least it won’t be thanks to your repair job.” Awkwardly I twist my face from one side to
another, admiring the meticulous row of tiny stitches. “Could you teach me how to do it?”

Abruptly you now appear behind me in the mirror; I can see your eyes gleaming slightly from over
my shoulder. “Yes, if you like,” you say. “Suture training kits are very easy to come by. I could
order you one tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” Of course the implication is that one day you might require a similar service yourself,
although it seems neither of us wants to acknowledge this outright. “You’re good at it, aren’t you?”
I add.

You give a modest shrug. “I do my best, I suppose. These days I rarely have the opportunity to
practice.”

“Mmm, I don’t know about that. A few more nights like this one….”

“There will not be more nights like this one,” you say firmly. “It was merely the exception that
proves the rule.”

“And what rule is that?”

“The one which says we are entirely in control of our actions.”

You announce this in a very self-assured sort of way and for an awful moment I think you’re about
to add something about how ‘Fortune favours the bold’ or being ‘Masters of our own destiny,’
because in my current manic state it’ll be impossible not to start cackling like a goblin at anything
so pompous. Fortunately you don’t, although your tone certainly implies it: it’s like you can’t even
fathom a scenario in which either of us won’t succeed. Such cosmic levels of confidence are rather
enviable, even though I can’t help feeling how dangerous they might also be if one day your
judgement really does fail. I now wrinkle my nose at you in silent accusation of being a big
arrogant bastard then on an impulse reach out to cup your face in my palm instead.

“Look at you,” I say fondly. “You’re so…” The word I’m thinking of is perfect, only it’s not quite
right because it fails to capture how you’re perfect in your extreme imperfection. “You’re so you,”
I say finally – and which probably wouldn’t make much sense to anyone else, yet still feels more
accurate for describing your sheer uniqueness. “I don’t care that everyone out there is scared of
you,” I add, even more fondly. “When you’re in here you belong entirely to me.”

“Indeed I do,” you reply with a slow smile. “Happily so.”

To be honest I’m not really sure why you’re so happy about it. I know I wouldn’t be if I were you:
most of the time I’m a massive pain in the ass. “Are you sure you’re all right?” I add, even though
I’ve asked the same question about seven times already (and which is a further sign of hypocrisy,
seeing how I always get annoyed when you won’t take my word for something.)

“I appreciate the concern,” you reply, “but my response is unchanged from three minutes ago when
you last enquired.”

“Oh yeah?” I say beadily. “So what’s that?”

“What?”

“That.” I roll my eyes at you then dramatically pull back your shirtsleeve so I can inspect your
forearm. “You have a graze,” I say. Even to my own ears I sound ridiculous; anyone would think
you had a compound fracture, or possibly a third arm. Mostly this is a result of my earlier crack
ravings, although even when feeling normal I suspect I’d still over-react. Considering everything
I’ve witnessed across the years it’s not like I’m overly sensitive to injuries, but there’s always
something about seeing you hurt that’s guaranteed to bother me.

“It’s fine,” you add. I lean down to inspect for myself then make a regretful cooing noise that
manages to sound worryingly like a pigeon. Ugh, it really does – surely I didn’t just emit such a
fucked-up sound with my own actual vocal cords? I decide to do it again, just to be sure, and am
forced to conclude that, yes, it’s definitely a pigeon. This is rather depressing. It means that if there
was a pigeon who was high on crack and benzocaine and had lost a lot of blood, then that pigeon
would be me.

“But it’s bleeding,” I say.

“It’s fine, Will. You of all people should know I’ve had far worse.”

“When did it happen?”

“I’ve no idea. I was barely aware of it until now.”

I repeat a more subdued version of the pigeon noise. “Keep an eye on it won’t you?” I say. “Those
small cuts always get infected.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it. Both eyes, in fact.”

You’re smiling now, and it suddenly occurs to me that you do genuinely enjoy my interest in your
wellbeing. I suppose it’s a novelty for you to have someone so concerned over whether you’re
okay. Most of my life I’ve had the opposite problem. I get asked so much it feels like a borderline
insult, the implication being that of course there must be something wrong with me – and always
will be.

“Good,” I say. “You do that.” I give you a pat on the cheek that’s deliberately playful, the same
way I might do to a child, and you smirk a bit before doing the same thing straight back, only about
ten times harder.

“Stop it,” I tell you when you look like you’re about to do it again.

“Or else what?”

“Or else…” I go silent for a few minutes, trying to muster a suitable threat. “Or else I’ll throw you
off another cliff.”

This makes you laugh out loud before gathering me up to your chest so you can rest your face
against my hair. “It seems we are both all right,” you say. “Which is more than can be said for the
gentleman this evening.” You go quiet for a few seconds then briefly tighten your grip. “You
should have given me more time with him Will. I’d have liked to instruct him more thoroughly on
the error of his ways.”

“You weren’t the one he stabbed.”

“Precisely,” you say. “He stabbed you.”

A part of me wants to point out that I don’t need anyone sticking up for me, but finally decide not
to on the grounds of how ungrateful it would look. Besides, I know I’d act exactly the same if
you’d been the one who got hurt. If that knife had got anywhere near your neck I would have
ripped him limb from limb; in comparison I let him off quite lightly when he only sliced against
mine. It’s actually a bit bizarre to realise that in these terms my own skin seems to hold less value
to me than yours does.

“You were magnificent tonight,” you now say. I make the familiar awkward grunting noise I
usually do in response to praise and you add: “I knew you would be. You always are.”

“I was careless.”

“You are appraising your performance a little harshly. You are here and relatively uninjured…”
You pause then deliver one of your eerie little smiles. “While your opponent is dead in an
alleyway.”

“That’s not the point. I should never have let him get so close to me.”

“It wasn’t as close as all that. The injury is superficial: I sutured it to minimise the scarring, but it
would have healed on its own regardless.” You give a little rumbling sigh of satisfaction then hook
your arms around my waist so you can tug me even closer. “Your own diorama of death, Will,”
you say sardonically. “Your own work of art. So how did it feel this time? I’m curious to know.”

It's clear you’re getting turned on at the thought of me being violent and while I know I should be
disturbed by it I’m far beyond that point by now: I hurtled past it that night on the cliffside, and if
I’m honest I’ve never really looked back. And neither, of course, have you – even for an event like
tonight’s, which was almost brutally sordid in how simple it was. The pinnacle of your satisfaction
always comes when I allow myself to shake off any lingering shreds of restraint or principle and
indulge whatever dark display happens to be running through my mind (Not dark, you’ll always
say. Radiant. Visionary) but this time I was clear I didn’t want to – not with Jack so close by and
any of our more ‘artistic’ inspirations guaranteed to attract a level of scrutiny I desperately don’t
want. You were disappointed of course, just like I knew you’d be, but there’s no doubt how even
this ruthlessly streamlined version still managed to captivate you. I suppose, in a rather ghoulish
way, you’re simply being pragmatic. The spectacular slaying of a Great Red Dragon is hardly an
everyday occurrence after all, so in the meantime you’ve learnt to satisfy yourself with the
successful stalking of much lesser prey…exactly the same way I have.

“It felt real,” I now say; partly because it’s what you want to hear, but mostly because it’s true. “It
felt like I was being myself.”

“Creating your own canvas, yes. Only not with brushes and paint but with flesh and blood – with
bone and breath.” There’s a hum of energy in your voice now; if I glanced up I’d half expect to see
it crackling through the air, kinetic and merciless. “So much poetry, boldness and beauty in that
moment Will…so much life even in the midst of dying.”

“Okay,” I say wearily. It’s strange how your responses don’t unsettle me yet somehow my own
still can. “I know. I just…I don’t want to keep talking about it.”

“No, I don’t expect you do. You want to file it away in your little mental cabinet, along with all the
other taboos you wish to pretend you don’t indulge in.” You pause then give me a long side-eye. “I
expect there is an extensive shelf in there devoted entirely to me.”

“Actually, you have your own cabinet.”

This makes you smile a bit, even though I suspect you don’t think it’s particularly funny. “Yes, I
suppose I have,” you say. “How else could you go out into the world and pretend to be so virtuous.
You’re a singular combination of attributes aren’t you Inspector Graham? A genuine desire to
please yet still bristling under the weight of social expectations – rebelling at conformity whilst
simultaneously wishing to conform.”

“I’m serious,” I say. “Just leave it, please. I’m not in the mood. Not right now.”

“But I am,” you reply; and which of course is going to settle it, because it’d be easier to stop a
hurricane then stopping you from pursuing something you’re in the mood for. “I was watching you
carefully tonight,” you add, “and you seemed so comfortable with what you were doing. It gave me
enormous pleasure. Do you want to know why?”

“No,” I say wryly. “Not really.”

Admittedly I’m not expecting my lack of interest to deter you and of course it doesn’t. “The
reason,” you reply, without missing a beat, “is that I don’t think even you can appreciate how
incredibly uncomfortable you used to be most of the time. All that empathy…it destroyed you in so
many ways, didn’t it? It made you distance yourself from people and cause them to see you as
remote and unapproachable, when all the time you were just trying to protect yourself.”

Immediately I find myself catching your eye, consumed with a sudden surge of emotion that’s not
entirely welcome. It’s like I’m feeling grief on behalf of my previous self. “Yes,” I say bleakly. “I
know.”

“So do I,” you reply in an unusually gentle voice. “I know very well. Mano meilė…how sad you
were. I remember watching you leave a crime scene once: you had tears in your eyes, you were so
disgusted and devastated by what you’d had to put yourself through. The way you’d pause and
frown, then run a hand across your face like you were trying to chase the despair away. Such
aesthetic misery, Will. You had the strained, haunted look of an El Greco saint; it was like being in
your own skin was unbearable to you on a daily basis.” You fall silent for a few seconds then run
your palm across my forearm, tenderly stroking the flesh as if in sympathy. “The skin that was
forced to house the darkly chaotic mind…no wonder it was in perpetual discomfort. You wanted to
bear a more typical mind, didn’t you? A more ‘normal’ one. Not that it was your fault; you’d never
learned to appreciate the privilege.” I can’t help smiling slightly, beginning a mental countdown
for how long it’s going to be before you find some way to take credit for this. Sure enough you add
almost immediately: “It was very fortunate that you had me there to show you.”

I roll my eyes a bit then give you another nudge. “I’m surprised you’re so happy about the
improvement. You always enjoyed seeing me uncomfortable.”

“Yes, perhaps I did. Your discomfort was rather addictive. One might even say I relished it.”

“Yes,” I say drily. “I think one might safely say that.”

“If only there had been a way to bottle it up and breathe it in,” you add. “It would have been
something for a bystander to savour in small, exquisite sips. You were so innocent compared to
everyone around you, Will. Like the Lamb of Revelation. A symbol of tormented justice, striking
down the evil-doers with godlike vengeance. Yet look at you now.” Gently you tilt my head
upright so you can gaze directly into my eyes, virtually pinning me in place with the intensity of
the stare. “There you are Will Graham: dwelling in both the minds of those who are murdered and
in the minds of those who murder them – between the authority of ending life and the helplessness
of having it taken. And what do you do? You transform horror into the aesthetic. You control your
environment with the hand of an artist. You compose a virtuosic rhythm…you construct the perfect
design.”

By now I can’t quite decide whether I’m more amused or annoyed and ultimately settle for a kind
of hybrid of the two. “Can’t you just turn it off for once?” I say. “Stop trying to analyse me.
Anyway, you can talk: you seemed to be having a pretty good time yourself.”

“True,” you reply, with another faint flicker of the mouth. “We both lost control to differing
degrees. Humans often tend to do so when confronted with such primitive, elementary drives.
Sex...death; how they consume us. We think we are so civilised, don’t we? But we are not.” A
delicately suggestive silence follows this statement, in which it’s not entirely clear whether the ‘we’
refers to human beings in general – or me and you in particular – and you stretch and smile a bit
then add: “Only think how confused the police are going to be.”

Seeing how I don’t want to think about this (or, more to the point, how Jack’s confusion is due to
get added any day now) I don’t actually bother to reply. Not that my reluctance, just like my
disinterest, is ever enough to put you off. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” you persist, right on cue.
“You’ve gone so silent.”

“Yeah, well, you’re talking enough for both of us.”

“But now I wish to listen to you. If you don’t want to talk about tonight then tell me something else
instead.”

“Like what?”

“Whatever you like.” You kiss my hair again then let me go so you can stroll over to the cupboard.
It seems you want to retrieve a bottle of wine, and whereas I’d just grab the closest one you make a
whole task of examining them: pulling out assorted bottles and rejecting the inferior ones before
finally locating one that’s to your liking. I watch you the entire time with an expression of fond
exasperation on my face. “I’m still waiting,” you add, as you place the chosen bottle on the
counter. “You can speak without restraint: there’s always a high chance I’ll find what you say to be
diverting. Besides, I like the sound of your voice.”

“Do you?”

I must seem surprised because you immediately turn round and give me one of your more feline
smiles. “Have I never told you that before?” you say. “Because I do. I’m not overly fond of
American accents as a rule but yours is an exception.” You smile a bit more then casually raise
your glass in my direction. “It’s soft, but not irritatingly so. There’s a dry edge to it which is very
pleasant; it dilutes the gentler aspects and prevents it becoming too sweet, the same way good wine
balances bitterness with piquancy.” You take a sip from your glass then narrow your eyes slightly
like you’re trying to think of something else. Yeah, you actually are aren’t you…oh my God,
you’re still not done. “I also enjoy that little rasp you have on some of the vowels,” you finally add.
“You do it when you grow animated; it’s rather like you’re catching your breath. Then there’s an
abrasiveness which pummels round the occasional word. It reminds me of sandpaper; as if you
sometimes scour your opinions prior to sharing them.”

You finally come to an end of this speech and I just stand there and blink a few times, struggling
with a sudden urge to laugh. “And now you have gone silent again,” you say. “I suppose you are
going to withhold me the gift of your voice. I should never have admitted my weakness for it.”

“Look, I’ll tell you what,” I say. “I’ll cut you a deal: I’ll give you my voice if you can keep your
own to yourself for two minutes together.”
Your smile promptly widens and I walk over to stand behind you so I can wrap my arms round
your waist. “You’re ridiculous,” I say. “And I’m tired – I’m going to go to bed. You can have my
voice tomorrow.”

“Very good,” you say. “I shall hold you to that promise.”

I smile too, despite the fact you can’t see me, then reach down to untuck your shirt so I can stoke
my hands along your abdomen, admiring how smooth and warm your skin feels above the
powerful slabs of muscle. You smell like almonds and cedarwood, a touch of the antiseptic, and
underneath it all that musky, undefinable scent that’s uniquely you. I’m not sure what point I began
connecting this smell to a sense of comfort and security but there’s no doubt it’s become the case.
As I press down again you give a small shiver and I gently grind my hips against your leg so you
can feel how hard I’m getting before leaning forward to kiss your neck.

“Hurry up and finish that,” I murmur against your skin. “I’ll wait for you upstairs.”

You obediently take another sip of the wine but as I start to move away you dart out and catch hold
of my hand. “You know I meant what I said before,” you add. “Aside from the certain glamour you
used to lend to misery, I much prefer to see you contented.”

“Well I guess that’s an improvement,” I say. “Thanks.”

“It’s true. My aim is for you to reach a time where you never have cause to be melancholy again.
And that metaphorical bottle I mentioned? That bottle would be the only lingering memory of it. If
I wanted to relish your previous sadness then I’d have to do it through remembrance only.”

In spite of myself I’m rather struck by this phantom version of myself and spend a few seconds
trying to imagine him – one who’s perennially calm and contented, maybe wearing the same serene
smile as you do – before giving it up as impossible to manage. It seems such an improbable
alternative; I doubt I’d even recognise him if I met him the street. Of course the fact you’ve
conjured him up at all is an obvious reference to the chaos of all my current struggles, but there’s
no way I’m in the right mood to get them out and examine them. Not, admittedly, that I ever seem
to be in the right mood – in this respect it seems you’re doomed to wait for a series of revelations
that stubbornly refuse to happen. It’s actually rather ironic, because my awareness of this has
become yet another source of conflict, and while I know it’s not my fault I always end up feeling
guilty anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I suddenly blurt out. You raise your eyebrows and I add: “I know I’ve been difficult
recently.”

“No more than you usually are.”

You’re smiling as you say this and I can feel myself shaking my head. “No,” I protest. “I’m
serious.”

“As am I.”

“I just wish things could be simpler,” I continue rather wildly. A part of me wants to add ‘like they
were before’ but even as I’m thinking it I know the sentiment isn’t the right one. Admittedly the
presence of Jack and Matteo – not to mention the impromptu marriage proposal – have created
extra difficulties, but it’s not like things were ever really simple. We’re both a cascade of
complexity after all. We always have been. Simplicity seems a stupid thing to wish for, childlike
and pointless in its naivety. Even so, I can’t fully help myself from wanting it.
“I understand,” you reply, even though I’m not sure you really do. You fall silent for a while then
finally catch me looking at you and give a rather mournful smile. “I apologise,” you say. “I was
distracted. Only your expression just then – it made me think of my sister.”

This is a subject that’s extremely rare for you to mention and I’m never entirely sure how to handle
it when you do. You stare back at me without speaking then smile again and give a small shrug. “I
suppose that sounds patronising, but I promise it’s intended as a compliment. You happen to
remind me of her quite a bit. She had considerable physical beauty, just as you do, but it’s really
more a question of temperament. A certain softness and susceptibility…and a quiet need to be
loved.” Briefly you fall silent again and I know you’re wordlessly remembering that small sister –
long dead now, but whose memory never seems to fade or blemish – and when you finally
continue there’s a distinct tone of sadness in your voice. “Sometimes she’d look at me exactly the
same way you do; very thoughtful and appraising with a hint of challenge. I always found it
impossible to deny her anything.”

“I know,” I say eventually, even though this is a lie because I don’t know. I don’t truly know about
your grief for your sister, or how it relates to who and what you became…sometimes I feel like I
don’t know anything at all. Even so, I’m aware that you’re being unusually open with your
emotions and it seems like the least I can do is reciprocate with some disclosure of my own. “It
just…it feels like my life’s have been put on hold,” I finally add. “I’ve felt like that for a while.
You know? Like I’m just waiting for things to get better.” I pause for a few seconds then cast you a
quick, guilty look. “I guess you’re waiting too.”

“Yes, it’s another talent of yours it would seem,” you reply, calmly returning the stare. “To be so
sought after and waited upon. The imperative hardly matters: whether it’s with tolerance, or
impatience, or a quiet anticipation – how willing we all are to wait for you.” I must look puzzled
because you now add: “I’m not just referring to myself. It’s a spell you appeared to weave across
most people from the very first time I met you. After all, even you are waiting: waiting to know
and accept the essence of yourself. You’re waiting so patiently aren’t you Will? You’ve been
waiting your entire life.”

I stare back in silence, reluctant to get drawn into the implications of this, and you slowly stroke
your eyes across my face for a second time in a way that lingers on my lips and eyes. “Not that
waiting is any particular virtue in itself,” you eventually add. “It’s only when one can appreciate
the value of what is being waited for. And likewise, of course, to understand exactly why it is that
one is prepared to wait.”

I take a deep breath. “But no one can wait forever,” I say. “What if things don’t change?”

You smile at me, briefly tender and thoughtful again, then solemnly tip your glass in my direction.
“Then we shall do what is obvious of course,” you reply. “Which is to accept more patience is
required and wait a little longer – on and on, for long as is necessary. And if it never occurs then
we shall accept that as well. I waited for you for so long Will; you can hardly think I’d lose my
stamina now? Besides, I believe I could accept you in any form you presented yourself in.” You
smile again then slowly raise your glass at me for a second time. “Why not? After all, I loved you
when I thought you were perfect. Then I finally realised you weren’t – and I loved you even more.”
 Chapter 12

It doesn’t occur to me straight away. But the more I think about it, the more obvious it seems how
much your behaviour has started changing since the news about Jack. This isn’t even including
what you’ve said about it, rather a more general sense of your mood and attitude, and it’s also
nothing particularly notable – nothing that most people would probably even pick up on. But I
understand you well enough by now to recognise your tells, and I’m convinced there’s a certain
energy beginning to simmer below your surface which wasn’t there before. On the other hand, one
thing that isn’t clear is how far you’re intending to take because it’s always been so difficult to
predict you in advance. It could be something spectacular you’re planning, or it could be nothing at
all: you’re so cool and aloof it’s easy to get deceived by you and end up overlooking those
ravenous extremes which are barely restrained by a veneer of polite propriety – and even after all
this time together, I still can’t reliably tell. But then that’s always been a talent of yours, hasn’t it?
Your veneer is just so damn convincing (and elegant, and compelling), yet that doesn’t change the
fact that it’s still a façade; and one that I, of all people, should be able to spot by now.

Briefly I now find myself thinking about the veneer on the cabinet in my childhood bedroom: the
way I used to lie in bed during successive sleepless nights and pick away at it to see what was
underneath. Most of the time you seem to be more brain than body, so coolly controlled and
glacially calm that I could shiver in your air, whereas the hints of what lie beneath this outer
coating – this veneer – are always volcanic. But then they’re also…what would the word be? I
frown for a few seconds, trying to work it out. Finally I settle for intoxicating. It’s a term closely
linked with alcohol or drugs and I turn it over in my head a few times before deciding it’s still the
right one. It’s something that makes me feel glazed and heady, like being in a heat-haze or spinning
on a carousel; the type of feeling that should be described by swirling cursive letters on a billboard
or poster because normal plain adjectives can’t adequately capture it. Drunken and dazed on darkly
destructive delights…at which point I realise I’m talking complete crap and should just drop the
whole thing. Even so, there’s still some truth to it, because the thought of what you’re capable of
has always disturbed me while still providing an equal degree of fascination. I suppose it’s partly
what drew me to you in the first place, then has kept me hooked ever since. Love and repulsion, all
blended together.

Thoughts like this are never guaranteed to put me in a good mood (as opposed to several varieties
of shit ones) so I finally decide to give it up and just head downstairs instead, where I find you
basking about in the living room with a book in one hand and a supremely contented expression on
your face like the cat that got the canary (every canary…all the canaries). Giulietta has only just
left, so it’s safe to assume that this chilled-out persona is at least partly for her benefit. You’re very
chameleon-like in that way, effortlessly using your charm to blend into the surroundings. Not,
admittedly, that it’s just a straightforward case of camouflage because it’s also something that
predators do. Of course I can blend in too when I want to – almost as well as you can – although in
my case the motivation is different because I mostly do it so survive and minimise harm, the same
way a real chameleon does. It’s not about being charming as opposed to trying to stay safe. You, on
the other hand, probably have a range of motives although I suspect none of them are all that
important – mostly I think you do it just because you can.

I haven’t made any noise, although can still tell the exact moment you detect my presence from the
way you tilt your head then shift aside very slightly in an obvious invitation for me to sit next to
you. I walk over then give your hair a quick ruffle; partly out of affection, but also because seeing
you with mussed-up hair is always inexplicably hilarious.

You sigh a bit over the hair ruffling, then wait until I’ve sat down before smoothing it back into
place (shooting me wary looks the entire time as if suspecting I’m about to do it again). “Good
morning,” you say. “You slept very well.”

“I did, yeah. I was more tired than I realised.”

“And how is your neck?”

“Okay, thanks.” I lean forward like I’m about to go for your hair then struggle not to laugh at the
way you jerk your head away. “A little sore, but nothing too bad. What about your arm?”

“I have been keeping both eyes on it, exactly as promised.”

“Let me see it.”

You dutifully roll your sleeve back so I can lean in again to inspect the damage. It looks worse in
the daylight – surely far more painful than you’re admitting to – although the edges have already
begun to contract and there are no obvious signs of infection. I give a satisfied nod when I’ve
finished and you replace your sleeve then gesture to where your laptop is open on the desk. “I was
curious to see if the news had covered our outing,” you add, “but apparently not.”

“Good,” I say firmly. “The less attention the better.”

You don’t seem very convinced by this, although I wasn’t really expecting you to be. I suppose as
far as you’re concerned the attention is part of the point. Instead of replying you just reach out to
take hold of my chin, moving it from one side to the other so you can examine my face. Judging
from the way you’ve started frowning it’s safe to assume you’re not particularly pleased with what
you see. “You’re extremely pale,” you say finally. “You should try and rest today.”

“I told you. I’m fine.”

“Perhaps you are, but you lost a lot of blood.”

“Not as much as all that.”

“It was enough. You also had the stress of being sutured with inadequate anaesthesia.”

“Did I?” I say, pantomiming surprise. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“You should rest,” you repeat in a brisk, doctorly voice. “Contrary to what you like to believe,
you’re not actually indestructible.”

I open my mouth to make another sarcastic reply, only to notice your expression then find myself
changing my mind and closing it again. It seems unfair to keep rejecting your advice, not to
mention rather juvenile. After all, it’s clear that seeing me injured has bothered you – and I know if
our situations were reversed I’d feel exactly the same.

“Okay then,” I say, trying my best to sound placatory. “You’re right. I’ll take it easy.”

You seem surprised that I’m giving in so easily, but in the end just make a humming noise to
indicate approval before returning to your book again while your other hand rests casually across
my thigh. I obediently tip my head back and close my eyes, although after a few minutes get so
bored with it I end up opening them again. Your own eyes promptly reappear from over the book
and begin to crease in a way that means you’re smiling.

“Resting,” I announce towards the ceiling, “is tedious.”

“Evidently.”

“Yes, well, it was your idea – you should entertain me.”

“Should I? That’s a rather difficult commission; you are not especially easy to entertain.”

“That’s your problem,” I say smugly.

“Yes, I suppose it is. Perhaps you’d like me to read to you?” I wave my hand in a ‘maybe’ gesture
and you hold up the book so I can inspect the cover. “It’s a history of Certosa di Firenze.”

“The Florence Charterhouse?”

“Correct. A Carthusian monastery, founded in the 1300s.”

“Oh,” I say. “That sounds…” You raise your eyebrows expectantly. “Restful.”

“By which you mean tedious.” You smirk a bit then dart out to take hold of my shoulders, levering
me round until I’m lying across the sofa with my head on your knee. I make a half-hearted attempt
to struggle upright and you quickly drape your arm across my chest to stop me.

“I apologise,” you say when I make a protesting noise. “You’re not really designed for
confinement, are you? You’re so fluid and loose-limbed. You should be roaming free.” I repeat the
protesting noise, this time a little louder, and you smile again then run your fingers through my
hair. “You know I remember thinking that when I first met you,” you add. “How much more
comfortable you seemed to be when roving around the room or leaning against furniture rather than
sitting in a chair. It was one of many times you caused me to surprise myself, because I’d find a
similar habit incredibly irritating in anyone else. In your case, however, such restiveness was rather
captivating.”

I have a private smirk of my own then stretch my arms out behind my head. It’s actually pretty
comfortable lying like this…I suppose I might as well stay where I am. “Good,” I say. “Then
captivate me.”

“With the Carthusian monasteries?”

“Yes, why not? I thought you liked a challenge.”

“I understand your scepticism, but as it happens I do not consider it a challenge. Monastic life
would have indeed been rather tedious most of the time, yet they could also be a source of drama
and sedition of the most intriguing kind. Anywhere that’s a centre of power will inevitably do that.
It will grow corrupt – although perhaps the opposite is also true, in that power attracts the
corruptible. Either way they were a common destination for the educated and solitary-minded, and
had I lived in such times I might have ended up in one myself.”

I make a loud snorting noise then promptly start choking on my own spit; you give another smirk
then politely sit there and wait until I’m able to breathe again. “You,” I finally manage to say. “In a
monastery?”

“Yes, me in a monastery. Why not? I think I would have enjoyed myself immensely. I would have
had hours of leisure to study and contemplate, then hours more to amuse myself with ministering
to the fallen and forsaken. Not to mention all my fellow monks of course.” You wait a few more
seconds, presumably so you can enjoy the expression of profound disbelief on my face, then begin
to idly wind a strand of my hair round your finger. “Just imagine how diverted they would have
been to hear my thoughts about religion.”
I repeat a more subdued version of the snorting noise. “’Diverted’,” I say. “I suppose that’s one
way of putting it.”

“Well, considering a chief duty of theirs was dispensing charity then one would think they could
have surmised it for themselves with little input from me. Charity is a perfect example of God’s
inherent dislike of his creation. Consider, after all, how He has taken it upon Himself to dispense
sufficient bounty to the world to furnish the needs of only several million souls with good food and
warm clothing – not to mention education, sanitation and accommodation – while leaving wholly
inadequate supplies for the billions of others who require the same.” You pause then smile rather
sardonically. “This, of course, is God’s idea of entertaining Himself.”

I give you the obligatory eye-roll, although now you’ve mentioned it I can’t help feeling it’s not
totally impossible to picture you as an abbot in some medieval priory. After all, most of those guys
were renowned as being Epic Bastards so no doubt you’d fit right in. Briefly I fall silent as I try to
imagine it: sweeping through stone corridors in a dark cloak by day then scheming by night with
Dukes and Cardinals about staging a rebellion or diminishing a rival as the candlelight flickered
across your angular face. Even so, the spiritual angle is admittedly a bit of a reach.

You catch me looking at you and start to smile again, this time rather complacently. “Yes, it would
be a pleasing paradox wouldn’t it?” you say. “Seeing how I am so very irreligious. It could be said
I possess the kind of mindset that means when I leave my bed each morning, the Almighty almost
certainly gives an involuntary shudder and remarks: ‘How unfortunate. It seems that he is awake
again.’”

Even for you this is ridiculous and I can’t help starting to laugh. Your own smile begins to broaden
at the sight of it before you reach down to trail a finger along my throat. “So what about you?” you
say.

“What about me?”

“How would you have fitted into such a setting?”

“I wouldn’t have fitted in at all. Let’s be real – the only thing less likely than you in a monastery is
having me in one.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think you would have made a very charming novice. Besides, in
those days a monastery was a natural home for solitary young men of high intelligence and a
certain emotional…intensity. No, I don’t consider it at all unlikely that you would have found
yourself taking orders.”

“It is not remotely likely.”

“I disagree,” you say firmly – which means as far as you’re concerned the matter is settled and I’m
now going to have to sit through an elaborate, long-winded speech where I’m cos-playing a
medieval monk. I give a rather martyred sigh then close my eyes again, attempting to prepare for
the worst of it.

“Yes, it’s an enticing image,” you add. “In fact, the only thing to improve it is if you’d been my
novice. Imagine my rapture if you’d been delivered to me as a postulant? I would have singled you
out immediately of course, just as I did in our real-life acquaintance. This one is different, I would
have said to myself. There is something special about him.”

“Yeah,” I say wryly. “I bet you would.”

“So, what would I have done with you?” you reply, beginning to stroke my throat again. And then,
before I can reply: “Actually, I can answer that myself, because I would have been the one
responsible for examining you upon your arrival. A very sincere enterprise, you understand –
simply to determine your fitness for monastic service. An assessment of your purity, both in body
in mind.”

I give a smirk that’s almost as dramatic as yours then tip my head further back to provide better
access to my neck. “Sincere,” I say without opening my eyes. “Right.”

“Very sincere,” you reply in an exaggeratedly innocent voice. “Where would I begin, I wonder?
Perhaps I would have spent some time simply watching you – which would admittedly be rather
inefficient, yet still deeply enjoyable regardless. You’re very striking, after all: I’ve always liked
looking at you. And here I have you in an unfamiliar habitat. I am like a naturalist observing
something very rare and wary and trying to win its trust. You wouldn’t have liked that, would you?
You’ve never been prepared to appreciate how attractive you are. But as pleasurable as it would
have been it couldn’t go on indefinitely because, of course, I still have a job to perform.”

“Yes,” I say, dipping my head and pretending to bite your forearm. “Your completely unnecessary
job, you idiot. Haven’t you decided that you’re going to accept me anyway?”

“But you wouldn’t have known that, would you?” you reply in the same rhythmic voice. “Your
lack of awareness therefore plays to my advantage, and I intend to derive the greatest possible
benefit from it. Speaking of which, I believe I’d have begun with a check of your general health.
Dental hygiene, for example. What do you think, Will? Such things were a constant aggravation in
those days, so I imagine I would have begun by asking to examine your teeth. I’d have held your
face very still with one hand, then slowly slid my finger into your mouth.” As you’re speaking you
press against my lower lip, obviously expecting me to let you do it for real; I smirk at you again but
stubbornly refuse permission. “I would have stroked your jaw with my thumb as I was doing it,”
you add softly. “Not because it was necessary, but simply so I could enjoy your confusion as to
whether such a tender touch was deliberate or not.”

I tip my head even further back then open my eyes just so I can give you A Look. “So in other
words,” I say, “you’d have spent the whole time trying to manipulate me.”

“Manipulation is such a pious term, beloved. You sound just like Jack. I would merely be
attempting to determine your desires without asking outright.”

“Yeah, exactly,” I say with heavy sarcasm. “You’d be manipulating me.”

“If you insist,” you reply in your usual leisurely way. “But how glad you would be that I am. After
all, I’ve barely even begun with you yet. My next task would be to assess your physical fitness. I’d
ask you to turn around then walk up behind you and stand extremely close: close enough for you to
feel my breath on your neck. You’d be very wary, of course, but you’d have no choice except to
obey.”

“Actually,” I pipe up, “you’ve already done that. Your reincarnations need to learn some new
stalking techniques.”

“But why?” you say blithely. “When my methods are already so effective? You are asking me to
reinvent the proverbial wheel. Besides, I would not content myself with merely standing behind
you. I’d let you wait a little while – just enough to let your anxiety grow – before reaching round to
run my hand across your chest. You’d have to tip your head back against my shoulder to provide
enough access. It would be as if I were embracing you.” You pause again then do it for real, the
touch very gentle and exploratory as you deftly flick open the top few buttons of my shirt. “Hmm,
yes – excellent. Firm and well-muscled with no sign of malnourishment. You are clearly suitable
for manual labour.”

“That’s good,” I say, beginning to arch my back beneath the stroking. “What’s next then? Are you
going to make me go and dig your Monastic potato fields?”

“I am not.” You unfasten a few more buttons, listening to the way my breath begins to hitch as
your palm dips further beneath the collar. “I expect you’d be growing uneasy by now, wouldn’t
you? You’d be concerned such touching wasn’t entirely appropriate. I can just imagine the
troubled expression in those large eyes of yours, staring up at me and wondering what I was going
to do to you next.” You pause for a second time then slowly stroke your palm across my stomach,
clearly savouring the way it makes me quiver. “In fact, your unease would be so obvious that my
protective instincts would have briefly taken over. I’d have put my hand on the back of your neck, I
think. Partly for reassurance but also, I confess, because I’d want an excuse to touch you again.
Then I’d have said your name very gently as I caressed you. My skin would probably have felt
rather cool against yours and it would have made you tremble. Please try to cooperate, I would
have said; but you would not have been able to do so, because by now you would have grown quite
frantic with anticipation. My poor boy: all your resistance would be in vain, because unfortunately
for you I am not close to being finished. After all, I still have the most important test to the
perform: inspecting for any signs of carnal sin.”

“Carnal sin,” I repeat. “Hmm, yeah…I bet you do.” Then I arch my back and roll my hips again,
trying to encourage you to move your hand further down (followed with a small, frustrated sigh
when you stubbornly refuse). At the sight of it you quirk your mouth into a smile before raising my
hand to lightly scrape your teeth against it, the pressure just hard enough to sting.

“Oh yes,” you reply silkily. “I understand very well what young novices are like. All of you
crowded together in those little dormitories. Especially one as beautiful as you are – it’s almost
impossible some older colleague hasn’t taken you by the hand one night to lead you towards his
bed rather than your own. Is that what you’ve been doing mano meilė? The two of you lying
together, perhaps: the sheets growing damp and tangled as you explored each other’s bodies while
the others gathered around with their candles to watch? Or perhaps you haven’t…perhaps you are
completely innocent. But either way I need to be sure.”

Your stroking is much more suggestive by now, although just like before you’re still refusing to
touch me the way that I want. “Not that it really matters,” you add in the same soft voice. “Any
forbidden games you’d played with other young men in the seminary would be nothing compared
to what I could teach you. I could show you how to sin in such delightful ways.”

I open my eyes and give you what’s intended to be a beseeching look. “Okay then,” I say. “If you
insist.”

This makes you smile again, your hand still hovering around my chest without moving any lower.
“Yes, but you don’t know that yet, do you?” you reply. “You think this is a test you need to pass.
You’d be extremely eager to please me…which means when I told you to take your clothes off you
wouldn’t say no. You’d want to, of course, but you wouldn’t dare disobey a direct request. I’d lean
back in my chair to relish the sight of it, privately enjoying your discomfort while pretending to be
severe.”

“Then you are the worst monk ever,” I say. “And you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Yes, I’m sure I probably ought to be.” You catch my eye then give me one of your more
malevolent smiles. “But needless to say, I am not. Which is why I wouldn’t allow you to get
dressed and leave, but instead order you to lay yourself down across my desk. I imagine you’d be
getting cold by this time: completely naked as you are, in a bare stone room. I would add a few
more logs to the fireplace to keep you warm and comfortable – a reward for being so well-
behaved.”

“No you wouldn’t,” I say mutinously. “You’d be sat on your ass in your chair and ordering me to
do it for you.”

“On the contrary. Why would I be sat away from you when I have an examination to perform?”
You smile again then move your hand round to cradle my face, the other one slowly trailing across
my ribs and waist. “I’d tell you to pull your legs up to your chest then stand over you to watch
while you obeyed. I can just picture you, glaring at me with resentment and trying to prevaricate
for as long as possible. Perhaps you would have told me you didn’t want to? ‘I’m waiting,’ I would
have replied, and in the end you’d have no choice except to do what I asked. Even then, I admit, I
would still do my best to prolong your suspense. I’d explain in very lingering detail that I intended
to check for any signs of sexual activity, simply for the pleasure of watching you flush.”

“I would not,” I pipe up.

“Whatever you say, beloved. Perhaps it’s only the firelight on that pale skin that’s making you look
so pink.”

I lean into your touch a little harder, pretending to bite your fingers when you press them against
my mouth again. “I hope I’m lying on all your manuscripts,” I say. “Didn’t those things take, like,
ten years to write?”

“Yes, no doubt you are. I suppose you’d be entitled to your revenge…although I should warn you
that all the hand-written manuscripts in the world won’t be enough to deter me from what I intend
to do.”

“So, go on then. What do you intend to do?”

This time your only response is to smile before reaching up to press the end of my nose with your
forefinger. It’s an unusually playful gesture that makes me laugh – and which I suppose must have
been your intention, judging by the way your own smile immediately starts to broaden.

“Exactly as I said,” you reply in a voice that, if possible, seems to have dropped to an even more
smouldering pitch than before. “I am going to examine you. You’d be very extremely tense by
now, so I suppose I’d have to apply a little lamp oil to make it easier for you to take. Just the tip of
my finger to begin with, I think…gently coaxing you to open up for me. I’d ask whether anyone
else had ever touched you there then listen as you stammered out a denial. I’d pretend to take it at
face value, of course; let you think you had a chance of getting me to change my mind. But in
reality it wouldn’t matter what you said, because I’d still do it regardless. Yet now we’d have a
rather interesting situation on our hands, because no matter how much I tried to conceal it you’d
start to sense my admiration for you. You’re so perceptive, you’d notice it almost straight away.
You’d like that, wouldn’t you Will? It would excite you: you yearn so badly to be celebrated and
accepted. So even though you’d be resisting me, I’d know that the rather charming flush on your
cheekbones was no longer from embarrassment alone, but also from the first stirrings of desire.”

While you’re speaking you slide your hand into my shirt again, exploring, caressing then letting out
low hums of approval each time you feel me quiver beneath the touch. “I can imagine the noise
you’d make when you finally felt my finger push all the way in,” you add softly. “I’ve heard you
do it before: a little breathy gasp, which you immediately try to hide. But now you are confronted
with another problem because it’s sliding inside you far too easily. You’d know you ought to be
responding to me with some tightness and resistance, but instead the opposite is happening. My
poor boy, how humiliated you would be. You thought you were going to be examined in Latin and
catechism, and instead you’ve found yourself naked with your legs spread open, desperately trying
to disguise how much you like it. The way you’re clenching round me as if trying to pull me
deeper inside you…all those beautiful little sounds of pleasure you’re making. I’d have to find a
way to keep you quiet wouldn’t I?” You pause for a few seconds then gently press your hand
across my mouth as your other hand continues burrowing deeper inside my shirt. “Someone might
overhear otherwise and come to investigate. I’m supposed to be sitting in my chair, questioning
you from a respectful distance, to look but not to touch. What would our reverent colleagues say if
they walked in and found you over my desk with my fingers inside you?”

I moan obligingly at the thought of it, spreading my legs even wider and letting out a small moan
as your fingers brush across the edge of my belt. In fact I’m so hard I’m half expecting my jeans to
split, and from the way your hand slides down to my thigh it’s clear that you’ve noticed it too.

“And look at that,” you say with obvious satisfaction. “Now the absolute worst has happened: you
can feel yourself growing aroused. What a catastrophe for you. You know I can see how excited
you’re getting, yet you have no possible way to hide it. Privately, of course, I would be charmed
beyond all expression by how responsive you were being. You're stunning like that and I love to
watch you enjoy it. Although perhaps just a little punishment too, for being so wanton and
shameless.”

I immediately open my eyes again. “Don’t you dare,” I say loudly.

“But how could you stop me, dearest? I’m much stronger than you are.”

I now open my mouth as well to start arguing about it and you give another smile then quickly re-
cover it with your hand. “Yes, another abbot would have you flogged for such a shameful display,”
you say. “It’s very fortunate you have me here instead. Even so, I would still take the chance to
tease you a little further.”

I give another frustrated groan, then jerk my face free while earnestly trying (and completely
failing) to get you to move your hand between my legs. “You?” I say grudgingly. “Surely not.”

“Yes, I would,” you reply, with a spectacular lack of irony. “I would hide how overjoyed I was
with your response and pretend to disapprove of it instead. ‘This is completely unacceptable’ I
would say. ‘You immoral boy, how full of sin you are. I have no choice but to chastise you.’”

“Yeah, of course not” I say, attempting to nip at your fingers again. “No choice at all.”

“Absolutely none: after all, I have your spiritual salvation to consider. If anything, I am doing you a
good service. You should be grateful to me.”

“Rest assured, I am speechless with gratitude.”

“As you should be.” You give me a distinctly sardonic smile then pause for a more seconds so you
can smooth my hair off my forehead. “Now, speaking of punishment, I would of course have a
penitence mat in my study…”

“Of course.”

“…and I’d to lift you off my desk to make you kneel on it. I suspect you’d be trembling by this
point. Partly from the cold, partly from desire, and partly with apprehension because you have no
idea what I’m going to do with you.”

I stretch out rather wantonly, leaning into your touch as I try to make you notice the way I’m
rolling my hips. “Okay then,” I say. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I would tell you that you have a chance to redeem yourself.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“And that you should attempt to demonstrate your purity by showing a little more bodily self-
command.” You give another little smile then adjust where my head is resting so you can tangle
your fingers into my hair. Your other hand glides across my chest at the same time, your touch very
gentle yet appraising as if you’re smoothing out fabric. “I would move behind you then kneel
down myself so I could use both hands to spread you wide open. This time there’d be no need for
the oil, beloved; instead, I’d use my tongue to get you ready for me. You’d be beside yourself
within minutes wouldn’t you? I can imagine the way you’d gasp then go rigid as you felt my
mouth begin exploring you in a such a very shameful place. How impossibly excited you’d be:
helpless to prevent the way you were leaking your arousal all over the floor. I think I’d make you
crouch down to lick it up for me before lifting you back onto your knees so I could begin the
process all over again.”

“Oh God,” I say weakly.

You make an amused sound, clearly enjoying my reaction. “I suggest you don’t waste your time
appealing to God. I’m afraid he is not going to be of much assistance to you – you are going to
have to deal with me all on your own. And it would be quite a lot to deal with, I assure you,
because I would refuse to show even the slightest shred of mercy.”

“None at all?” I say, pretending to be surprised. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

You smile again then finally remove your fingers from my hair so you can stroke my jaw with
them instead. “I’d keep you in a state of the most wonderful suspense,” you add softly. “Franticly
aroused, yet also overcome with shame at having failed my test so dramatically. Because, of
course, you would fail it. You’re so sensuous and passionate it would be impossible for you to
succeed. By the time I’d finished with you you’d be so soaking wet and slippery that when you felt
my finger sliding back inside the sensation would be intense enough to make you orgasm almost
immediately. You’d try to stop it happening of course, but you would be helpless to prevent it.
You’d give a low moan then arch your back against me as you started to climax all over my floor.
How horrified you’d be when it was over; you’d think you were about to be punished.” You give a
small, satisfied sigh, presumably relishing your mental image of it. “By that point it would be
impossible to disguise my delight any longer. I’d have to pull you close against me, wrapping my
own robe around you to keep you warm then stroking your hair to comfort you.”

“No, you would not,” I say. I sound a bit pompous, but there’s no way I’m letting you get away
with pretending you’d do anything except find an opportunity to be an even bigger bastard than
usual. In fact, speaking of bastardry, you’re still refusing to touch me. I make another attempt to
shove your hand towards my groin (this time not even pretending to be subtle about it), which
makes you smirk a bit harder before cradling my face in your hand so you can press a kiss against
my forehead.

“My exquisite penitent,” you say with obvious fondness. “What fun we would have – keeping you
in constant confusion by administering tests of purity you were always destined to fail. Just think of
all the opportunities I would find to bring you to my study to debase you even further. A few times
a month I’d even take you into my bed and keep you there all night. It would be a tremendous risk,
of course, but I’d happily take it. I would enjoy corrupting your body immensely; just before the
even greater pleasures of corrupting your mind.”
My eyes have been screwed closed but I now open them again just so I can roll them at
you. “Okay, that’s great. And would I actually get a say in any of this?”

“No,” you say briskly. “Because you would not wish to have one. You would be my student and
my novice: challenging me would disrupt our growing intimacy and you wouldn’t want that, would
you? Admittedly you wouldn’t want to yearn after me either, yet you would be powerless to stop
yourself. You’d just gather together that delicate blend of guilt and longing then wear it like a
weight around your neck.”

“So that’s me. What about you?” I pause then give you a distinctly smug look. “While I’m busy
doing all this yearning – what are you going do to when you realise you’ve become obsessed with
me?”

“I am not obsessed. I am intrigued by you.”

“Yes, I know you are – obsessively.”

This makes you smile. “Am I?”

“Yes. Yes you are.”

“Well, I suppose I would resist it at first. Possibly I would even resent it.”

“Mmm. Only there’s not much you can do about it, is there?”

For a few seconds you catch my eye. “There is nothing at all. You would slice though my life like a
razor blade.”

I repeat another variation of the smug look. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“And you are right to think so. You would pierce my mind, consume my interest, then force me to
spend every moment seeking a chance to live in a world I’d given up for you where no one else
was present. To know you is to love you, so the more time we spent together the more I would be
forced to accept that my fate had grown inextricably linked with yours…after which I would have
to work extremely hard to make you realise the same thing.”

“That’s good,” I say cheerfully. “I think I’d have enjoyed watching you put some effort in.”

“Would you really? How incredibly heartless you are.”

“Yes, well – cry harder.”

“Where has all your famous empathy gone? You should be taking pity on me for being so
mindlessly captivated. I have the responsibility of an entire monastery on my shoulders, after all.
Now I have to contend with losing my head over a little horror like you.”

I reach up and give you a playful tap on the cheek with my finger. “Oh dear. Looks like all that
manipulation might have backfired doesn’t it?”

You smile back then catch hold of my finger so you can delicately run your teeth across the tip of
it. “Not really. I might resent the situation, but I never said that I would resent you. Perhaps I
should but I would not be able to. Remarkable, isn’t it? You would have challenged every
expectation I had about myself…yet I would still not be able to resent you for it.”

“So, in other words, your bad behaviour’s brought you more than you bargained for?”
“Yes indeed, much more. It has brought me a small, furious piece of unprincipled poetry with a
beautiful face and a wonderful mind. Delicacy, grace, passion and promise…all wrapped up in a
cocoon of plaid and dog hairs.”

I can’t help laughing at this and you smile down at me again then gently stroke the side of my face
with your thumb. “I would have done rather well for myself, wouldn’t I?” you add. “What a
magnificent reward. Whoever said that crime doesn’t pay?”

“Absolutely,” I say, then quickly take advantage of the shift in mood to make another attempt at
shoving your hand down towards my groin. You allow me to get it as far as my waist before
swerving sharply at the last moment to slide it beneath my shirt instead. Your palm is so warm and
firm against my skin; I give a small groan then open my eyes very wide to give you a rather a
pleading look.

“Okay,” I say. “I’m begging now.”

Your smile promptly broadens. “You are not, beloved; you are merely reflecting on doing so.”

“Fine. Please.”

You wait a few moments, acting as if you’re thinking about it, then run your finger along the
bridge of my nose. “No,” you say, “I’m afraid I can’t possibly.” I open my mouth in disbelief then
watch as your previous smile slowly morphs into the most the most godawful smirk imaginable.
“Didn’t we agree you needed to rest?” you add. “Further stimulation on my part would be
incredibly irresponsible.”

“Then I should stimulate you instead,” I say hopefully, reaching down to unfasten your belt.
“How’s that for a compromise? I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Of that I have no doubt at all, seeing how you are very skilled and I am very susceptible.
Nevertheless, my answer is still no.”

“Oh come on. You’re not serious?”

“I am entirely serious.”

I give a stifled groan then fling my arm across my face in a way that’s a bit more dramatic than
intended. “You,” I say, “are an absolute sadist.”

“Me?” you reply in an overly innocent voice. “Surely not. Besides, I’ll make it up to you later – I
give you my word.”

“Your word is worthless,” I say sulkily, which makes you smirk even harder without even
pretending to argue about it. Not that you’ve got any grounds to argue; even you can’t deny that
you are, without a doubt, the biggest bullshitter I’ve ever met. I lean over then give you a dig in the
ribs. “Admit it,” I add. “This is revenge for what I said before.”

“Mmm…maybe a little.”

“Maybe a lot.”

“Y-e-s,” you say thoughtfully, “but I confess, I also enjoy it when you give me the power to
withhold things from you.”

As you’re speaking you take hold of my hand, idly tracing a circle around the ring finger where my
wedding band used to be. I carried on wearing it far longer than you were happy with and even now
there’s a paler stripe of skin which the sun hasn’t fully bleached out. “You’re so aloof much of the
time mylimasis,” you add in a more serious voice. “So fiercely self-sufficient. It means there’s a
certain novelty when you lower your guard and admit you need something which only I can
provide for you. It doesn’t matter whether it’s large or small – protection, inspiration, or merely
something as simple as physical pleasure. The imperative is the same, and I’m afraid your recent
willingness to accept what I offer you is never going to lose its appeal. Remember, after all, that I
had to submit to many years of you refusing to accept anything from me at all.”

I open my mouth, prepared to start huffing for a second time, and you gently press a finger across
my lips to keep me quiet. “I know what you’re going to say,” you add. “You’re going to tell me that
you don’t need anything, and that describing you in such a way makes you sound weak and
dependent. And yet I have the opposite view, because the more trusting you are with me the more
impressed with you I become.”

I automatically roll my eyes at this, although I can’t help smiling as I do it. The conversation has
clearly shifted into something more intimate, and it just feels so surreal and ludicrous that it began
from a debate over a delayed hand-job. I’m not really sure what else to do but smile. “So you’re a
relationship counsellor now?” is all I say.

“I suppose I am, after a fashion. Your relationship with yourself is a never-ending source of
captivation.”

I roll my eyes even harder then lazily stretch my hands behind my head so you can take hold of
them and knot our fingers together. “Admitting I want things from you is a positive sign for my
wellbeing?” I say. “Excuse me if I find that a little self-serving.”

“Oh it’s entirely self-serving – I freely admit it. But I still think the way you are learning to show
you need me is a good thing. It requires the courage to be honest about your emotions instead of
concealing or denying them. And the more you can do that, the more you be comfortable with who
you are. How often have I told you that your vulnerability makes you strong? Strength without
vulnerability stifles development. It destroys progress. If we remain within the boundary of our
perceived strengths then how do we ever venture beyond them and experience new possibility?
Accept and embrace your vulnerabilities Will, and you can learn from them. After that you can
transcend them. And after that you can learn to know yourself, profoundly and truthfully – and
then appreciate yourself for yourself, exactly the way that you are.”

As soon as you say this I realise I no longer feel like laughing. Briefly I fall quiet then finally twist
my head round to look at you directly. You smile down at me then brush another stray strand of
hair from my forehead. “So what about you then?” I say. “What about your vulnerability?”

“What do you think? I’ve been practicing too.”

“When?”

“I can tell you exactly when,” you reply in an unusually gentle way. “From the day I first laid eyes
on you, of course. And not always entirely from choice.”

For a few moments I just stare at you, visibly growing more serious as my hand moves upwards to
cradle your cheek. You stare back with a rather intense expression, so I reach out with my other
hand to take hold of yours: entwining our fingers together as I gaze up at you gazing down at me.
Your eyes are very soft and dark, almost glistening, and in that moment I’m overcome with a sense
of how you’re really seeing me: stripping back the layers and artifice and truly seeing me for
everything that I am – everything that’s flawed and fatal and damaged – as if it’s endlessly artful
and fascinating. As if it’s something beautiful, in fact: your life’s endeavour and masterpiece. Your
personal work of art. I swallow audibly, aware of how suspiciously damp my eyelashes are starting
to feel. Oh fuck, surely there can’t be tears there? In the past I would have made more effort to hide
it (I have no awareness of this aqueous solution excreting from my macho eyeballs) but now it
bothers me far less to show my feelings in front of you. Instead I just blink a few times, briefly
overwhelmed, and you lean down and press your lips against my hand.

“What is it Will?” you say quietly. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” For a few seconds I close my eyes. Your breath feels so soft against my skin: tender
heat and humidity as you brush your lips across my palm. “I’m fine.”

“You seem preoccupied.”

“Not really.” You kiss my hand again without responding and I take a slightly shaky breath then
finally add: “I guess I just sometimes find it comforting to watch you.”

“Do you?” you ask after a pause. There’s a trace of emotion beneath the usual deadpan tone that’s
not normally there, and I can’t help feeling hugely touched by the sense that this wasn’t an answer
you were expecting to hear. “And why is that?”

Why? I think silently. Because you’re the only one in my entire life who understands and accepts
me the way that I am. Because you’re lethal in construction and destructive by design; yet you’re
also inventive and inspirational, and while you might not have made me a better person you’ve
encouraged me to be a better version of myself. Because you’re dangerous and indecipherable, yet
you’ve allowed yourself to be made vulnerable by falling in love with me; so while you might have
altered everything about me, it means you’ve also trusted me to do the same to you. And because
you’re full of mystery, yearning and things left unspoken; and because you elevate and enlighten
me, and I never knew myself as well as I do when we’re together.

But in the end I just smile very faintly then run my finger along the edge of your cheekbone
without trying to elaborate. “Because,” I say quietly, “sometimes when I look at you I feel like I
see myself staring right back.”

*****

That night I’m stalked by nightmares again. They’re not as defined as last time – more like a
sensation than tangible events – but even in diluted form are more than enough to jerk me awake
with a pounding heart and a sense of terror that’s so consuming it leaves me gasping for air. My
limbs are completely leaden, a bit like my body’s been dipped in tar, and I lie there shocked and
rigid until I feel you reaching out to take hold of me and tug me against your chest.

“There,” you say, wrapping both arms around my back. “A much better position.”

It’s strange how quickly this has become my new version of normality: wrenched out of sleep with
the taste of fear and a sense of dread, just like I always have, only now it’s not to shadows and
emptiness but instead to the sound of your voice and the sense of your hands as they soothe me
back to calmness. The contact never fails to be reassuring, but while I appreciate your attempt at
comfort my self-consciousness is making me irritable.

“Maybe for you,” I say grumpily. “Your hipbones are digging into me. And your ribs.” I pause for
a few seconds, mournfully cataloguing further causes of discomfort. “And your collar bones.”

“Surely not,” you reply with mock seriousness. “Them too?”

“Them too.”

“Yes, they’re your constant adversaries aren’t they? Like ‘lying on coat-hangers’ as I recall.”

“Well now it’s like lying on spanners.”

“That’s unfortunate,” you say happily. “Although I don’t suppose you want me to lie on you
instead?”

“No.” I huff a bit then readjust myself until my head is tucked beneath your chin. “You weigh an
absolute ton.”

“Indeed. I, on the other hand, do not have the same complaint. It’s lucky for me that you’re so
physically…insubstantial.”

“I am not insubstantial.”

“Flimsy?”

“Oh shut up,” I say fondly. I nuzzle the edge of your jaw with my forehead then with an effort
disentangle myself so I can get out of bed, hopping about at intervals from how cold the
floorboards feel on my bare feet. You watch my progress with obvious amusement then lean back
against the headboard and stretch your arms above your head.

“What are you doing?” you say. “It’s still early. Come back to bed.”

“No, I’m going to head out.” The idea has only just occurred to me, but now that I’ve said it I
realise how much I like the idea. “I need some exercise.”

“And where are you planning to go?”

“I don’t know…to town I guess. Do you want anything getting?”

“Not especially.” You wait a few seconds then continue, over-casually. “Would you like me to
come with you?”

I pause for a few seconds then shake my head. “No, it’s okay,” I tell you. “Stay here. Get some
rest.” In fact the truth is I would quite like you to come – mostly because anxiety over Jack is
making it increasingly difficult to let you out of my sight – yet I also don’t want to smother you
with concern by admitting this. It’s actually pretty frustrating: sometimes I even find myself
wishing he’d just hurry up and get his ass over here because the constant waiting is almost worse.
It’s like that metaphor of waiting for the shoe to drop.

I now abandon my rummaging through the bureau and turn round with a small frown. “What’s the
name of that Roman parable?” I say abruptly. “The one where the courtier changes places with
Dionysius for a day?”

“The Sword of Damacles.” I can see your reflection in the mirror; you actually look amused. “The
anticipation of impending doom. I suppose I hardly need to ask what put your mind on that
particular course?”

I finish tugging on my jeans then make a vague humming noise before peering around for a nearby
shirt. I can’t see where I left my mine; I end up grabbing one of yours instead. Then I find myself
scowling again, because despite the effort I’m putting into it I know this pretence at normalcy is
nothing more than that: a pretence. It’s not even a particularly good one, because Jack – and to a
lesser extent Matteo – are two separate swords hovering over my head and no matter how hard I try
I can’t summon the same sort of casualness about either of them as you can. I now pause in
fastening your shirt and open my mouth to ask you to come into town before changing my mind
and forcing myself to close it again. Partly this is because of the smothering risks but also,
paradoxically, because it feels like indoors is the safest place for you to be. It’s futile of course; I
know it is. There’s no way you’d ever feel the same way about it yourself.

At the thought of anything happening to you I’m now gripped with the familiar plunge of dread
and find myself going back towards the bed again so I can gaze at you for a few seconds before
planting a sentimental kiss on your forehead. Gestures like this don’t really suit you – like dumping
a sickly dollop of cream on something savoury – but I still feel I should try to make them more
often because it’s so obvious you enjoy it.

“I won’t be long,” I say. “I just…I need some air. I’ve got cabin fever.”

Considering I was only outside a few hours ago this doesn’t make much sense, although you still
seem to accept it without further explanation. I suppose that’s not surprising; you’re much better at
responding to my moods then I really give you credit for. Then I stroke your hair for a while and
am about to kiss you again before realising I’ve begun handling you like you’re a kitten and get so
embarrassed about it that I abruptly turn round and vanish downstairs without saying goodbye.
You call something after me in Italian but before I can answer I’ve turned the corner and managed
to bowl straight into Giulietta (who appears to be practicing her recently discovered genius for
rolling up at the most awkward moments possible). The towels she’s carrying fly everywhere in
the collision and I flush a bit then stoop over to help gather them up.

“Ah, mi dispiace,” I say. “È stata colpa mia.”

Giulietta smiles indulgently then waves her hand to indicate that it’s fine. “My fault,” she says,
despite the fact it clearly wasn’t. “You were not expecting me to be here, no? It is not my usual
day.”

I suppose it’s not – especially since she was only here yesterday – although given that it doesn’t
really excuse me being a clumsy asshole I can’t think of anything much to do with this. “Your
signore asked me to come twice a week,” she adds in explanation.

At the mention of ‘my’ signore I give a rather limp smile. She always refers to you like this,
presumably in a mangled translation of ‘your man’ in an appeal to the fact I’m American. Even
worse is when she refers to her own and her friends’ husbands the same way, and which is always
guaranteed to make me cringe so hard I’m at serious risk of dislocating something. In fact I’m
convinced it’s only a matter of time before I get invited to some sort of grisly coffee morning where
I’ll be expected to sit around in a circle with the other signoras so we can confide about our
respective Men Problems. Oh God, I bet it is…I bet it’s only a matter of time. Seriously though, I
want to protest to her. Why does everyone always assume I’m the wife?

“Oh, okay,” is all I reply. “Did he say why?”

“I think he is wanting to make things more relaxing for you,” says Giulietta. “Less work, you
know? He is very good.” She’s smiling like a gameshow host which makes me smile too – partly
because I appreciate the gesture, but also because it’s always amusing to see your bullshitting
capacities on full display (and which on this occasion have managed to get you a reputation for
exemplary goodness, despite having a higher body count than Ebola).

“Your signore,” adds Giulietta, gesturing in the general direction of the bedroom. “He is very
happy with you?” I raise my eyebrows and she smiles a bit more. “That was a nice compliment.”
“Why, what did he say?”

“Luce dei miei occhi. It means…what would you call it in English?” She frowns for a few seconds,
clicking her fingers as she tries to remember. “Ah yes: ‘light of my eyes.’”

As soon as she says this it requires a truly monumental effort not to start blushing. Of course, with
your fox-like hearing, there’s no doubt you’d heard her arrive and have shouted it on purpose to
create a situation exactly like this one: in other words, to create maximum awkwardness. It’s like
you’ve never been able to overcome your addiction to making me uncomfortable and, seeing how
you can’t use your previous bastardly methods, have now been reduced to finding ways to
embarrass me as a sort of Diet Coke version of messing with my head. Only I can’t really explain
to her that being a massive dick is your idea of an affectionate gesture, so just end up smiling
vaguely instead.

“Hey, can you do me a favour?” I add with a sudden flash of inspiration. “I, um, I’m just about to
meet some friends and I need an Italian phrase for a small child. Something cute?”

“Oh yes. Your friends – they have a boy or a girl?”

“A boy.”

“A boy. Little?”

“Tiny,” I say earnestly.

“Okay. A tiny boy…hmm. Let me think. How about patatino?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” She wavers for a few seconds, clearly self-conscious about the absurdity of the
translation. “In English it means ‘little potato’.”

“Perfect,” I say grimly.

Of course, knowing you, you’ll pretend to like it just to spite me. Nevertheless, the idea of
patatino-ing you towards the brink of a nervous breakdown still has a certain appeal. I’m actually
quite tempted to text you to try it out, although ultimately decide it’ll be more enjoyable to wait for
a live reaction so just fire off a quick message saying I love you instead, followed by a stern
reminder to be careful (you respond likewise to the first one and completely ignore the second).
Then I thrust my hands in my pockets and stride off, smirking slightly at the idea of delayed
vengeance (light of my eyes, my ass). It’s a beautiful day – crisp and bright – and I’ve got a vague
plan of heading to the Piazza del Duomo for a couple of hours, despite the fact I’ve seen it a
million times already and its charms are wearing a little thin. Even this early in the morning it’ll
also be swarming with tourists, but in a way that’s part of the plan. The thought of anonymity has a
genuine appeal right now, and I like the idea of going somewhere I can lose myself in a sea of
unfamiliar faces.

On the way there I stop at a newsstand that’s large enough to stock USA Today (so I can sit and
hide behind its pages), then follow it up with a chocolate gelato in a little cardboard tub (because
it’s the type of thing that’s only possible to eat when you’re not on hand to witness it) then ferry
the whole lot to the Vittorio Emanuele monument where I end up wedged between a gaggle of
French students on one side and English ones on the other. It’s such a sweltering swirl of humanity
– living bodies all tumbled together, shrieking and sun-baked with their oversized maps and selfie-
sticks – and while it would normally be exhausting and irritating, today I’m finding something
reassuring about it. In fact, if I tried hard enough, I feel like I might even be able to approach a state
closely resembling calm. Only I never get the chance to find out for sure, because my fledging
sense of peace gets shattered before it can fully begin when I hear a sound I never thought I’d hear
again in this place. It’s so simple, yet also strangely foreign, despite being a mere two words. My
name (Mr Graham? Will Graham?) spoken in the voice of a stranger.

If it happened more often I think I could have trained myself to ignore it by now. But it doesn’t
happen – it’s never happened – and the shock of it is so jarring it’s impossible not to glance up. I
don’t even want to…I don’t want to know who it is. But I still do it anyway before I can stop
myself; and which is how I end up confronted with a surreal sense of your sketchbook brought to
vivid life as I look into the eyes of the woman from the bar. In some ways she seems almost as
surprised as I am. But while she’s no longer wearing her badge I can remember her name as she’s
repeating mine and so immediately know, without being told, that I’ve found myself face-to-face
with Clarice Starling.
 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes

Hey there Fannibals, just to say that I’ve messed about with the canon timeline for this
fic and Clarice is meant to be a little younger than she is in the novels xox

In the end we go to one of the small, smoky trattoria that cluster the arterial roads surrounding the
main square. It’s a journey made almost entirely in silence, punctuated only by an occasional
pointless exclamation (Nice weather! Narrow streets!) when the silence is on the verge of getting
too oppressive – and which, taken together, could usefully serve as some sort of case study on
extreme social awkwardness. I guess her own reserve probably comes from shyness, although my
own is much less about feeling introverted than it is from apprehension for a conversation I’m
already certain I don’t want to have. To be honest there’s also a sense of saving energy. It’s like my
words are resources that need to be hoarded in advance, which makes the occasional squandering
of them on the niceness of the weather or the narrowness of the streets about as far as I’m willing
to go. My feet are pounding out a rhythm on the cobblestones while I walk, and I find myself
matching my monologue of self-reproach to the sound of it: Why-did-I-agree-to-this? What-am-I-
doing? Only there don’t seem to be any sensible answers to these questions. Essentially, I’m here
for no better reason than I was concerned of stoking suspicion by saying no.

We finally arrive at the trattoria in the same state of muteness that we travelled there in, and
Clarice chooses a table then orders a Campari while I have a small bitter coffee that I don’t really
want but opt for anyway because I don’t completely trust myself with alcohol. The décor is very
gloomy and gothic – lots of dark wood and candlelight – and the walls are covered in portraits of
numerous long-dead noblemen with elaborate names and Dante-like fates: Duca di Toscana,
condemned and hanged as a heretic; Conte Lorenzo II di Napoli, deposed and exiled. I’ve been
here a few times before with you, and have already begun to wilt with pre-emptive exhaustion at
the thought of what you might do when you find out about today’s meeting. Because of course you
will find out about it. I’ve accepted this as pretty much inevitable; mainly because I lost my ability
to lie to you some time ago and know that I’ll eventually slip up and say something to give the
game away. It’ll be something vague and obscure that most people would never, ever notice but to
you will be like a blaring beacon that can be pounced on immediately then pulled into pieces. And
you’ll be thrilled about it; I know you will. Naturally the coincidence of it will appeal to you, but
your main source of delight will be the way the stakes have been raised even further. As far as
you’re concerned her presence here won’t be a source of concern but an interesting challenge: yet
one more puzzle piece to add to the board.

As I’m thinking this Clarice smiles at me from across the table and I wonder, rather idly, if she’s
going to start apologising again for the intrusion. I get the impression she can’t quite believe her
luck in stumbling over me. It’s as if I’m some rare and interesting relic from the past (which, at
least from her perspective, I suppose I probably am). But in the end she doesn’t say anything else
and I decide she has greater stores of poise and self-confidence than I gave her credit for. She’s
seen me, she’s expressed her surprise, and now she’s going to put it to one side and move on. I can
respect that, despite not liking it, because there’s no doubt I’d be infinitely happier right now if
she’d never noticed me at all.

I now spend a few wistful seconds imagining myself calm and solitary on the steps again before
feeling annoyed at what a waste of time this is. After all, she did notice me: there’s hardly any point
wishing otherwise. If wishes were horses then beggars would ride …is that a song lyric? I’m sure
I’ve heard it before. Then I give a rather absent smile before wondering all over again why the hell
I agreed to this in the first place. I’ve had a lot of extra time to think about it, but I still can’t find a
more satisfactory answer since I last asked: only that I’m doing it because it seemed like the easiest
thing to do. I’ve always had a fatal inclination to follow the path of least resistance (even worse is
that I tend to deceive myself into thinking I’m being proactive by doing it). You should rebel more
often, you once told me. Anything else is a route to complacency. Do you know why wolves
evolved into domestic dogs? Because it was more convenient to forage in human settlements than it
was to hunt. A short-term gain led to long-term sacrifice. You’d looked immensely smug once
you’d said it, but of course it was easy for you to think that when it related to something objective.
On the other hand, when this trait of mine leads to something which directly benefits you you’ll
always be notably silent about it. After all, I basically did the opposite of the wolves in your
analogy and broke free from domesticity to join the hunters simply because it was easier to give
into my need for you than to constantly deny it. I followed the path of least resistance: I followed it
all the way over a cliff.

“I still can’t believe this coincidence,” says Clarice abruptly. So she has reverted to expressing
surprise. Not that I can really blame her – my endless silence must be starting to wear her down.
“At first I wasn’t sure. I’d only ever seen you in photographs.”

Bizarrely I find myself a bit non-plussed by this. I guess I’ve changed so much internally that I
sometimes forget how the exterior is still the same. A bit more blemished and buffeted perhaps,
but not altered beyond recognition. As if she’s read my mind she adds: “I wasn’t going to risk it at
first, but then I saw…” She pauses tactfully then gestures at her own smooth cheekbone. “So I
knew it must be you.”

“Mmm, yeah,” I say vaguely. “I guess it’s pretty distinctive.”

She dips her head in agreement, which is a bit of a novelty because most people usually start
insisting (automatically and insincerely) that it’s not that noticeable. I take a thoughtful sip of the
coffee and she hastily adds: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Oh it’s fine,” I tell her. “I’m not offended.” I wonder what my expression was doing? I suppose I
must have looked hurt or insulted; or at least as if I have a single shit to give about the way my face
looks. Then I want to explain that I like her directness, but it somehow feels like too much effort so
in the end I just smile instead in a way that’s intended to be reassuring.

“It’s…impressive,” she adds earnestly. “Like a battle scar.”

Oh Christ. I doubt she’s consciously aware of it, but this remark is a huge giveaway that the
countdown has now officially started until she mentions you. It’s her use of the word impressive.
It’s an odd choice of adjective for a scar and implies a sense of the mythology that’s been built up
around me – and therefore you as well, because my impressiveness is always going to be
proportional to yours, supposedly the one who brought you down. Mentally I start preparing for it,
rehearsing my expression and how my voice should sound.

Another awkward stretch of silence now follows, and Clarice wisely seems to give up on me
entirely and just starts talking herself in order to fill it: very concise and courteous in a way that
suggests she’s skilled at communicating information for practical rather than emotional value. In
fact her conversation is like a piece of music that’s been pared down to its simplest melody: all the
needless embellishment stripped away in order to establish that she’s here for a seminar at Jack’s
personal invitation as part of the search for Il Macellaio. I suppose she thinks she’s being discreet,
but I can still intuit enough unspoken detail behind this bald little narrative to hear the missing bass
notes and understand her intense ambition, the sprinkling of self-doubt, and an alienation from her
fellow trainees that’s caused her to be so solitary on every occasion I – or indeed you – have ever
seen her in. Her drink arrives while she’s talking and it looks so naïve and innocent with its little
wedge of orange that I almost find myself feeling sorry for her. I know this is ridiculous but I can’t
help it: there’s just a strong sense of pathos at her being so alone and so ambitious, stranded in a
foreign city with her little ingenuous drink and a broodingly silent stranger about who she’s been
dangerously misinformed. It makes me feel sympathetic and slightly protective…shades of
Abigail. In fact the awareness of this shocks me, because I haven’t really let myself think about
Abigail since you came back. I feel flinch slightly without meaning to then quickly press my hands
against the table in an attempt to steady myself again.

“I’m sorry,” she says abruptly. “I always talk too much when I’m nervous.” She’s smiling as she
says it and for the first time I get a powerful sense of the charm which must have caught enough of
your attention to make you want to draw her. “Only I can’t quite believe it’s you.”

Briefly I find myself wondering how she’d react if I told her it’s not me – or at least not the version
she thinks. Even so I can’t help admiring her nerve. At the same stage in my career I’d have rather
been boiled in oil that accost a senior colleague in the street the way she’s done and I feel a sudden
surge of responsibility to reward her courage by making the exchange worthwhile. What though? I
don’t really have any idea how to be a sympathetic mentor. Even in my old life I was always shit at
it. I spent most of the time struggling with a secret urge to yell: Look, this job sucks. Seriously – it’s
the absolute fucking worst. Just cut your losses and go and work in Walmart. Besides, friendly
encouragement takes work and I feel completely drained. God knows why: it’s not like I’ve even
done anything. This is fairly typical and I know if you were here (which, thank fuck, you’re not)
you’d be smiling fondly at the sight of it. You always say I only seem to have two speeds: full
throttle or utter exhaustion.

Clarice now catches me looking at her and meets it with a friendly smile. “It’s quite the reputation
you have,” she says.

Her tone is too sincere to suggest calculated flattery, but it immediately makes me wonder who’s
been doing the heavy lifting to try and rehabilitate my reputation (which, by this point, ought to be
rightfully fucked). Jack, most likely; no doubt motivated by a hefty dose of guilt. Even so, it’s
weird to think of me being spoken about such a reverent way, because it’s hardly as if I was
universally beloved even in the early days (as opposed to wearily tolerated or, more often, outright
disliked). The only person I ever had anything close to friendship with was you. Although that was
always something we had in common, wasn’t it? An intrinsic, yearning desire to be close to
someone with a comparable mind to ourselves.

Clarice glances at me again then pauses to take a thoughtful sip of her drink. “The thing is Mr
Graham,” she adds, “there was something particular I wanted to ask you.”

“Sure,” I say casually. I guess this is my cue to smile cosily and object to the formality (Call me
Will!), only I’ve never been great at those sort of gestures either. I’ll have to do something though,
because I honestly don’t think I can stand the alternative of being Mr Graham-ed for the next half
hour (or however long this awkward meeting insists on lasting). Then I briefly renew my previous
struggle to try and place her, despite remaining about as convinced as I can be that we’ve never
spoken before today. A photograph, maybe? Perhaps some dossier from Jack about particularly
promising trainees. At least the FBI connection explains my lingering sense of recognition,
although realistically there was never really anywhere else it could be. It’s not like there was an
extensive social circle to place her in, after all.
Clarice smiles again. I suppose my ‘Sure’, while terse, is the first thing I’ve said that sounds
vaguely encouraging. “It’s fine if you don’t want to answer by the way,” she says. “I tried
approaching Mr Crawford and it was clear he didn’t want to either.”

The term ‘Mr Crawford’ is pronounced in tones of such admiration that it actually takes me a few
seconds to realise she means Jack – probably because it’s been so long since I’ve heard anyone
mention him respectfully as opposed to you and your endless stream of gleeful put-downs (in fact
some of these border on outright vicious; in a different life you would have made an excellent
Mean Girl). Even so, the fact she’d even consider approaching Jack with a subject that’s taboo
implies an unusual degree of familiarity and suggests she’s almost certainly his new protégé, very
much in the way that I once was. Such raw ambition; did I ever have it myself? I suppose I must
have done, although I really can’t remember.

“So, Mr Graham…”

“Call me Will.”

She smiles again and I know she’s not going to, or at least not straight away. It’s a typical trait of
trainees: the sense of hierarchy gets so thoroughly beaten into them that she’ll probably have to
work herself up to dropping the title. “Thanks,” she adds. “But the thing is, I’ve been working on a
paper about…”

Here we go, I think, three…two…one…

“…the Chesapeake series, and I was just wondering…”

She pauses and when she speaks again her voice has taken on the hushed, wary tone that outsiders
often have when discussing you. It’s an eerie mannerism I’ve been aware of for a while, as if
you’re some sort of mythic supernatural figure and talking about you too loudly might summon
you to appear. I suppose it makes sense: by now you’ve become a ghost who only exists in the
abstract, your entire presence more theory than actual practice. It’s strange to think that I’m the one
responsible for it.

“Do you think he’s still alive?” she adds.

“I don’t know.” My voice is deliberately slow and cautious, and I now pause for a few seconds
myself, aware without even meaning to of how I’ve begun to channel that aching sense of loss I
felt in the few months when you genuinely had disappeared…a long, limping stretch of
nothingness where the only thing I had left of you was the sound of your voice in my head. Thank
God I never lost that too: I’ve always endured our physical separations but a prolonged mental one
might well have destroyed me. “It varies,” I add in the same vague way. “Sometimes I think he
must be; other times I’m not so sure.”

“I think Mr Crawford assumes he’s dead.”

She hesitates then darts her eyes towards me, so I give a faint smile then say it myself so she
doesn’t have to: “Because if he was still alive he would have come after me by now?”

She immediately nods in response and I have a powerful sense of satisfaction at how this was
exactly what Jack was supposed to think. It’s gratifying to see that the strategy has paid off. Or at
least it has in part – privately I’d be very surprised if Jack really thinks you’re dead. He can hardly
say it to his trainees, but I doubt he’d ever believe it for sure until he was in the morgue himself to
sign your death certificate. It hardly matters though, because he’ll need more than a superstitious
hunch to summon enough Federal dollars to mount a proper search for you. In the meantime, this
cautious pessimism will have to be enough.

“I guess it would make sense,” she continues. She sounds more guarded now, like she’s choosing
her words very carefully. I suppose she’s worried about giving offence; maybe even of triggering
me. “You and he had so much history.”

It's clear the ‘he’ in this equation doesn’t mean Jack and I’m struck all over again by the crippling
sense of dissonance I feel whenever outsiders discuss you. I suppose I should be used to it by now,
yet I’m not sure I ever really will be. It’s just so strange: hearing us described as this pair of epic
adversaries, engaged in a permanent battle in other people’s imaginations. Admittedly it’s pointless
to waste so much energy over something I can’t control, yet I’ve never fully learned to accept
losing ownership of my own story while watching it get disfigured beyond recognition by an
outside narrative. You and I, plummeting in fatal combat like Holmes and Moriatry at the
Reichenbach, hating each other the entire time…it was never like that, but there’s no possible way
to say what really happened. Like how the fall was more like falling in love – even though that’s
not quite right either because I didn’t just fall, I was raised up by it. People don’t know how you
were holding me, or the way we stayed like that with the water pounding below and the moonlight
gleaming above, me trembling slightly and you resting your face against my hair. Or how it was,
stranded in the middle of the moonlight and the streaming black blood, that I got a clear sense of
how you’d finally got what you always wanted – a joint hunt, a shared kill, then me in your arms at
the end of it all. We were so close to the edge, yet you never attempted to steer us away. You knew
that I could lunge for you; knew that I had every reason to tip us into that pounding, cascading
expanse of black water below. You knew all of that, of course you did – how could someone as
insightful as you not have known? But you still didn’t try to take yourself to safety. It was as if
you’d have been content to die like that. Just stood there, just like that. Stood there with me in your
arms…having finally got what you always wanted.

Despite everything that’s happened since it’s probably that moment which is burnt most brightly
into my memory of that night. Even now, even with all my imagination and all my empathy, I still
find it hard to envisage a greater show of devotion than the way you were simply standing there,
calmly prepared to face literal death if it only meant the chance to have me close to you a little
longer. Silently curled against your chest in a bloody embrace, like a piece of you that had been
broken off and after endless patient waiting had finally been returned to you…

With an effort I now drag myself back into the room and force myself to focus. None of this is her
fault. Even so, I’m aware of how much I’ve started to resent her for managing to symbolize the
way the entire world misunderstands us. This resentment isn’t fair, but then what is? When is life
ever fair? Sitting here with my silent bitterness is just one of many injustices she’ll have to endure
before her career is over.

“Yes,” is all I reply. “I guess you could say that.”

Clarice takes a sip of her drink then replaces it on the table and calmly returns my stare. Her eyes
are very blue: arctic ice with paler tints around the centre of the iris like flecks of silver. A good
word to describe them would be piercing. Yours are piercing too, although not in the same way.
Eyes are supposed to be ‘the windows to the soul’ and anyone brave enough to gaze too long into
the depths of yours would eventually find they’d either fall in love or go completely mad –
possibly both at the same time.

“So what was he like?” she asks.

For a few seconds I have surreal urge to laugh out loud. Seriously though, how is it possible to even
try to summarise it – the beauty and horror, the heights and the depths, the ruin and rapture – in a
way she could understand? It’s like trying to describe the sun or a storm; she’d just have to feel it to
know. In the end I simply shake my head.

“He wasn’t like anyone else,” I say.

By now I’m being almost painfully vague but she seems to take my cryptic reply at face value. I’m
doing it on purpose of course. It’s the easiest way to avoid too much detail while providing a
plausible defence for how wordless I’m being: the idea I’ve been so traumatised by you that a
more meaningful description is impossible. I suppose I might as well feed the myth as well why
I’m at it – why not? You built a legend around yourself in living time after all, so it’s hardly
surprising it would double in strength and vividness in your absence. You’re occupying a strange,
liminal zone now where only rumours and whispers inhabit the space where you used to be. Not
that you’d care. Death doesn’t faze you, not the way it does for ordinary people. ‘Without it we’d
be at a loss,’ you once said. ‘It's the prospect of death that drives us to greatness.’

Clarice continues to stare at me, the bright blue eyes strangely softened by sympathy. “I
apologise,” she says. “I’m being intrusive, I know. I guess you don’t like to talk about it?”

I shrug. It’s an aloof little gesture that I realise I’ve picked up from you: a kind of careless toss of
the shoulder. “It’s fine,” I reply. “I just haven’t thought about him in a while.”

Having contributed this colossal shovel of bullshit to the conversation I now lean back in my chair
and take a sip of coffee. I can’t help feeling pleased at how strained I’ve made my voice sound; the
clear inference being that it’s not fine but that I’m going to struggle on regardless like a goddamn
trooper. They could just put my picture on the wall behind us with the rest of the martyrs.

“I understand. I suppose for the rest of us it’s academic; he’s a case study. Whereas for you…”
There’s a small, tactful pause and I briefly get lost in thinking how pissed off you’d be to hear
yourself described as a case study before lurching back into the conversation just in time to hear
her say: “I sometimes catch myself wondering what it would be like to meet him.”

There’s another pause. Behind us the bartender has started playing Mozart across the speakers: the
scratchiness of the audio makes the violins in the Lacrymosa sound like screams. Then I clear my
throat and stare fixedly at my hands, watching almost trance-like as they slowly replace my cup on
the table like it’s something incredibly fragile that’s liable to break. Finally I glance up again
before replying in a voice that’s bleakly mechanical and doesn’t really sound like mine: “You don’t
want to meet him.”

Clarice raises her eyebrows, quizzical and confiding. It seems to be an invite for further details and
I realise that while I’ve been playing a part until now, this time the ominous tone is completely
genuine. It’s true though. She really doesn’t want to meet you. From your perspective her
combination of courage and naïvete would make her irresistible, yet she’s so sincere and so decent
– so different to me – that I know within months you’d do your absolute best to crush her. After all,
even I got crushed by you for a while. I was sufficiently used-up and broken-down that I almost
grew comforted by the idea you’d finally kill me and put an end to it; how could she possibly
endure your tendrils winding into her mind? How would she cope with the insidious way your
support morphs into suffering and the suffering into support? I suppose all of us who’ve crossed
you have probably asked ourselves that at some point. Whether we’ll lie back on your couch and be
cured or consumed – or, as in my case, realising how close those two things are to being the same.
I won’t ever regret what I did, yet I’m still aware of a weird, subconscious sense of wanting to warn
her away from you. Possibly it’s a form of atonement; the warning my own former self never
received until it was far too late.

“I guess it’s partly the legend that’s been built up around him,” adds Clarice into the silence. “He’s
been turned into a regular bogeyman.”

I force myself to look up again, just in time to see the glance she’s thrown me from over her glass
and read the clear flicker of sympathy in it. By this time it’s also painfully obvious how neither of
us have referred to you by name: it’s still all he or him, the same way Jack used to do in the months
after you disappeared. You’ve literally become unmentionable – and in that moment it really
strikes me that I no longer know how to talk about you. Back home it was much easier to keep up
the pretence of impartial disinterest. Now I’m just finding it a strain. For a few fleeting seconds I
have an image of Jack, his face creased and earnest in those last few hours before the storm finally
broke and everything went to hell: Hannibal thinks you're his man in the room. I think you're mine.
It was so effortless to make him believe it…although to be fair I probably believed it myself at the
time. Maybe it’s not so much that the audience has changed but that my tolerance for self-deception
has so radically broken down.

“Not really,” I reply. I give her a faint smile, a convincing impression of courage under fire. “He
was the person you’d send to kill the bogeyman.”

She immediately smiles back. “That sounds like a line from a movie.”

“I know,” I say. “It is.” Now I’m nodding away in agreement, even though I can’t remember which
one it is. It’s still pretty convincing, though: part of my persona of this mundane, normal person
who watches dumb action films then quotes them back in a bar, the same as anyone else.

“Il Macellaio seems almost straightforward in comparison,” adds Clarice. “I hope we’re able to
help.”

I promptly sit up a bit straighter, relieved at the change of subject. I imagine my obvious
discomfort has led her to do it on purpose and I’m struck all over again by the dissonance of play-
acting distress while still privately feeling it. “Are you involved in the profiling?” I ask.

“No, not really. At least – not officially. Mr Crawford will take a lead on that when he arrives.”

“Yes, I heard he was coming,” I say, ultra-casual. “I assumed he’d be here by now.”

“He’s arriving tomorrow. You must be looking forward to catching up?”

Having been expecting something like this I’ve already got my response prepared – mostly a heavy
sprinkling of truth to season the lie more convincingly. “To be honest I haven’t reached out to him
yet,” I reply in the same casual way. “The whole reason I’m here is to cut ties with back home.”

“I understand. I’m sorry I’ve foisted it on you.”

I shift a bit in my chair again then tell her it’s fine – which means the whole conversation has now
gone full circle, with her apologising and me sitting there looking brave-but-hard-done-by while
insisting I’m happy about it. In fact I’m feeling so martyred by now I’m surprised the waiter hasn’t
turned up to put a little stack of kindling on my feet and a stake on the back of the chair before
adding my picture to the wall (Sir Will of Graham: expired from excessive self-indulgent
wallowing). To be honest I’m even starting to piss myself off; I can only imagine what she must be
thinking. No doubt she’ll tell the other trainees about it afterwards. Yeah, I met Will Graham, she’ll
say. Oh my God, what a self-pitying old shit.

“You should ask Jack to let you be more involved,” I tell her. I’m trying to sound less mournful,
although to be honest that ship has well and truly sailed by now (before slowly sinking to the
bottom of the harbour). “It’s ridiculous to drag you out here then expect you to take on a glorified
admin role. You need field experience. Trust me – he’ll appreciate you showing the initiative.”

“Okay, I’ll do that,” she says, which makes me wonder if she will. Probably yes: in fact almost
certainly yes. It’s easy to mistake her diffidence for shyness at first glance, but in reality I think it’s
just a disguise for humility. Underneath it she’ll be the equivalent of a steel hand in a velvet glove.
“Thanks for the tip,” she adds. “Will.”

She says it in a rather cautious way, which I immediately have some sympathy for. She’s at a stage
in her career where exchanging Christian names with senior colleagues is a bit of a trophy;
something sincere and ardent that confers a special understanding. It soon wears off (very quickly
in my case, with only a few months transition between ‘Agent Crawford’ to ‘Jack’ to ‘Oh Christ,
what does that bad-tempered bastard want now?’). Although admittedly it was a bit different with
you, because I can still remember how hard it was hard to overcome the urge to use more formal
terms when discussing you with other people. Your first name generally came far less naturally
than it should, whereas ‘Dr Lecter’ virtually tripped off the tongue. It was actually rather weird.
Although I know exactly why I did it – an attempt to distance myself and appear more emotionally
detached from you than I really was – so maybe it’s not that weird after all. It’s probably why you
seem to like it so much when you hear me say it now; as if I’m making up for all the years I denied
you the intimacy you were hoping for.

I now have a few seconds of annoyance towards my former self for being so cringey and
embarrassing before promptly swerving back to the subject of Il Macellaio as a convenient way not
to think about it anymore. “This one’s not especially complicated,” I tell her. “He’s sophisticated,
but he still fits a clear pattern. For starters there’s never much evidence at the scenes…”

Without fully meaning to I realise I’ve slipped back into teacher mode, deliberately leaving an
inviting pause to see if the trainee can insert the answer. It’s quite a jolt to discover it – like
activating a muscle memory I never knew I still had – because it’s not like I even enjoyed it that
much at the time. Teaching was always less of a vocation that it was a vehicle to do what I was
good at without spiralling into total madness (or at least it was until you came sauntering in to fuck
everything up). I suppose it’s more that she’s arousing a sense of responsibility in me that the
talented ones always seemed to be able to. It’s all I have to offer anymore, because while I can’t
solve the case on her behalf, I can help her learn how to pull apart the perspective of a killer.

As predicted she immediately takes the bait, leaning across the table with the air of someone
warming to their theme. “Which shows the killings are premeditated and carefully planned,” she
says. “There are essentially three separate crime scenes: where the victim was approached, where
they were killed, and where the body was disposed of.”

“Right.” I can see my reflection in the tiles opposite; the way I’m nodding and gesturing with both
hands. “The victims seem to be targeted strangers, but there’s no signs they were taken by force.”

“So he’s socially competent?”

“Exactly: or at least he’s good at pretending to be. On the face of it I’d say he’ll be of average or
above-average intelligence, employed, educated – and extremely cunning and controlled.”

“Yes, he’s going to some effort to cover his tracks isn’t he?”

My reflection is already nodding again before she’s finished speaking. This enthusiasm is
unexpected, and I suspect is coming from a lingering sense of guilt at not getting involved more
directly. There’s no question my urge to protect you is stronger than the urge to roll up my sleeves
and collaborate with Jack, but at least this is some small way of trying to redress the balance.
“Agreed,” I say. “I think he’s familiar with police methods and is almost certainly following the
investigation. You should be prepared for him to start altering the scenes to try and throw you off
course.”

Clarice now nods herself (a rather more restrained version of my reflection in the tiles, which by
this time is starting to resemble one of those bobble heads that people put on their dashboards).
“It’s a shame you’re not involved yourself,” she adds. “It would be so useful to have your input.”

“I’m retired,” I say firmly.

This makes her smile. “Sorry,” she says when she sees me looking at her. “It's just strange to think
of you that way. You’re so young.”

Instead of replying I just make a vague humming noise, because next to her I feel ancient.
Admittedly there’s probably not that many years between us – in fact going by the average trainee
age she can’t be much more than mid-twenties – but her energy and integrity are making me feel
old. Not that it matters that much, because the discomfort of this is miniscule compared to the
unsettling way she’s managed to stir up several strains of memory that I wasn’t remotely prepared
for. It strikes me that she must be very skilled at interviewing suspects. She has a candour and
frankness that’s disarming, combined with a razor-sharp acuity that could easily target a weak spot
and lull someone into revealing hidden facts before they’re even aware of it. In my case the adage
of ‘don’t bullshit a bullshitter’ has fortunately come into play, but I can imagine that given enough
time most people would begin unravelling like a spool of dropped thread.

Abruptly I now push back my chair. It makes an ugly scraping noise across the floorboards, a
suitable accompaniment for the shrieking violins. “Look I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s nearly half past. I
have to get going.”

“Oh of course, I appreciate you taking the time. And thank you for the drink.” She stands up too
then offers me her hand, young and poised and unafraid. “I know this is going to sound corny,
but…it was a real honour to meet you.”

“No problem,” I reply, although whether for the drink or the honour isn’t clear. Then I walk away
without looking back, overwhelmed the entire time with a strong sense of foreboding that this
strange, stilted meeting won’t be the last I see of her. I suppose on one level this makes sense – as
long as you insist on staying here then I can’t avoid Jack indefinitely, and there’s a good chance
that when I finally meet him she won’t be far behind. But while it might have been your interest in
her that initially got under my skin, your obvious fascination now seems such a trivial concern
compared to her obvious fascination with you. It’s enough to make me miss the time I had nothing
worse to worry about than a sketch of a stranger, because after today it feels like the net is
tightening even further and we’re soon going to have to deal with the presence of yet another
person whose yearning ambition is devoted to hunting you down.
 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

This update is dedicated to Vapidus, because my writing officially went south this
week until their gorgeous art for the fic came along and got my Hannigram Mojo up
and running again on time to finish the chapter :-D Please go to Instagram if you have
a moment and check it out, because it is *amazing* (and not explicit, although
probably NSFW).

It was only supposed to be a short trip into town. Instead I’ve been AWOL for hours and before
I’ve even opened the door I can already guess how pissed off you’re going to be. Sure enough
when I check my phone there are three missed calls, blinking off and on like little electronic signals
of reproach, and my heart immediately starts to sink at the sight of them. I don’t have the energy
for a scene; I really don’t. With a regular person it would be bad enough, but your scenes are
always carefully curated masterworks of artful antipathy: sizzling and smoking with silent
resentment in which you’re able to indicate enormous offence being taken without having to speak
a single word to confirm it. The whole thing is exhausting – and more than a little unnerving –
because despite how the atmosphere chokes with foreboding it’s always impossible to tell what
you’re really thinking. If you just yelled and called me an inconsiderate asshole it would probably
be easier, but instead you’ll simmer away and let me second-guess the situation until my nerves are
completely frayed. It’s like you could be genuinely angrily or secretly amused and I’ll almost
never know for sure.

I now unlock the door and cautiously glance around the hallway before dumping my keys on the
table. I’m expecting an immediate confrontation but there’s no sign of you anywhere, and I’m just
starting to wonder if you’ve gone AWOL yourself in revenge when I go into the kitchen and catch
a faint waft of your aftershave. It’s very distinctive – a bit like a calling card – and I’m just about to
call your name when your voice promptly shoots out behind me and snaps: “Where have you
been?”

I swing round sharply on both heels but I still can’t see where you are. It’s outright creepy; I know
you’re doing it on purpose. It’s also frustrating, because while the kitchen is large it’s not that
large – not enough for you to get fully lost in. I squint around for a few seconds then finally locate
you in the corner, slightly camouflaged by the stretch of shadows which always fall across the
house in the afternoon.

“Out,” I say. The annoyance is obvious; I was intending to be more apologetic, but the tension of
the last few hours is making me irritable. “Exactly where I said I would be.”

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“I guess I didn’t.” I suppose this would be a good time to employ some of these de-escalation skills
I had to practice on one of Jack’s endless crappy courses but I honestly can’t be bothered. It’s
ironic really. I spent so long having to learn about ‘reflective silence’ and ‘non-threatening non-
verbals’, yet almost never seem to use them when they’re most needed. I lean against the counter
instead then fold both arms, deliberately defiant and combative. “Weird isn’t it?” I add. “Anyone
would think I was a full-grown adult.”
You stare at me without replying, and I’m starting to think you’re about to back down when you
peel yourself away from the wall and come striding towards me in a few quick steps so you can
cup my face in your hand. I hate it when you do this. Past association always make it feel like a
power move (the fact you’ve chosen a kitchen to do it in doesn’t exactly help) and I let out my
breath in an angry hiss then jerk my face away. If I’m honest it’s actually kind of depressing,
because moments like this are such a strong reminder that I still haven’t overcome my instinctive
urge to fight you off whenever you try to grab me. Your eyes narrow with annoyance and you wait
a few moments before calmly reaching out to do it again – this time with both hands so it’s harder
for me to get free.

“Stop it!” I say sharply. “Get off me.”

I’m not really expecting you to listen and of course you don’t. Instead you just tighten your grip
then making a sort of humming noise through your teeth. It’s possible this is meant to be soothing
but by this point it’s honestly impossible to tell. “I don’t like not knowing where you are,” you say.

“I told you where I was.”

“You were gone a very long time.”

“I was gone a few hours. Can’t you just…” I’m going to tell you to relax, but somehow it doesn’t
feel right because you’re always supernaturally relaxed: at least on the surface. I proceed to
audition and reject a series of increasingly inappropriate alternatives (calm down, chill out) before
finally settling on: “Just give me a bit of space.”

You carry on staring at me while I’m speaking, eyes laser-focused with the familiar intensity.
“That is not a reasonable request,” you finally reply. “Possessiveness is a consequence of love, just
as anger is a consequence of care. If I cared less I would neglect you more.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” I say. Mentally I’m already starting to draft a speech about how fucked-up
and dysfunctional this is, but before I can manage it I feel your grip on me tighten again. The touch
is light enough not to hurt, but firm enough to indicate displeasure, and as I see the sharp way
you’re inhaling I suddenly know exactly what’s about to happen.

“Someone’s been close to you,” you say. Your voice has audibly changed; no longer rhythmic, but
taut and brittle with resentment. “Who was it.”

“No one.”

“No one who wears L’Air du Temps?”

I could actually kick myself for not pre-empting this sooner, although short of sitting in the
fountain to wash the smell off it’s hard to know what else I could have done. I suppose this is my
cue to tell you what’s happened, but in that moment I know I’m not going to. Possibly this is a
mistake…in fact it almost certainly is, seeing how likely it is you’ll find out anyway. Even so,
delaying the problem a bit longer has a powerful appeal, because once you discover I’ve met the
subject of your sketch in this context then I know you won’t be able to rest until you’ve had a
chance to see her yourself.

“No one,” I repeat stubbornly. “At least no one important – just some trainee.”

You wait a few more seconds, slowly stroking my cheekbones with your thumbs in a way that’s
unmistakably possessive. “What trainee?”

“Okay, enough,” I say. I reach up to roughly knock your hands away then take a few steps
backwards until I’m out of touching distance. “I don’t know who she was, I’d never met her before.
She recognised me from a photo.” Remembering our conversation I give an involuntary twitch of
dread. “Even more to the point, she knows who you are. We’re unbelievably lucky she’s never
spotted you in person.”

For a few seconds you just stare at me, slow-blinking like a cat. “She wanted you to spend time
with her?”

I have a sudden, ludicrous urge to bellow ‘Well obviously she did – duh’ just for the satisfaction of
seeing the look on your face (not to mention the total lack of comprehension: I beg your pardon
Will? ‘Duh’?). “She’s here as part of the Macellaio task force,” I say instead with obvious
impatience. “And speaking of which, here's some more news for you. She told me that Jack is on
his way. Like, right on his way: he’s arriving tomorrow.”

This is the bombshell news I’ve been waiting to drop – and which instead of provoking any sort of
reaction from you just bounces straight off again with no obvious effect. Sometimes I wonder why
I even bother. “So late?” is all you reply. “I thought he would have been here by now. Good old
Jack – always reliably behind the curve.”

While I know it’s not deliberate, the mocking way you dismiss Jack’s competence manages to
strike a serious nerve. Most likely Clarice’s references to my ‘reputation’ set it off too, but either
way it’s stroked up the memory of how much trouble you went to over the years to shatter my self-
confidence and make me lose faith in my ability to do my job. Hell, by the time you’d finished the
sabotage was so extreme that everyone’s confidence in me had been pretty much destroyed. For a
few moments the urge to yell at you is almost overwhelming, and I finally have to re-direct it into
an angry shuffling motion with my feet before throwing a gargoyle-like glare in your direction then
spinning round and stalking away to the other side of the kitchen. It’s strange to think I’d have
once been much too wary to take my eye off you while you were angry; now it doesn’t even occur
to me to feel concerned about what you might do when my back’s turned. Besides, while it’s
mostly to get a bit of distance it’s also to forage for food because I’ve suddenly realised how
hungry I am. Ravenous, in fact. I begin to rifle through the cupboard like an eager rodent, only
pausing to turn round and add over my shoulder: “From tomorrow onwards I want you to stay
inside.”

As soon as I’ve said this your eyes start to narrow again. You’re annoyed, I can tell – you never
like being told what to do. Ironically you seem content to go along with my demands most of the
time, but every so often you’ll call my bluff and outright refuse to acknowledge a single thing I ask
you. I suspect you do it on purpose to disorientate me, because God forbid you’re ever anything so
normal as being easy to predict.

“I beg your pardon?” you reply. I stare back at you then blink a few times: the last time I heard
anyone say this out loud was in an English TV drama where the whole cast was wearing bonnets
and electricity hadn’t been invented. God knows how you’re able to use such outdated phrases and
still sound menacing…it’s like some kind of superpower that you have. In the end I simply repeat
the scowling expression, just in time for you to add: “That is not what we agreed.”

“I know we didn’t,” I snap. “Isn’t it frustrating to be controlled? But ‘if I cared less I would neglect
you more.’”

Needless to say you make no attempt to acknowledge this obvious double standard. You’re so
annoying sometimes: most people would have the decency to at least pretend to be ashamed at
having their own bullshit thrown straight back at them. Instead you just narrow your eyes again
into little slits of disapproval and say: “As you know, I have a considerable aversion to hiding from
Jack Crawford.”

“Yes, I know you do. In case you’d forgotten, you also have a top-spot on the FBI billboard.”

“And so you wish to have me under house arrest?”

“You’re right.” I abandon the cupboard then open the fridge instead, rummaging around for a few
seconds before crossly slamming it shut. “House arrest would suck – almost as bad as being in
actual prison. What a relief you’re not in a position where you’d have to choose between the two.”
You make an irritated sighing sound and I finally glance up for long enough to throw another
scowl at you. “Speaking of which,” I add, “I still remember sitting round the office while we all
said what bullshit it was that you’d gotten away with an insanity plea. For the record, I am now
revising my judgement of your soundness of mind, because the risk you’re proposing is deranged.”

This time you don’t reply at all. Possibly you’re struggling not to lose your temper; you always
hate it when I’m sarcastic with you. You think it’s disrespectful (a younger cousin of rudeness) but
by this point I’ve run out of shits to give and am completely past caring whether you’re offended or
not. Besides, I know you won’t lose your temper. Mostly because you almost never do, but also
because you’re aware that I’m goading you on purpose to get a reaction and so will deliberately
stay in control to deny me the satisfaction of getting one. Sure enough when I turn round again
you’re stood exactly where you were before, your features arranged into your favourite Mona Lisa
expression of complacent calmness. I always find this incredibly aggravating. Sometimes I even
fantasise about trying slap it off (and probably would, except for the fact that I know I’d just find
another, slightly smaller smug look straight beneath the first one).

“We’ve discussed this already,” you now say with the same provoking calmness. “We’ve
discussed it at length. Consequently, the discussion is closed. You can’t revert to your position of a
week ago with no explanation and reasonably except me to agree.”

I perform same the angry foot shuffle as before (by which point I realise it’s virtually developed
into a kind of tap routine, so decide I’d better stop). “I’ve already explained it,” I say. “He’s
coming tomorrow.”

“We always knew he was coming: the situation remains unchanged. I understand the contact with
the trainee has unsettled you, but it makes no difference to the presence or absence of Jack.”

Seeing how I can hardly explain that I was expecting him to take a bit longer – and therefore give
me enough time to talk you out of your insane scheme to go after him – I find that I don’t really
have a good answer to this. You raise a questioning eyebrow and I frown a few times to myself
before giving up entirely and opening the packet of chips I’ve found instead. You always look
slightly agonised watching me eat junk food so I loudly crunch through three in a row in a sort of
petty, passive-aggressive asshole gesture.

“It is as I said before,” you eventually add. “We must adapt to the circumstances we find ourselves
in even if they’re not the ones we might wish for. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all. In a time of
famine the devil feasts on flies.”

“Okay, thanks for that,” I say gloomily. “Thanks for that completely repulsive analogy.”

This makes you smile. “Speaking of repulsive…” you add, nodding towards the packet of chips.
“You appear to be hungry.”

“I am. I’m starving.”

“Indeed.” You glance at the chips again; you actually look like you’re trying not to shudder. “Let
me make you some lunch.”

Your tone sounds unusually placatory and it occurs me that this is your way of trying to keep the
peace. I suppose you’ve realised how much Jack’s arrival is freaking me out (not that this does you
much credit – you’d have to be blind and deaf not to realise). More to the point, it’s clear that you
also understand how much your recklessness for any kind of consequence is walking a fine line of
pushing me too far. Although surely you must still know that I’d never give up on you? I’m not
sure really, it’s hard to say: I spend so much time second-guessing you I sometimes forget that you
might occasionally do the same. Only I don’t know how to explain any of this, so in the end just
mutter something appreciative then sit down at the table instead and try to look less bad-tempered
as you start assembling plates and pans. You end up making me gnocchi, which I’ve recently
discovered I’ve got a bit of an addiction for. I’ve had it before in restaurants, but yours is always
better. If I were cooking it myself I’d just dump a jar of sauce over it (scarlet, gloopy and
volcanically hot from a stint in the microwave) but you boil it for a few minutes in salted water
then fry it in gleaming garlic butter until it’s light and crispy.

“Not fry,” you always say. “Sauté.” To which I’ll reply “Whatever,” before demolishing the entire
lot like someone half-starved. It’s far nicer when it’s been fried (sautéed). This time is no exception
and you pull up a chair to watch me eating while I do my best to ignore you. This isn’t especially
hard because I’m so used to it by now. You’ve always enjoyed feeding me and it’s yet another item
to add to the list of things I ought to find creepy but can no longer bring myself to care about.

I devour the gnocchi in record time then give a contended sigh and push the plate away. “That was
great,” I say. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” You reach across the table to press the back of my hand, which is about as
close as you ever get to actually apologising. “It’s still early. Why don’t we go out for a while?”

“Are you kidding me? I’ve just told you there’s a trainee in town who knows exactly who you are.”

“A trainee who you clearly met while on a lunchbreak. And take my word for it: trainees who get
flown all the way to Italy at taxpayer expense are an industrious breed. I should say there is no
chance of her leaving her office until 18.00 at the earliest.” You give one of your more feline
smiles then extend a forefinger to brush along the edge of my wrist. “Facts of which you are
already well aware. You are letting your concern affect your judgement.”

While this is undeniably true, I still can’t quite shake my reservations about it. “Well…perhaps,” I
say cautiously. “But we should go somewhere touristy. Somewhere there’s no chance she’ll be.”

“Agreed.”

“And you should wear a hat.”

This makes you smile slightly. “If you like.”

Left to your own devices I know you won’t, so go to retrieve one myself (followed by an old pair
of my glasses with the lens knocked lens out) then stand over you with my arms folded while you
put them on. You suit both surprisingly well: the hat is a pale grey panama which gives you a
suitably elegant European air, while the glasses accentuate your cheekbones and compliment the
curve of your forehead. In fact, they look better on you than me, which is hard not to feel faintly
irritated by. They’re not even necessary considering sunglasses would have done the job just as
well, but I suppose you’ll at least have a back-up option if we end up indoors at any point.
“Okay then,” I say when you’ve finished. “Where do you want to go?”

“Wherever you like.” You give me a rather wry smile. “After all, today is the final day with no
restrictions.”

Although it hasn’t escaped me that you never agreed to stay out of sight while Jack’s here, this last
statement feels like you’re at least acknowledging my concerns about it. I suppose this is
progress…sort of. Admitting the restrictions exist doesn’t mean you’ll actually follow them (who
am I kidding? Of course you won’t) but for the moment we at least seem to be approaching
something resembling being on the same page. Or the same book, maybe? The same library? Even
so, we’ve been arguing so much lately I’m glad to accept a ceasefire and finally suggest spending
the afternoon at Lago di Bilancino. We’ve gone there quite often in the past few weeks, but while I
always pretend it’s because I like the lake the real reason is that I’ve developed a secret mania for
the cygnets. I mean I really have…it’s actually pretty embarrassing. I’m certain you saw through
the obvious lie about the lake some time ago, but so far have been surprisingly willing to humour
me (despite it being safe to say that you don’t share my captivation yourself and probably just look
at the cygnets and see an ingredient for Salade Landaise). No doubt you think my own fascination
has its roots in something profound and philosophical about transformation, but it really hasn’t: I
just want something cute and goddamn fluffy in my life every now and then. The cygnets are
bumbling about by the waterside, gutsy and hilarious with their beady little eyes, and I sit on the
bench and watch them while you settle down next to me and retrieve a discarded copy of La
Repubblica, your other arm resting casually along the back of the bench so you can stroke my
neck. You immediately flick straight to the article on the FBI and I avert my eyes again and
struggle not to sigh out loud. Even so, I appreciate the way you’ve concealed yourself behind the
newspaper: no one walking by would be able to see you, and I know you’re doing it for my sake
rather than your own.

Just as I’m thinking this one of the cygnets waddles straight past my foot and I feel myself smile
for what feels like the first time in days. “Did you know that swans can break a person’s arm?” I
say. At least I’ve heard that they can…probably it’s just one of those urban myths, the same as the
one about lemmings running over cliffs. I still hope it’s true though. The swans seem so fragile and
beautiful with their delicate necks so it’s reassuring to think they might be capable of such rugged
self-defence. In that respect it would probably be quite enjoyable being a swan. An extremely easy,
straightforward kind of life: gliding around, looking serene, eating bread…breaking people’s arms.

Beside me I can see you starting to smile. Most people would get annoyed listening to me blurt out
random bits of mental crap, but I know you find it endearing. “They are very impressive
creatures,” you say. “They are also very devoted.” You pause then gently increase the pressure on
my neck. “After finding a suitable mate then two swans will pair for life.”

This makes me groan a bit and roll my eyes, although I’m smiling while I do it. You smile back
then disappear behind your newspaper again, allowing your fingers to wander upwards to lightly
stroke the hair at the base of my neck. It feels very intimate, although it’s about as far as you’ll go
without explicit invitation because you know I don’t like you touching me in public. I often feel
faintly ashamed of this reluctance, but I’ve never been a demonstrative person and there’s
something about public displays of affection which are guaranteed to make me cringe. It’s stupid
really: most couples don’t have a problem with it and it’s not like I really care what any onlookers
might think. Why does it bother me so much? Perhaps it’s a sign of some deep-seated hang-up. Or
maybe I’m sexually repressed? Oh God…I bet I am. I bet I’m sexually repressed.

“Hey,” I say abruptly. “Do you think I’m sexually repressed?”

There’s a pause before your eyes re-appear from the top of your newspaper to stare at me. “You?”
you say.

I suppose this should be reassuring but somehow it manages to seem even worse. It’s your
surprised tone, I think. It’s like you might as well be saying: My dear Will, you know as well as I
do that you are the most enormous ho.

The rest of your face now appears and from the faint smile on your face it’s obvious you’ve
worked out what I’m thinking. “You are not remotely sexually repressed,” you add. “Although
perhaps a little emotionally inhibited at times.”

“Right,” I say gloomily. “That’s not that much better though is it?”

“It is not a question of better or worse.” Your smile has started to broaden slightly; it occurs to me
you might be struggling not to laugh. “Why this sudden introspection? Is it because we’re together
in public?”

“I guess.”

“You guess, do you? I suspect you know – although I won’t force you to describe it if you don’t
want to.”

“You couldn’t force me, genius. Not if I didn’t want to.”

By now your eyes look like they’re gleaming and I have an awful feeling you might be about to
pounce on me then stick your tongue down my throat in front of all the assembled mothers and
toddlers just to prove a point. In fact I’m so convinced I start having pre-emptive images of all the
scandalised glares and ‘Mamma mias!’ but in the end you just smirk again then trail your finger
across my forearm before vanishing behind the newspaper again. Perversely a part of me now
wishes you would reappear so I could talk to you, but there’s no doubt it’s more secure to have you
hidden from view. Perhaps I could just knock on the front of the paper to get your attention as if it
was a door? Either that or blurt out a few more random observations about swans and sexual
repression.

A few more minutes go past, but it’s clear you’re not coming out again so I lean back against the
bench then close my eyes as I start to daydream about what it would be like to have the sort of life
where we don’t have to keep looking over our shoulders. This is soothing, and after a bit of thought
I decide I’m going to put us in a house in the countryside (despite the fact this was discussed then
discarded in real life; partly because of the difficulties in getting the right property tax, but mostly
because you’re too sophisticated to be away from structured society for more than a few weeks at a
time). Oh well, fuck it – it’s my fantasy, I can do whatever I want. The house in my mind is very
sprawling and rustic-looking, possibly a discarded farmhouse, and is built from stone the same pale
gold as Labrador puppies with grey slates on the roof and lots of dark wooden window frames.
Two storeys would probably be enough, although I decide to add a basement for you to use as a
wine cellar, followed by a large dusty attic that I could surprise you with by renovating into a
library with rows of bookshelves that I’d built myself. After that I include a kitchen with a La
Cornue range and a rack filled with gleaming copper pans, then plant an herb garden for you
outside the backdoor before turning my attention to the front of house. I put in some trees – large,
twining cherries that would shower confetti in the spring and drip with fruit in the Fall – then then
add a few tubs of lavender and Ficus, followed by a porch swing that we could sit and bicker in
every evening while I watched the sunset and occasionally fell asleep on with my head across your
knee. As a finishing touch I add a few dogs to the image to make it perfect, then contentedly
stretch out again and let my foot rest against yours.

You promptly return the pressure, and I can’t help smiling at the contrast they make when side-by-
side: yours immaculately clad in Italian leather and mine lolling about in an ancient pair of ankle
boots that any self-respecting tramp would probably discard for looking too sorry for themselves.
Opposites attract, I think – even though the analogy doesn’t extend much further than our
footwear, because we’re really not that different at all. In the early days I used to wonder how it
would ever be possible to combine such discordant tastes and temperaments in a shared home, yet
somehow we still seem to have managed it. In fact I rarely even think about it anymore, content in
the knowledge that there’s a side of you which can learn to tolerate mud and dog hairs right next to
a side of me who’ll drink vintage wine while listening to classical music, both of who can
peacefully coexist and even learn to enjoy it.

“Ti amo Hannibal,” I say quietly.

The sun is making me drowsy and as you increase the stroking on my neck I let out a small,
contented noise. You dip your thumb beneath my collar in response, gently rubbing the skin as
your fingers curl around my neck to brush the edge of my jaw. It’s such a small gesture yet
somehow feels far more intimate than if you actually had kissed me. We should go home right
now, I think. We should go home and go straight to bed. To be honest it’s probably a bit too hot for
it, but by this point I don’t really care. I want to feel your weight pressed on top of me, my skin
growing warm and damp as our tongues slide together, then gazing into each other’s eyes the entire
time as your hands explore every part of my body.

Abruptly I pull myself upright, snapping my eyes open as I swivel round to look at you. My mouth
is moving, already on the verge of suggesting it, but before the words can form I find myself going
deadly silent as each one of my muscles seems to contract itself with shock. The sensation is
enough to make me flinch almost violently, but as you turn to stare at me my eyes slide straight
past you: fixated in horror at the pathway that winds across the parkland just beyond your shoulder.

“Oh God,” I say faintly, and my voice seems very far away. “Oh shit.”

For a few seconds it’s like everything’s in slow motion – dulled sound, muted shadows – before I
come jolting back to life and it all roars into focus again with a blare of noise and colour. The only
saving grace is that we’re too far away to be seen, but I know that grace is a fleeting one because it
can’t be that much longer: not more than a few minutes. Then I’m aware of a chaotic kaleidoscope
of emotion – fear, confusion, anger, resentment – because I’m not even sure how it’s happened. I
mean how has it happened? How it is even possible? But regardless of the hows and the whys,
there’s no doubt it finally has and he’s finally here: a full 24 hours sooner than he should have
been, but no less real because of it. Jack Crawford. Walking straight in our direction.
 Chapter 15

Oh God, I think, oh my God. Then I think it again, and then again, until it’s turned into a litany of
silent appeals (oh-God-oh-God-oh-God), despite the fact I don’t believe in God and, even if I did, it
would still be pointless because you and I are the last people He’d ever choose to help. There’s
also a certain irony in my plea for a solution because if any situation needed urgent action it’s this
one, yet right now I’d give anything to simply do…nothing. I don’t want to do. Doing is stressful
and hard. It requires effort. How much easier it would be to ignore responsibility and just give up
and check out: let the chips fall where they may. Only I don’t have the luxury any of these things,
because inaction from me means the only alternative is to let you take control instead. And because
I don’t want to even imagine the depths of disaster that could lead to, I take a deep breath instead
and then begin a series of rapid mental calculations as I prepare to do what needs to be done. Jack
is walking slower than usual; possibly the heat is getting to him. He has a stride of around 2.5 feet,
give or take, and must be a quarter of a mile away from us. That means about 500 steps before he
passes the bench…just under 3 minutes. It should be enough time. Shouldn’t it? It has to be
enough.

As I turn back to face you you’re still in the process of lowering your newspaper, which means
only seconds have passed since I last spoke to you. It’s a shock to realise this; it feels like it should
be hours. One thing, however, which isn’t a shock is how incredibly calm you seem. Your
expression is one of fascination – enjoyment, almost – as if you’re actively savouring the moment
that this calamity starts to unfold. Probably you are. In fact you almost certainly are: you must have
been fantasising about a moment like this one ever since you heard he was coming to Italy. And it
makes me want to scream in frustration, because the reality is that Jack’s arrival isn’t fun or
intriguing, or whatever skewed perspective it is you have, but a chaotic collision of different lives
that feels almost existential in how threatening it is. An obvious sighting of you would be
catastrophic – a trigger to reignite the hunt with an intensity dwarfing everything that’s happened in
the past – and in that moment it feels like the only thing which matters anymore is to get you away
from him as fast as humanly possible.

It’s then that I hear someone speaking and am almost surprised to realise that it’s me. “ Go,” I’m
telling you. “Get out of here now. I’ll distract him for as long as I can.”

My voice is low and urgent; I expected myself to sound panicked, but I don’t. It’s more like grim
determination, a sort of life-or-death fatalism at the possibility of losing you. Not that it makes any
difference though, because I can already tell you don’t want to. I don’t even need to hear you speak
to know it. I can see it from the set of your mouth, the gleam in your eyes, and the general stubborn
stoniness of your expression. It’s obvious you won’t want to leave me alone with him, but I suspect
an even stronger reason is that you see a retreat as undignified. As far as you’re concerned it’s him
who should be running away from you. Oh God, why are our goals so often at odd with one
another? You want a dramatic confrontation where you can relish Jack’s distress and disbelief,
whereas all I want is to see you safe and gone. But it’s impossible to explain any of this in the
seconds I have, so in the end I just abandon logic completely and go straight to emotion instead. It
doesn’t feel great to manipulate you in such an obvious way, but desperate times call for desperate
measures and if ever a measure was desperate it’s this one. This is not a drill, I think, rather wildly.
Pull the emergency cord. After all, you might not care about Jack’s distress, but I know you care
about mine – and I’m not ashamed to use that to my advantage if I have to.

“Please,” I now add. I say your name very softly to show you I mean it: stare intently, straight into
your eyes. “Please – do it for me.”
I don’t think I’ve ever come so close to begging you for anything and it’s like I can see the conflict
on your face as your instinct to give me what I want collides against your own desire to raise hell. I
think there’s some disappointment there too: you wanted me to savour the idea of confronting him
as much as you do and now the moment’s come I won’t play along. I’m aware of holding my
breath, staring into your eyes and silently urging you to do the sanest safest thing for once in your
goddamn life and just go. Oh fuck, what if you won’t? I don’t know how I could force you. As a
last resort I grip onto your hand with mine – and this time it’s as if my touch is enough to jolt you
out of the ongoing struggle to put yourself first and force you to get to your feet. It’s obvious
you’re not happy about it, but instead of arguing you just draw yourself up to your full height then
give me a rather icy look before abruptly turning round and disappearing down the pathway. Even
your exit signals resentment, but I don’t have the energy to deal with your epic sulking in addition
to Jack so resolve to forget about the first one until the second is safely out the way. Not that this is
a scenario I’d have willingly chosen for myself. In fact, if I’m honest, a part of me longs to dart
down the pathway after you, although even as the thought occurs to me I know I’m not going to.
An ambush has the practical purpose of keeping Jack occupied until you’re back at the house, but
it also means confronting the inevitable. One way or another he’ll find out I’m here – the meeting
with Clarice has made sure of that – and seeing him on my own terms means grasping whatever
shreds of control I still have left. And so I ignore the urge to run and instead take a deep breath
before standing up myself, uncomfortably aware of how I might just be on the verge of having to
summon the performance of a lifetime.

Jack’s less than a minute away now. It’s going to happen…oh God, fuck, it really is. At some point
I seem to have picked up your newspaper as it’s now there in my hands and I’m clinging to it in a
rather pathetic way. It comes from a childish impulse to have something close to me that you’ve
recently touched, but while the awareness of this is embarrassing it’s not enough to make me put it
down. Then I draw a final breath and launch myself onto the path, sauntering in his direction with
my eyes fixed vaguely on the lakeside like I’m admiring the view. I put a lot of effort into my
posture (loose-limbed and slack-shouldered; someone without a care in the world) then make a
play of pausing to polish my glasses on my shirt so there’s no way he’ll miss me. Every muscle is
tensed by now, bracing for the moment I hear my name called, and the anticipation is so grinding
and stressful that when it finally happens I almost feel a sense of relief.

“Will!” repeats Jack.

He’s said it twice now. The first time was slightly disbelieving but by the second he seems to have
warmed up to the idea and is bordering on effusive – or at last as close as Jack gets to effusing
about anything. I allow myself one more fuck-my-life sigh then arrange my features into an
expression of suitable surprise before fully turning round. Jack is smiling so broadly I can see most
of his teeth. I smile back and he makes a long inhaling noise that I suppose is meant to indicate
happiness before plunging forward to give me a clumsy approximation of a hug. I wasn’t really
expecting that so just hug him back because I can’t think of anything better to do – at which point
we both start getting awkward at exactly the same time and promptly pull apart and start clearing
our throats at each other in a hyper-masculine sort of way.

“Look at you,” says Jack eventually. He shakes his head like he can’t quite believe it – which I
suppose, to be fair, he probably can’t. After that he clears his throat again, so I clear mine too to
keep him company before realising that one of us is going to have to do something more proactive
or else we’ll just be stood here until the sun goes down, wheezing and grunting at each other like a
couple of cavemen.

“It’s great to see you,” I say instead. Then I add: “You look really well,” even though I’m not sure
if he does. His face has acquired a cobweb of furrows and creases that it didn’t have before and
there’s a definite sprinkling of grey in his hair. If I had to use a word to describe him it would be
crumpled. It’s like his previous sharp edges have started to soften – no doubt just one of many
legacies that you left behind for him.

“Not as well as you,” says Jack heartily. “You look great. Better than I’ve ever seen you.” As he’s
speaking he glances at my throat (currently covered in an extravagant row of hickeys from where
you got a bit carried away) and I can feel myself cringe. My only consolation is that he’s not Alana,
because if Alana was here then she’d start interrogating me with coy questions and suggestive
looks, determined to get to the bottom of who the hell has been nibbling on my neck with such
enthusiasm. Not Jack though: Jack, fortunately, doesn’t give a shit. Even so, the obviousness of
them feels awkward.

“Good for you,” adds Jack, in the same hearty voice. “Living La Dolce Vita. I’d do the same if I
was your age.”

Seeing how I can’t imagine Jack being my age – and refuse to imagine him living La Dolce Vita –
I discreetly flick my collar up to hide my slutty neck then ask him when he arrived, despite the fact
I already know. Admittedly I’m curious as to why he’s here ahead of schedule, but any ideas of
hidden plots and secret subterfuge are quickly deflated when it turns out that it was nothing more
interesting that his PA messing up his booking.

“Incredibly inconvenient,” says Jack, briefly sounding more like himself again. I definitely prefer
it: at least I know where I am with him when he’s being grumpy. “That’s why I’m here; I figured I
might as well get a bit of sight-seeing in while I have the chance.” He scowls a bit then
pantomimes fanning himself. “Only it’s so damn hot.”

Seeing how this is one of my own recurring complaints I immediately have a lot of understanding
for it so make a sympathetic noise in response. Not that you’re ever remotely sympathetic when I
say it to you (the standard reply tending to run along the lines of ‘It’s Italy in the summer, beloved:
it’s supposed to be hot’). I now repeat the sympathetic noise to prove that I’m not a literal and
metaphorical cold-blooded bastard (unlike some people) and Jack adds in the same irritable way:
“Besides, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. Nothing’s set up for me until tomorrow.”

I now have an awful feeling his hotel might not be reserved so start compiling a frantic list of
alternatives to prevent him asking to crash at my place and ending up in an unexpected sleepover
situation with you. Fortunately it turns out his PA has got him into Antica Torre Tornabuoni (no
doubt as atonement for the missing tickets), although I’ve been so tormented with unpleasant
coincidences in the past few days that I wouldn’t be surprised if he had asked to stay. In fact,
between Jack and Clarice, the only thing left for a full hat-trick would be Matteo popping up from
nowhere to enquire over the whereabouts of my tall, dark friend with the distinctive accent. It’s
actually incredibly easy to imagine – just like the dawning look of horror on Jack’s face as he
heard the description and the pieces fell into place.

Jack now scowls again, presumably lost in a post-mortem of missing tickets and absent hotels,
before remembering that this is supposed to be a Sentimental Reunion and putting a friendly hand
on my shoulder instead. Thank God you’ll be out of viewing distance by now. The one thing
guaranteed to drive you insane is other people touching me, and he’s done it so much by now I’m
half-expecting it to have activated some kind of sixth sense and you’re about to emerge from some
nearby bushes to take him out.

“This is so unexpected Will,” adds Jack. “I’m sorry if I seem distracted, I’m just really surprised. I
was hoping I might run into you at some point, but I’d never have guessed it would happen so
soon.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I bet you didn’t.”

“So how long have you lived here now? Your last email didn’t make it clear.”

I shake my head very firmly before he’s even finished asking. “No, just passing through. I’m not
really looking for a permanent base.”

“Passing through on time for Il Macellaio?” asks Jack. This is said in quite a jovial way
(confirming that I officially have the type of life where hanging round serial killers is considered a
punchline). “I guess it was inevitable we’d cross paths again over one of these guys.”

For a few seconds our eyes meet and it’s clear we’re both thinking the same thing: namely that he’d
have expected it to be one of those guys in particular. I don’t really care though. The meeting with
Clarice might have been disastrous for forcing a clash with Jack, but at least it’s helped me prepare
for it. That stilted scene in the trattoria was a good dress-rehearsal for discussing you and it means
I don’t feel the same sense of strain as before. If anything I’m pleased with how calm I’m
managing to be, even though public calmness is admittedly a bit of a default by this point in my
life. Compared to a few years ago my neurotic, highly-strung side only ever gets indulged in when
I allow it to be – which means it’s a side of me that only you ever really get to see. Awkwardness,
on the other hand, is an entirely different issue, because there’s no doubt that this is what this
conversation is. It’s awkwardness that is positively operatic in proportion: tooth-grindingly,
muscle-clenchingly uncomfortable. For me it stems from anxiety over keeping you safe (and, if
I’m honest, a nagging sense of guilt at being so deceitful) but Jack’s unease is clearly far more
innocent in origin. It actually makes me feel bad for him. After all, I must have become a sort of
ghost to him by now: a blood-stained wraith from the past that drags across his mind at intervals
trailing memories of misery and horror. Stumbling over me like this has been a genuine shock, and
no doubt rather anti-climactic too. He’d probably imagined our reunion to be very solemn and
dignified, possibly in a police station with crime scene photos papering the wall and phones
shrieking in the background. Instead I’m here, bumbling around with a newspaper and polishing
my glasses like someone’s grandma, and it’s caught him massively off-guard.

“So how’s it felt for you then?” Jack asks, abruptly switching gears again from good-natured back
to grumpy. “Being here? After…you know.”

I raise my eyebrows but he just shrugs in response, apparently incapable of summoning a suitable
way to describe it. In fact this goes on for so long (me looking expectant and Jack looking
ominous) that I eventually get bored of waiting and answer “It’s fine” in a deliberately firm voice.
Jack promptly looks sceptical and I add: “Why wouldn’t it be? All that happened years ago.”

“Even so,” says Jack. “Here, of all places. There’s so many things that must remind you of
Hannibal.”

Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Not especially,” I say. Privately I feel a bit annoyed; it’s like he thinks
I spend my time trailing round the city in a sort of Greatest Hits Tour reminiscing over all the sites
we tried to kill each other in. Although admittedly that’s the type of Sad Bastard thing I probably
would have ended up doing if I hadn’t found you again, so I suppose I can’t really complain.

In the end I just shrug even harder, rather like I’ve depleted my mental stockpile of shits to give. “I
try not to think about it,” I add. Jack looks unconvinced (again), so I cast around for some suitably
trite platitude to seal the deal. Eventually I settle on “Life’s too short,” despite being aware that it
sounds (1) shit, (2) in this content, incredibly morbid, and (3) raises a real possibility that your
fondness for terrible double entendres has been sexually transmitted to me, the same way
chlamydia might be in a normal person.

“Well I’ve been thinking about him,” confides Jack. “It was the strangest feeling Will. Just setting
foot in the airport was a like scene from a movie or something. It all came rushing back.”
Seeing how Jack’s not usually prone to waxing lyrical about his feelings, I decide to interpret this
statement as a compliment to you and how thoroughly you’ve managed to lodge yourself under his
skin. Not that I can blame him. You’ve always had that ability and are no doubt currently living
rent free in countless people’s heads. You certainly did in mine. You were (are) magnetic, and
regardless of the circumstance my instinct was almost always to cling to you. Even when you were
hurting me I’d still do it. Even when you were trying to destroy my morality and sanity. Nothing
was ever enough to fully let you go and, judging from the strained preoccupation, it seems like
Jack is doing a version of the exact same thing.

“I can understand that,” is all I say. I sound incredibly stilted and nervy, much like the way I used
to when I last knew him. The reserve is deliberate: a way of draping my previous personality all
over myself as if it’s a suit of armour.

Jack gives a bark of humourless laughter. “Yeah, I bet you can. I’ll be honest with you Will: when
they first got in touch with us about Il Macellaio I actually caught myself wondering if it could be
Hannibal.”

“It isn’t,” I say, ultra-casual. “It’s not his style at all. The newspaper reports alone were enough to
tell me that.”

Jacks shifts irritably from one foot to the other. “Obviously. But somehow I just felt it was exactly
the sort of thing he would do. You know? Like it would be the ultimate game.”

I blink a few times, trying to work out if he’s serious. “He wouldn’t alter his method that much
Jack,” I finally reply. “He’d find it…boring. It was always about the tableaux with him: the way
something was presented mattered as much to him as what was being displayed.”

“Obviously,” repeats Jack. He sounds impatient now; frustrated at the way I don’t get it. “I’m not
seriously suggesting it’s Hannibal. What can I tell you? He’s just on my mind, is all. I guess I
wasn’t as prepared to come back here as I thought I was.”

Admissions of weakness are extremely out of character for Jack, and as I gaze back at his weary
expression I suddenly find myself feeling sorry for him. I suppose it’s partly just jetlag and general
irritation, yet his fraught manner is still a truly stinging indictment of how much your memory has
come alive for him. In that respect meeting me so unexpectedly will hardy be helping.

“It’s where he hid before,” continues Jack, half to himself. He briefly goes quiet again and I start
nodding as silent encouragement to continue. “He knows how to blend into a crowd,” Jack
eventually adds, so I carry on nodding while thinking That sounds just like me. “Insert himself into
a new environment,” (Just like me) “and make people think he’s the same as them,” (Just like me),
“then go completely wild without warning and end up on a wanted poster” (Just like…fuck). “He
could be in the city right now and we wouldn’t even know.”

It’s at this point I release I really need to shut this down before it goes any further. “Hardly,” I blurt
out. “Come on Jack. The FBI’s involvement has been publicised for weeks. You really think he
could resist advertising himself?”

“No,” replies Jack; he sounds a bit grudging. “Probably not.”

“Definitely not,” I say firmly. “You and I here at the same time? He’d have already made the
biggest scene he possibly could.” Then it occurs to me that I might sound a bit too fond, so have to
clear my throat again and stare intently into the distance (scowling away like I’m mentally
reproaching you for being a massive drama queen instead of secretly doting over you for it).
Jack lets out a louder sigh then manages to rally himself enough to give me another clap on the
shoulder. “Hey, look, just ignore me,” he says. “You’ve caught me at a bad time. I’ll probably feel
embarrassed about this conversation later.”

“Don’t be,” I reply, doing my best to sound sympathetic. “I get it. You’ve had a long flight, you’re
here for a tough job, and the whole place is full of memories. Anyone would be disorientated. You
should head back to your hotel and get some rest.”

“Not yet,” replies Jack, with a hint of self-righteousness. “I’m trying to adjust to the new time zone.
It’s partly why I’m out here – I want to stay awake until the evening.”

Now I sigh as well, although mine isn’t from tiredness but rather disappointment at losing such an
easy way to get rid of him. After all, you must be nearly home by now – there’s no real reason for
me to stay any longer. Admittedly in a different time and setting I might have quite enjoyed a
rambling catch-up over how he’s been, but my priorities shifted long ago to solely focus on you.
Nothing else really matters, not even Jack and his sighs or crumpled face. Although I suppose
that’s not quite right either, because my priority has always been you – I just couldn’t properly
admit it.

Jack now sighs, right on cue, and I’m struck all over again by the incredible unfairness of choosing
a tourist-heavy spot to avoid Clarice only to end up crossing paths with him instead. Not that
fairness has anything much to do with it; when is life ever fair? In fact, it seems like my relief at
getting you out of here overtook my instincts for a while, because now I’m returning to my
baseline sense of pessimism I realise how dissatisfied I still am over the whole thing. It’s either
dumb bad luck or a coincidence that, at least from Jack’s point of view, is a little bit too good to be
true, and as I stare back at him I feel myself overcome with an impulse to test it out. “I met one of
your trainees this morning,” I say abruptly. “We had a drink together.”

Jack’s eyebrows begin to elevate up his forehead. “Oh? Which one? We have three out here.”

This claim to ignorance is frustrating yet expected, although I know there’s not much I can do
about it. If he was already aware of the meeting, he’s clearly not intending to say so. “It was a
young woman,” I reply, equally casual. “Clarice.”

“Oh yes, Clarice,” says Jack with unusual warmth. “Clarice is excellent. Incredibly insightful.”

“Yeah, she seemed that way.”

“She’s definitely going places,” says Jack, and there’s something about his shift in tone – self-
conscious and slightly gruff – that makes me feel like he might be nurturing a secret crush on her.
Of course he’s far too moral and professional to ever act on it, but I know the mere fact of its
existence will ensure a crippling sense of guilt about it for as long as it lasts.

“You told her I might be here?” I add. Technically this is a question, but I phrase it firmly enough
to imply I already know the answer. Jack would normally be far too crafty to fall for such an
obvious ploy, but fortunately I’ve got the jetlag on my side and he now catches my eye before
hunching both shoulders into a shrug.

“Yes, I mentioned it,” he says. “It seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up.”

For a few moments I continue to stare at him as I silently digest this. In other words, what it
probably means is that he’s had his whole team on the look-out for me since they first arrived, and
the renewed awareness of how close you might’ve come to getting spotted makes me feel
physically sick. In fact, the more I think about it, the more likely it seems I might have been
previously spotted myself – possibly by one of the other trainees who, unlike Clarice, lacked the
nerve to approach me in person. It would certainly explain Lago di Bilancino as a regular spot for
me to be found in (I now cast a slightly rueful glance at the cygnets, as if they’ve been acting as
double agents the entire time). Thank fuck for my unwillingness to be affectionate in public. To an
outside eye we’d have just seemed like two strangers sharing a space and, if my suspicions are
true, then they clearly didn’t get close enough to recognise you. Even so…Jesus. It seems your
long-standing confidence in the merits of ‘hiding in plain sight’ might be more accurate than I gave
you credit for, but it doesn’t change the dizzying extent of the risk we’ve been under. Oh God, this
is entirely your fault. We could’ve been long gone weeks ago if you hadn’t insisted on staying for a
final confrontation.

These reflections are hardly designed to put me in a good mood, yet none of them can explain the
question that bothers me the most, which is why. Why go to so much trouble to find me? To pin me
down to help with Il Macellaio? As a form of live bait to try and draw you out? Or perhaps it’s
none of that at all. Perhaps it’s just my own paranoia and the meetings with Jack and Clarice were
simply the coincidences they first appeared to be. After all, even extreme coincidences can happen.
In a room of just 23 people there’s always a 50-50 chance two of them will have the same birthday.
The Birthday Paradox…I didn’t believe it could possibly be true until I did the math myself to
confirm it. Yet deep down I can’t help feeling that it’s not; that in this case, coincidence is just
Jack’s way of making himself anonymous. It only takes a matter of seconds for these thoughts to
tumble through my mind, but ultimately I know there’s no way to be sure. At least not right now.
It’s clear he’s not in the mood to confirm it and from the way his expression’s closed down – tight-
lipped, furrowed brow – I can tell that additional questions are useless. But the only thing that
really matters is that you haven’t been seen: and in the meantime you’re at home without me, and
the need to have you close is almost overwhelming.

“Look, I’m really sorry but I have to get going,” I say abruptly. “I’m on my way to…” I pause then
wave towards my glasses like I’m imploring them to give me an alibi. “To the optician.”

“Oh yeah?” replies Jack. “How’d you get on with that? No one here seems to speak English.” He
scowls a bit, briefly transformed into the quintessential American abroad who’s mortally offended
at foreigners daring to use their native language in their own country. “Most Europeans are fluent. I
was in the Netherlands earlier in the year and they spoke it better than I do.”

“Parlo un po d'italiano,” I say. I have a sudden image of you and give a faint smile. “Although
apparently my accent is terrible.”

“Sounds good to me,” replies Jack in a kindly way. “I guess smart people can pick up a language
quickly. I’ve never had a good ear for it myself.” For a few seconds he falls silent before that
intense, distant look returns to his face. “How many did Hannibal know again?”

“Four,” I say. “I think.” It’s actually five (and I know for a fact that you can speak fluent bullshit in
all of them) but I don’t feel like advertising an intimate knowledge of your accomplishments. It’s
stupid really; it’s not like it was a secret. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t know. Even so,
maintaining a pretence at distance feels more comfortable.

Jack takes a few seconds to digest this information about your various languages before seeming to
make another attempt to banish you from his mind. I feel as if I can see him do it – it’s like he’s
making a conscious effort not to think about you anymore.

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” he says finally, despite the fact that’s exactly what he’s doing. In
desperation I take my glasses off again then give them another rub with my shirt, very slow and
cautious as if they’re an ailing pet. Look at these poor, precarious bastards, the gesture says. Let
me take them away and put them out of their misery.

“And keep in touch won’t you?” adds Jack.

“Sure,” I say lightly. “Of course.”

“We need to catch up properly: I want to hear how you’ve been.”

“There’s not much to say really. I’ve been fine.” I give another smile, this time more genuine. “I’m
happy.”

Jack’s eyes to dart to my neck without seeming able to stop themselves before returning to my face
again. “Good,” is all he says. “You deserve a bit of peace. You’ll have to tell me more about it.”
Then he pauses once more as his eyebrows start to knit across his forehead: I watch their progress
with a growing sense of annoyance. Oh hell, I think, here it comes. “And at some point I’d like
your thoughts on Il Macellaio.”

“I’m out of that now Jack,” I say firmly. “You know I am.”

Jack holds out his hands in a way that’s clearly meant to look beseeching. “I know. It’s just your
opinion I want Will, that’s all. It’s not like I’m expecting you to roll up your sleeves and get back in
the field.”

Considering that this is exactly what he’ll be expecting me to do I immediately feel myself getting
angry. So much for deserving a bit of peace. It reminds me of how he’s always had a positive
genius for delivering high-handed lectures on my wellbeing – until the exact moment that my
wellbeing becomes personally inconvenient, at which point it can pretty much go and fuck itself.
Not to mention the fact that me collaborating with Jack behind your back is the one thing
guaranteed to make you lose all your shit. But there’s no way I want to spend time arguing over it,
so in the end just assume a deliberately neutral expression instead.

“I’m not in the right headspace,” I reply. “Not at the moment.”

“Really?” says Jack. His disappointment is obvious, although there’s no doubt he’s starting to get
that wistful, paternal air which always seems to descend on him whenever I strike him as being
particularly tragic. I promptly decide I may as well exploit it a bit more, so do my best to look as
sad and sorrowful as possible. “Well…that’s a shame,” adds Jack sympathetically. “Your input
would have been invaluable.”

I pause for a few seconds then give Jack a long mournful look from over the top of my glasses.
“Not necessarily. I’ve got a bit rusty.”

“You? Rusty? I don’t think so. Hey, what would you say to some media engagement instead? RAI
is interviewing me about the case next week – and they’ll almost certainly ask about Hannibal.”

“No way,” I shriek, briefly forgetting to be pitiful. “Come on Jack. Why would I want to do that?”

Even Jack has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “You’re right,” he says. “I shouldn’t have
asked you. But I’ll be in touch at some point; we should go for a meal.” Briefly his eyes go back to
my neck again. “And feel free to bring a guest…if you want to.”

For an awful moment I think I’m actually going to laugh and have to resort to giving my glasses
another rub. “Sure,” is all I say.

“I’ve still got your cell number.”

“Great,” I say, reaching into my pocket to turn it off.

“Oh, and here’s some more good news: Price and Zeller are going to be joining me. I’m sure
they’d love to see you.”

I have a sudden, surreal image of the entire BSU descending on Italy en masse by parachute and
promptly feel depressed again. For the love of God, I want to say. Why can’t everyone just fuck
off? “Okay,” I reply, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Let me know.”

Jack smiles then gives me a final pat on the shoulder. He never used to be this affectionate; it’s
clear he’s feeling more unsettled than even he’s letting on. “It’s good to see you Will,” he says.
“I’m sorry if I haven’t seemed very sociable. Like I said, this place has a lot of associations.
Everywhere I look is a reminder that Hannibal could still be out there – and that if he is alive and
wanted a showdown then this is the exact place he’d choose. The fact you’re here as well…” He
pauses suggestively then shrugs. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” I say flatly. “I know.”

“Maybe I’m paranoid,” adds Jack. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” His tone is light, play-acting at
jovial, but underneath I can tell he’s completely serious. “Either way I still came prepared. You
know we can’t normally travel with firearms, but a diplomatic permit comes in very useful when
you need it to.” He pauses again, his voice hardening as he gestures to the side of his jacket where
a gun holster would normally be. “Call me crazy if you want Will, but a part of me hopes he does
show up. It would be the biggest favour that bastard could ever do for me – giving me a chance to
take him out for good.”
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

Lolol I’ve been off AO3 for a while to work on my cReAtIvE pRoCeSs and now I’ve
come back and have absolutely nothing to show for it except 14k words of porn.
You’re welcome, internet. Rest assured I am very proud of myself XD

This time I don’t even make it through the doorway before getting pounced on…which to be
honest is exactly what I was expecting. It was inevitable you’d either plot another silent ambush
like this morning, or else your patience would expire entirely and you’d spring me as soon as you
heard the gate open – so while the pouncing is annoying, it’s not all that surprising. But either way
it makes me feel sorry for myself, because the only thing I want right now is some peace (namely a
dark room and a bottle of beer) and the last thing I want is what I’m actually getting (which is
being pushed halfway up against the wall then smothered in a sharp haze of cheekbones). It’s also
ironic, because I have a powerful urge to just fling my arms round you then hold you as tight as
possible, yet a toxic brew of resentment, relief and irritation is making it hard to show what I’m
really feeling. In the end I push you off me instead, then retreat a few steps backwards to lean
against the doorframe.

“Don’t,” I add when it’s looks like you’re about to jump me again. “I’m not in the mood.”

Even as I’m explaining this I’m not expecting you to listen, and of course you don’t. Moods and
feelings only interest you in a certain context (mostly destructive ones; the more deranged the
better) after which you’ll ignore them completely and focus on the facts instead. Not that I can
blame you. After all, the facts in this instance are that I’ve spent 20 unsupervised minutes in the
presence of one of your main adversaries, so naturally you’re going to want the details. It almost
gives me a weird sense of obligation to provide a satisfying narrative (suitably thrilling, garnished
with dramatic flourish) but then I find myself remembering Jack’s weary face and realise what a
struggle it’ll be to cast him in such a solemn-sounding role as Arch Enemy. What even was he to
you before he became this? Or maybe that’s not the right question to ask; most likely you never
thought about him at all. In this respect your view of the world is surprisingly simple, in that you
only tend to see people as one of three categories (arch enemies, potential meals and mongooses)
and then work backwards to plot each interaction accordingly.

I now sigh to myself again and you wait a few more moments before ignoring my instructions and
prowling over (exactly as predicted) so you can take hold of my shoulders. “Look at you,” you say
softly. “Sei così bello. You’re mine now – he can’t have you back again.”

I let out another, even louder sigh: it’s meant to be grave and serious but seems to go a bit wrong
halfway through and comes out more like a deflating balloon. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” I tell
you; and which in theory sounds like good advice, but in practice has about the same usefulness as
telling water not to be wet. “We’ve been through this already. He doesn’t ‘want me back’ – and
even if he did I’d never go.”

Your features promptly arrange themselves into one of your favourite ‘don’t bullshit a bullshitter’
expressions. “No?” you say. “So he didn’t ask you to assist him with Il Macellaio?”

“Not formally, no.”

“Not formally, no. So he wants an informal alliance instead?” This time the words are accessorised
with a sinister little smile. It’s the sort of smile that looks as if it was directed by David Lynch,
complete with a faint glimmer of teeth. “Not that the formality really matters, does it Will? You
know I’m not referring to that.”

This is announced a very casual tone, but it makes me wince anyway, because of course I know.
What you’re really talking about isn’t so much the investigation as much as a metaphorical sense
of Jack wanting me back on the side of righteousness (whereas my perspective is that he doesn’t
know I’ve left so the question isn’t even relevant). I suppose it’s also the source of your earlier
anger. You want to claim ownership of me in front of Jack – seal the deal, as it were – and resent
that I’ve denied you an opportunity. What’s also obvious is that you’re holding back from
expressing the worst of it, probably because you don’t want to take your anger out on me when
Jack is the genuine, yet unavailable, target. It makes me wonder what it’s going to look like when
you finally show what you’re really feeling, although seeing how I’m not being open with you
either it’s not like I can complain. The conclusion, in other words, is that we’re both as emotionally
useless as each other.

As to confirm this it’s only now that I realise how intensely you’ve begun to stare at me: so taut
and rigid, a bit like an animal assessing its prey. “Did he touch you?” you add.

I blink a few times. I wasn’t totally expecting this: even by your standards it seems excessive. “He
shook my hand,” I say. My fluency at lying is getting better all the time (doubtless from such
prolonged exposure to you) but judging from the way your eyes have started narrowing it’s still not
going to be enough. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. “What else was he supposed to do?”

Even you don’t seem to have a reasonable response to this, although it’s not enough to stop you
being an ungodly drama queen about it. I suppose that’s something else that was inevitable – a sign
you need to do something with your tension while also making sure you don’t do anything to me.
“I can smell him all over you,” you add. By now your eyes have almost disappeared into little
glinting slits of disapproval. “I want you to take a shower.”

“Later.”

“No – now.”

“Later,” I say sharply. “Can’t you just…I don’t know. Hold your nose or something.”

“He’s done more than shake your hand,” you say. You sound very ominous, although at least don’t
try to order me into the shower again. My Warning Voice has obviously worked; I make a mental
note to try it out on you more often. “So Uncle Jack wishes for Agent Graham to join his
taskforce,” you add instead. “Once more you have been placed between the sheep and the wolves:
requested to follow the herd while secretly yearning to join the pack. What else took place between
you? And don’t say ‘nothing’. You can’t possibly expect me to be satisfied with so few details of
the scene.”

“There’s not really that much to tell. He was surprised to see me – obviously.”

You start smiling again. “Obviously.”

“Surprised but pleased. It was incredibly awkward.”

“Again – obviously. His capacity for oblivion was always impressive. I didn’t expect it to have
improved since the last time we last saw him.”
My only response is a shrug. I don’t really want to talk about Jack’s obliviousness in relation to
you, mainly because it’s too uncomfortable a mirror of my own. In fact, if anything, I was even
worse: so blithe and so unaware for so very long, comprehending all the predators around me while
never noticing the one who was nearest and deadliest until it was far too late. “He’d arrived ahead
of schedule,” I add rather lamely. “It was because of a mistake at the airline. He seemed tired…
irritable.”

You make an impatient gesture with your hand, which I suppose is meant to imply that this is also
obvious and you want something more substantial. For a few seconds I feel myself wavering, torn
between a lingering sense of loyalty to Jack vs. providing your colossal ego with an additional
massage. I suppose I shouldn’t really. It’s not like it isn’t big enough already: anymore and it’ll be
like a third person in the apartment and we’ll have to start charging it rent. I sigh a bit as the two
battle together in my mind before the former inevitably wins out.

“And he talked about you,” I add. “A lot. He was far more preoccupied than I thought he’d be. I’d
even say that you’re on his mind more than Il Macellaio is.”

You dip your head in response, very calm and collected. It’s clear you’re not surprised by this. No
doubt you probably just see it as your due…you big arrogant bastard. I start to smile with the
familiar blend of affectionate annoyance, then take advantage of your lapsed attention to pull away
so I can walk over to the desk and prop myself against it with my hands in my pockets. You
immediately follow and I give you a severe look from over the top of my glasses that’s meant as a
warning to give me some space. You ignore it enough to continue walking over, although as a
concession don’t try to take hold of me again.

“So what did you do?” you ask. “I want you to describe it for me.”

For a few seconds I fantasise about going full teenager on you with some suitably surly retort: Like,
duh, what do you think I did? Only there’s no point because you won’t know what ‘duh’ means, so
I’d have to explain it to you, and just…no. “I’m sure you can probably guess” I say wryly. “I stood
there and lied like your life depended on it.”

You repeat the same impatient handwave as before. This, clearly, is yet another thing that’s
obvious. “But I wish to be able to picture it for myself,” you say. “I imagine you as very poised and
picturesque, speaking beautiful deceptions and leading him exactly to where you wanted him to go.
I would like to know about your expression, your tone of voice…you must furnish me with
details.”

“I will not furnish you with anything,” I say. “Because quite frankly I don’t have the energy. You’ll
have to fill in the blanks on your own.” I bet you will as well...oh God, knowing you you’ll
probably draw it. “He had a gun,” I add in a bleaker voice. “Jack. He applied for a special permit to
bring it over.”

“Of course he did,” you say briskly. “I would have expected little else.”

“And did you expect him to bring it over with you in mind?”

“Naturally,” you say. You catch me looking at you and give a little shrug. “As would you if you’d
allowed yourself to consider it. You’re still in denial, mano meilė. Your insight hasn’t failed you,
but I’m afraid on this occasion you have fallen prey to wishful thinking.”

Stubbornness makes me wants to contradict you, except there’s no real point because I know what
you’re saying is true. You, on the other hand, have got the exact opposite problem, because if I
expect the worst and hope for the best then you just set fire to the expectations before gleefully
settling down to watch them ignite. The thought of the risk it involves is enough to make my earlier
resentment start to rekindle – a feeling not helped by the way you’re currently lounging around like
someone without a single concern in the world.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get out of there sooner,” I say irritably. “Another minute and he would
have seen you.”

“Why shouldn’t you believe it?” you reply: you sound a bit irritated yourself. “I’ve made it very
clear that I don’t share your aversion to meeting him. Once more, we are repeating old ground.”

While it’s true this argument has become well-worn, familiarity has done nothing to anesthetize me
to it and the mere idea is still enough to make me shudder. If I closed my eyes I could even picture
it: the panicked phone calls, the blare of sirens, the alarms spreading wider and wider in a frantic
search through the city. Surely they’d find you this time round. How could they not?

“It would have been a disaster,” I say gloomily. “For both of us.”

From the corner of my eye I can see you beginning to stare. “You still don’t have much confidence
in me do you?” you finally reply, and if I didn’t know any better I’d say you sounded sad – or at
least as close as you ever come to it. “Do you really think I’d put you at such a risk? I never
intended for us to be seen together today. For that to happen it will need to be a situation where he
can’t act upon the information.”

Which of course means a situation where you could kill him straight afterwards. It also means that
we’re speaking at cross-purposes (again), because while your preference seems to have been for
me to leave and you to see him, my instinct was the exact opposite. Yours is the route of
theatricality and drama, whereas mine is practicality and pragmatism. It seems such a wide chasm
to breach; sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever be able to manage it.

“I just want you to be safe,” I say finally. I sound a bit pathetic, like I should be playing the world’s
tiniest violin. “I wasn’t worried about myself.”

The frustration makes me realise how crushingly tired I am and now I take my glasses off to scrub
a weary hand across my face. The motion dislodges a sheaf of nearby papers, but as I stoop down
to retrieve them I immediately feel myself flinch. “What the hell is this?” I say sharply. “Why are
you writing a will?” A short pause follows and when I speak again I can hear the strain in my
voice. “There’s…there’s nothing wrong with you is there?”

“There is nothing remotely wrong with me. Don’t look so tragic: if I were ill I would tell you. And
I am not writing it, I am updating it. I possess several bonds which recently increased in value and I
wish to ensure they’re properly documented.” You give me a rather sardonic smile. “Managing a
portfolio is complicated for someone in my position. Lots of different aliases in several different
countries, all of which the government would be very pleased to confiscate given the opportunity.”

“I guess,” I say warily.

“It is not a matter of guessing: it is the prudent thing to do. I have considerable assets, and if
anything happened to me…”

“Don’t say that,” I blurt out. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.” It’s unusual for me to be so
demonstrative and I immediately hate the way I sound – irrational and childish, like I think the
mere act of saying it is enough to make it true.

“I’m flattered that you think so,” you reply in the same calm way. “Nevertheless, I’m not immortal.
And if anything did happen to me then I’d want to make sure you were properly taken care of.”

For a few seconds I just stare at you, blinking mournfully as I struggle to acknowledge the
implications of this. I of all people should know the risks and rewards of a life like yours, yet
somehow it’s still deeply unsettling to be confronted with it in such a blunt form as a will –
especially following straight on from the meeting with Jack.

“So, I would get all your money then?” I say, attempting levity to disguise how unhappy I feel.

“Indeed you would: you are my main heir and beneficiary. I suppose I should be cautious shouldn’t
I? I have just given you an excellent motive to push me down a flight of stairs.”

“Mmm, yes, I suppose you have,” I say. “Watch your back old man.”

“What a little horror you are,” you reply, pretending to be shocked. “Watch your rudeness or I shall
disinherit you.”

“You do that. I’d just forge your will and leave the whole lot to myself.”

“Yes,” you say wryly. “I suppose you’d be fully capable of such a feat. They do say ‘where there’s
a will there’s a way’.” I roll my eyes at you and you smirk a bit then add: “Although if you do then
be sure to make a convincing job of it. You wouldn’t want your fraud to be detected. Discovery
would mean poverty: you would be forced to work for a living and abandon your life of leisure as a
trust fund baby.”

“Ugh, shut up. I am not a trust fund baby.”

“I regret to inform you that’s exactly what you are,” you say happily. “And if you push me down a
flight of stairs then your situation would not improve. Your trust fund would merely transition from
virtual to literal.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to work extra hard to look after you, won’t I?” I reply. “Anything to
avoid the social shame of getting called a trust fund baby for the rest of my life.” You smirk again
and I walk up behind you so I can wrap my arms round your waist. “You’ve done it purpose
haven’t you?” I add. “Any excuse to torture me.”

You make an amused noise and I tighten my grip on you then bury my face between your shoulder
blades so I can breathe you in. It seems like ages since I was properly happy. Everything’s
exploded in the span of a few short weeks, and now that Jack’s here how can it not get worse?

“What’s the matter?” you ask. “You are slumping. You only ever slump when you’re dejected.”

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just tired.”

“You seem rather more than that.”

“Well, what do you expect?” I mutter into your shirt. “One wrong move and the entire FBI will be
looking for you.”

“They are already looking. Yet see how successful they have been?”

“It’s not the same,” I say wearily. “You know it isn’t.”

Naturally you refuse to admit this and instead just take hold of my hands so you can spin me round
until I’m facing you. I want to protest but find I can’t really be bothered so give you a small shove
instead to indicate annoyance (which you completely ignore).

“Poor Jack,” you say mockingly. “No doubt he is on the phone to Baltimore at this very moment,
beside himself with delight at having caught a glimpse of you. Will Graham, in the flesh – just as
beautiful and brilliant as always.”

“I think his description would be a little less…florid,” I say drily. “You seem to be mixing him up
with yourself.”

You smile a bit more then reach up with a forefinger to neatly flick open the top button of my shirt.
“Even so, consider how delighted he is going to be. He thinks you’re ready to cast in your colours
again with the force of law and order. He has no idea at all does he? None of them know the truth
about you…no one except me.”

Your eyes are glinting in a way that makes you look slightly wild and as you unfasten a second
button it finally occurs to me that the idea of lying through my teeth to Jack then coming home to
you straight afterwards has massively turned you on. “Amore mio,” you add, as if to prove my
point. “How beautiful you are: all your dark desire. I can smell it on you.” You trail your fingers
along my wrists, over my ribs then across my hips before roughly tugging me forward so you can
bury your face in my neck. “My admiration for you is so inconvenient Will,” you murmur against
my skin. “I ought to be very angry with you for this afternoon.”

I tip my head back a little to give you better access to my throat then tightly wrap both arms around
your waist. “Oh shut up,” I say. “Seriously, just be quiet for once. You should be grateful to me.”

“Perhaps I should be – but I am not. I have sacrificed an infinite amount of satisfaction on your
behalf. Only think how happy it would have made me to be able to greet Jack in person? Instead I
have given it all up to oblige you.”

“Yeah, life’s hard.”

“You should apologise,” you say, flicking open another button.

“You should cry me a river.”

You start to smile again but continue unbuttoning my shirt – very slow and methodical – before
taking hold of my chin to tilt my face upwards. “Such a lost opportunity,” you say. “It is extremely
disappointing. How do you propose to make it up to me?”

I smirk back at you then pointedly twist my face free. “Honestly?” I say. “I have absolutely no
intention of making it up to you.”

Your smile immediately starts to broaden. “What, no suggestions at all? That’s rather surprising
Will – you’re normally so imaginative. Not that it really matters. I have several plans of my own.”

“Yeah I bet you do.” I can feel myself struggling with an urge to laugh. You’re so theatrical
sometimes; I’m not sure if you even realise it. “These plans of yours,” I add. “Do I actually get a
choice in any of them?”

“Not on this occasion,” you say airily. “On this occasion you are going to do what you’re told.”

“Am I really?”

“Certainly you are: you know you are capable of obedience when you really put your mind to it.
Now tell me, have you made any arrangements for this afternoon?”
“No.”

“Excellent. That saves some time, because if you did then you would have had to cancel them.”

“And why would I have had to cancel them?”

“Because,” you say, “you are going to be occupied for the rest of the day – working extremely hard
to show me how sorry you are.”

I finally give into the temptation to laugh and you drop a quick kiss on my forehead before letting
go of me and taking a few steps backwards. “Now listen to me mano meilė,” you say. “You have
had a great success today being cunning and charming, but now you’re back home with me and I
feel a need to re-establish who you really belong to. Which. Is. Not. Jack.”

“Well it’s not you either,” I say rudely. God knows why I always feel the need to push you so
much. It’s like I can’t help myself – just one of the endless games we play. “I belong to myself.”

“That’s as may be.” You look very serene; clearly you don’t intend to take the bait. “But following
that, I am your official custodian.”

“Good for you,” I reply with obvious sarcasm. “Only I’m not sure that sounds quite as impressive
as you think it does. You do realise in America you’d have just claimed to be the janitor?”

As soon as I say this you take a quick step forward, drawing yourself up to your full height then
looming right into my space. It’s clear you’re doing it on purpose, but even though I know you
won’t hurt me my instinctive response is still to feel intimidated. To disguise it I throw a ferocious
scowl at you from over the top of my glasses, which makes you smile again before reaching up to
smooth the frown line away with your thumb.

“How appallingly rude you are,” you say. “You realise you’re now going to have to work twice as
hard as before?”

This time I don’t contradict you (although stubbornly refuse to apologise either). “A custodian is
responsible for caring for something,” you add in a gentler voice. “Something precious. In America
that might mean a building, but in Europe it could apply to something else entirely. A child
perhaps, or a piece of jewellery…possibly even a trust fund.”

Now it’s my turn to smile and you smile back in an unusually benevolent way. “Perhaps a child is
not so far off the mark,” you add. “It doesn’t matter how old you are, you retain the impetuous
kind of spirit which is a true mark of youth. An enfant terrible. Young, ingenious, and completely
unorthodox.”

“Thanks,” I say doubtfully. “I guess.”

“You are welcome. In addition to that, you are distinctly irresistible. But most of all you are mine –
which is why you are going to stop rebelling and go upstairs to our bedroom instead.”

“Am I really?”

“Yes,” you say leisurely, like you’re doing me a huge favour by suggesting it. “See it as a type of
quid pro quo. You are such a utilitarian that the concept should appeal to you: you have a chance to
maximise my happiness while doing very little in return.”

“And why do you deserve to have your happiness maximised?”

“Because I have been incredibly generous,” you say. “I share you with other people all the time. In
fact, not only am I generous I am also extremely reasonable, because I am merely proposing to
have you to myself for an afternoon. It is a matter of hours; what if I had decided that it was to be
for a few days instead?”

I raise my eyebrows so high they nearly get lost in my hair. “A few days?”

“Yes indeed: I could keep you here to be entirely at my disposal. Perhaps I could take all your
clothes away from you to prevent you from leaving. What do you think Will? You would be very
beautiful and vulnerable. Not to mention extremely resentful…which I confess would add to my
enjoyment even more.”

Your tone is just flippant enough to make it sound like you’re joking, but I know that you’re not –
there’s no doubt you’d do this in a second if you thought you could get away with it. As if to prove
my point you abruptly change course from a hypothetical description into what seems more like an
outright sales pitch, suggestively running your hands along my spine while I stare back at you with
both eyebrows raised.

“I would take exemplary care of you in your captivity,” you say rather dreamily. “Feed you and
bathe you, then carry you onto the balcony every evening so you could sleep in my arms as the sun
went down. You would have no responsibilities at all. Your only task would be to look charming
and make your body available to me whenever I wanted it...which admittedly would be fairly
often. I would have to make sure I didn’t hurt you in my enthusiasm, wouldn’t I? I think I would
give you amyl nitrate. Have you heard of that? It’s a muscle relaxant. It would make your body
incredibly receptive; I could make love to you for hours at a time and it would never stop feeling
comfortable and pleasurable.”

By now my eyebrows have raised so much they’re practically become airborne. “So I’d get to be
your chemically-enhanced sex slave?” I say finally. “How incredibly tempting.”

“Hmm, yes – isn’t it? Although I think I can still guess your response to such a proposal.”

“Correct. I’m glad you can guess: your expensive psychiatric training clearly wasn’t wasted.”

You smirk a bit at this although I suspect you’re still disappointed, despite the fact you must have
known I’d never go for it. “Further proof of how reasonable I am being,” is all you reply. “Because
you are only required to make yourself available for a few hours. And speaking of which mano
meilė, I believe we agreed you were going to go upstairs now?”

“Actually, we didn’t agree that at all.”

You give me one of your more inscrutable smiles: as far as you’re concerned it’s clear the matter is
already settled and you’re just going to wait for me to catch up and realise it. “Once you are there
you will take your clothes off,” you add, “after which you will wait for me to join you. I want you
on the bed, I think, on your hands and knees. And I advise you to use the waiting time to conserve a
bit of energy, because I can guarantee you are going to need it.”

I open my mouth to argue, but this time you just swivel round and vanish through the door before
I’ve even had a chance to tell you to get lost. I aim another furious scowl at your departing back,
but admittedly the defiance is rather half-hearted and comes more from habit than genuine
opposition. If I’m honest I’m desperate for us to go to bed – although that doesn’t make your high-
handed manner any less irritating. I’m not sure how you manage to get away with it (because, of
course, you are going to get away with it). It’s a special type of arrogance, which in you manages
to be charismatic but in anyone else would be borderline repulsive.
I now roll my eyes again – only this time at myself for being such a massive pushover – before
admitting defeat and trudging my way upstairs. I know you’ll be pleased with how compliant I’m
being, although while I shrug my clothes into an untidy heap I ignore your instructions to get on all
fours and just lie on my back instead. You won’t be happy with this, but I don’t really care: waiting
on hands and knees is too uncomfortable and God knows how long you’re going to be. Then I close
my eyes and tip my head against the pillow, stretching luxuriously while I wait for you to get your
bossy old ass upstairs. I already recognise the sort of mood you’re in. It’s controlling for sure, but
in a way that’s less aggressive compared to the version that came out a few weeks ago – and which,
considering the circumstances, confirms you’re deliberately holding yourself back. You’ll often go
through these possessive phases, but while Jack’s presence has made this one last much longer
than usual I don’t really mind. In fact, if I’m in the right mood for it, then the arrangement seems to
work pretty well. It allows you to indulge your need for ownership, whereas I have a chance to get
out of my head by giving up control for a while (despite still silently pulling your strings without
you fully realising it).

In this respect your current flavour of possessiveness seems to like it most when I respond to you in
a way that’s passionate yet needy, and I now decide I may as well spend some of the waiting time
for planning it out in advance. You especially like me begging you – the more urgent and explicit
the better, so long as no slang is involved – but I’ll often struggle to do it spontaneously because of
how self-conscious I feel. I even went on Pornhub once to get some inspiration, although my first
attempt was so dismal I’ve since been forced to admit defeat and abandon it as a reference source.
Partly this was because I ended up over-empathising with the actors and imagining how worn-out
and uncomfortable they must be, but mostly because the first video I clicked on featured younger
performers calling older ones ‘daddy’ (and knowing that there is no possible version of reality
where I could ever say that to you without dissolving into cackling goblin-like laughter straight
afterwards). I now tend to opt for less imaginative routes instead – lots of moaning, gasping and
urgent pleas of I want you to fuck me; I want you to come in me – which still makes me cringe, but
is always worth it because when you’re in one of these moods then hearing me talk that way is
guaranteed to drive you a bit wild.

Thinking about it is already making me hard and I’m starting to struggle with a serious urge to get
myself off without you until what feels like several years have passed and you finally appear in the
doorway. You spend a few moments standing there in silence, possibly looking at me or possibly
because you want an excuse to be dramatic (realistically, it could likely be either).

“Still rebelling I see?” you say at last. “You have completely ignored my request. Why am I not
surprised?”

I open my eyes to roll them at you, so you roll yours right back then prowl over to sit beside me on
the bed. I let out an inconvenienced noise at having to move, which makes you roll your eyes again
before leaning down to nuzzle my face with yours because you know it always make me laugh.

“An improvement,” you say as you pull away. “It’s true you wear your melancholy extremely well,
but I still like to see you smile on occasion.”

I suppose there’s no real reason for you to lie about this, yet somehow I still find it hard to believe.
Maybe it’s because the sentiment is so simple and wholesome – and therefore not at all the sort of
thing you’d normally say. “Do you?” I reply rather doubtfully. “Then maybe give me a few more
reasons to.”

For a few seconds you stare at me, briefly looking even more Sphinxy and poker-faced than usual,
then instead of answering just silently lower your head again to press your mouth over mine. The
kiss begins slowly at first with a gentle slide of tongues, but quickly grows more heated as you
thrust your fingers into my hair and tug as my hips begin grinding feverishly against yours. My
whole body seems to be quivering with sensation and I can hear my heart pounding madly in my
ears; it’s moments like this I feel I could literally get drunk on you.

“Oh fuck,” I mutter when we finally pull apart to breathe. I’m so hard by now it’s actively
uncomfortable; possibly this time the porn-speak begging won’t need to be rehearsed. “God.”

“No,” you say sardonically. “Just me.”

I let out a breathless laugh then screw my eyes closed in a way that suggests your levels of bullshit
have grown physically painful. “Oh do shut up,” I tell you. “You’re so…”

“So what?” you ask.

I give you a faint smirk then open my mouth to reply. Only I never get the opportunity to tell you
what you are, because before I can speak you’ve put your hands on my shoulders then flipped me
over face-first onto the pillow like someone tossing an egg. It’s the type of thing I’d normally start
bitching about, but right now I’m doing my best to act obedient and eager-to-please so accept it
without complaint (even though we both know this pliancy is total bullshit and my natural
stubbornness will inevitably kick in again sooner or later). The unexpectedness makes me gasp and
you quickly tug me towards you, lifting me up like I weigh nothing at all then hoisting me upright
onto all fours. A series of rustling noises soon follow; I assume this means you’re getting undressed
yourself, but when I try to turn round you put your hand on my neck to stop me.

“Very good,” you say when you’ve finished. “Didn’t I tell you that you could obey if you tried?
Now arch your back for me please. No, not like that – more of an angle.” I try to comply, but
arousal is making me clumsy and a few seconds later I feel your palm pressing down on my waist.
“There,” you say, pushing gently but firmly until my hips are raised while my face remains pressed
against the mattress. “Much better.” You run your finger across my spine as you’re speaking, very
careful and precise like you’re counting out the vertebra. “Are you going to calm down now?”

I know this is my cue to agree that I am, but the mood’s been broken now and I’m struggling to
find the right headspace to act passive. Not that it really matters. It’s obvious you know exactly
what you want, so it shouldn’t be too hard to just let you take charge and play along in the
meantime. As a compromise I mutter something indistinct into the sheet then settle down and wait
expectantly for something to happen. Only nothing does – and as the seconds stretch out I finally
realise that your plan is to prolong things for as long as possible, the more tormenting the better. I
suppose you can tell how desperate I am and keeping me on edge is your idea of punishment for
earlier.

“I can already tell I’ll need to keep an eye on Jack,” you say eventually. You’re still smoothing
your palm along my back, but the touch has changed now: less appreciative and more overtly
possessive, accompanied by a light scrape of fingernails. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ignore
your opinion on this matter, because it’s clear he wants you back again.” There’s a small pause as
the pressure of your nails grows harder. “He has no idea how fiercely I would fight to keep you.”

I make an impatient sound then twist my face round so I can speak without a mouthful of sheet.
“He doesn’t ‘want’ me,” I say sulkily. “Just drop it can’t you? Forget about Jack.”

By now you’ve begun to use your other hand to stroke along my thigh. The touch is so persistent: I
give a small sigh then let my legs fall wider apart, helpless to resist the gently probing fingers as
they slowly climb their way higher. “I should forget about Jack?” you finally add. “You’re the one
who’s grown fixated with him.”
“Hardly,” I snap.

This time you don’t answer at all. The silence feels ominous, so I open my mouth again to insist I
haven’t (even though I clearly have) only to have the words dissolve into a long moan as my legs
get knocked apart and your head dips down between them to spit straight onto my ass. You then
massage the rim with the pad of your thumb and as the muscle clenches with anticipation I give a
small, self-conscious gasp. It’s clear you’ve noticed too because you sigh approvingly before
increasing the pressure.

“Yes, you like that don’t you?,” you say softly. “You’re so eager. So attuned to me, Will – it’s
perfect. Do you remember the first time I touched you like this? How resistant you were? I had to
spend so long persuading your body to make itself ready for me. But look at you now.” As you’re
speaking you speed your hand up and then, with no warning at all, thrust in a finger and twist it
sharply to the side. It's intense but not painful and I give another choked-off moan, helplessly
aware of the way my cock is growing stiffer and wetter with each touch. “Beautiful,” you add with
obvious delight. “Look how excited you are. You’re already so receptive: I could take you right
now, couldn’t I? You wouldn’t need any other preparation: I’d just slide deep inside you with no
trouble at all. What do you think? Shall I try?”

As I nod rather frantically you give a series of teasing strokes, delicately probing and exploring
before moving your hand again to resume rubbing your thumb in light, feathery circles. “Or
perhaps not,” you add, slightly sadistically. “I’m not sure you’re ready. You’re still rather tight.
Just here…and here. Can you feel it too? Perhaps you need to wait a little longer.”

You work in a second finger to prove your point which makes me reflexively buck my hips then
push myself against your hand. “My love,” you say gently, beginning to stroke my back again. At
some point you’ve manoeuvred yourself to kneel between my legs, which makes it impossible for
me to close them even if I wanted to. “You look so sensuous, it’s perfect. You know, I think I
might like to photograph you this way sometime: a memento of the occasion to savour at a future
date. Perhaps I should even send the pictures to Jack. What do you think, Will? That would clear
up any lingering misconceptions he might still have about you.”

Of course, I know you never would do this (not, admittedly, because any sense of decency would
prevent you, but because you couldn’t stand anyone seeing me with so much as my shirt off, let
alone sprawled naked across the bed). Even so, the scenario is so grotesque and outlandish that I
can feel myself flushing in horror at the thought of it. It’s also increasingly clear that I’ve
misjudged the mood you’re in, despite not recognising whatever this current mood actually is. It
feels like you’ve moved on without me and I’m struggling to catch up, like walking into a film
halfway through and being uncertain of how to follow the script.

“Jesus,” I say faintly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Imagine his response,” you reply in an overly innocent way. “Seeing you so dishevelled and
disorientated, completely insensate with pleasure. For everyone to see you like that, and to know
that I was the one who’d done it to you. Which do you think you’d find the most humiliating? The
fact he’d have pictures of you with your legs spread open, desperate for me – of all people – to
make love to you? Or the evidence of how hopelessly aroused you were while I was doing it?”

“For God’s sake,” I manage to say. “You’re so warped.”

“Yes,” you reply calmly. “I dare say I am.” You give your fingers another twist, clearly enjoying
the way I’m groaning then biting my lip as my cock spasms helplessly against my stomach. “Who
knows, perhaps he’d even derive a certain satisfaction from seeing them? I always wondered if he
might have a secret yearning in your direction. Something very repressed and pathetic, unable to
find sensible expression.”

“You mean the way you did?” I snap. “Stop projecting.”

It’s not like this is the rudest thing I’ve told you today. It’s not even the rudest thing in the past
hour. But either way it’s one rude comment too far, and as soon as the words have left my mouth I
know I’ve blown it and there’s no way you’ll be letting me come anytime soon. As if to confirm
this you deliver a light slap to the side of my leg – sufficiently gentle not to hurt, but hard enough to
suggest annoyance – then slide your hand back upwards to stroke across my abdomen.

“Dearest Will,” you say. Your voice seems to have dropped a level; it’s so low and rumbling you
sound like you’re purring. “Someday you will have to learn to stop provoking me.”

Your palm feels so warm and firm and is trailing close enough to my cock (which you completely
ignore) to be outright tortuous: I give a stifled whine then finally admit defeat and hide my face in
my arm. You make an amused noise at the sight of it before shifting round yourself, presumably so
you can admire the spreading damp patch where my cock is leaking all over the sheets. “Look at
the mess you’re making,” you say approvingly. “You’re loving this aren’t you? Displaying yourself
to me. Flaunting your beauty. Showing how alluring and unique you are. You enjoy the fact I
desire you so much: you think it gives you power over me.”

It’s tempting to tell you that it does, only I’m afraid this might be the last straw and would make
you stop entirely. In fact it definitely would, and by now I’m so turned on there seems a genuine
chance I might be able to come simply from feeling you fuck me. Anyway, it’s not like I really
need to say it – we both know that it’s true.

“Not that I blame you,” you add in a gentler voice. “Beloved. Mano meilė. You’re powerful in
numerous ways, but all of them require such effort. It’s exhausting, isn’t it Will? Not like this. This
requires nothing more than simply lying back and looking beautiful, then watching while I debase
myself at your feet.”

This time I just moan again in a way which won’t confirm it one way or the other. Then I screw my
eyes closed and catch my breath, focussing all my energy on rocking against your hand as urgently
as possible. I know you’ll appreciate this. Regardless of the context, one thing that’s always
guaranteed to make you happy is when I drop any pretence at self-control and show how much I
want you. Your breath now promptly speeds up, so I arch my back to encourage you: writhing,
panting, then letting out an even deeper moan as you spread me open with both hands so you can
spit onto my ass even harder than before.

“Oh,” I say weakly. I feel like I might be blushing; there’s something humiliating about liking this
so much and I’m sure you’re always able to tell. “Oh my God. Oh fuck.”

“That’s expressive, mylimasis, but not especially articulate.” You’re scraping your teeth against my
leg now; I squirm uncomfortably, so you give the skin a tender lick of apology before promptly
scraping me again even harder. “What exactly do you want? Let me hear you say it.”

“What – ah – do you think I want?” My legs are so far apart by now, I can only imagine how
wanton and shameless it must look. It’s as if I’m exhibiting myself: like some sort of debauched,
compliant creature who only wants to spread themselves open for you then beg you for your cock.
“I want you to fuck me.”

“Do you?” you say softly. “Tell me how.”

I wonder how you’d react if I said I don’t know? To be honest I’m not sure that I do…I’m so
frantic by now that my mind’s gone blank. In the end I can’t think of anything more inspiring than:
“Hard.”

You don’t seem very impressed by this – to be fair, I can’t say I blame you – so just carry on sitting
there while I lie underneath you and quiver with frustration. It’s obvious you’re enjoying it; you’re
such a sadist sometimes, it’s like you can’t help yourself. Eventually I mutter something mangled
(which is supposed to be ‘please’ but sounds more like I’m having a heart attack) and you finally
take enough pity on me to begin kissing your way up my thigh, lapping up the trail of saliva you’ve
left as you go. I promptly repeat the heart attack noise. I know you’re going to eat me out, yet
being prepared for it does nothing to stop me losing control when I feel the first flick of your
tongue as it starts to lick me open.

“Oh fuck,” I manage to say. Your tongue promptly swirls even harder, lapping and sucking with
messy open-mouthed kisses like I’m something delectable you can’t get enough of. “Fuck…
Hannibal, please. I can’t…”

Briefly I think I can feel you smiling against my skin. “What can’t you do, mano meilė?”

“I can’t come like that.” It’s so intense my eyes have started to widen; I need to pause for a second
to gulp in a desperate gasp of air. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Patience,” you reply in the same soft voice. “I’ll do it soon. Just let me enjoy you like this for a
little longer.”

I’m breathing so fast by now it’s like I’m hyperventilating, my ribcage pulsing with a rhythm of its
own as my entire body grows damp and slick with a thin gloss of sweat. My cock is fucking
aching, but while the sensation isn’t enough to get me there it also feels like too much: the warmth
and slippery wetness, the fleshy slide of your tongue, or the way you’re forcing my legs apart to
bury your face even deeper, sucking lavishly at the rim then using a teasing fingertip to coax it into
loosening up for you. I gasp out your name and for a few seconds you pull back to look at me,
spreading me open again with both hands then murmuring something rapturous to yourself in
Italian. ‘Please…’ I try to say – but once more the words get swallowed in a breathy moan as your
head drops back down, using your thumb and finger to prise me open before your tongue plunges
deep between the gap you’ve made.

My entire spine snaps back, every muscle quivering and tightening as I practically vibrate my way
off the bed. “Fuck,” I gasp out. “That’s…oh my God. Oh God. Oh fuck. Fuck.” You trail a finger
down my cock in response and it’s like I feel the tremor of it running through my entire body,
complementing the wet thrust of your tongue as it slides in and out of my ass. When I’m starting to
get too overwhelmed you finally pause, although I’m only allowed a few seconds respite before the
stimulation starts all over again: this time by replacing your tongue with two long fingers, already
slippery with saliva and pre-come, which push in until they’re knuckle-deep and can brush against
my prostate. Without any lube the stretch is just short of being painful and I cry out immediately as
my whole body goes rigid.

“Oh yes,” I mutter under my breath. “Fuck, I like that. Hannibal…I really like it. It’s so good.”

“How good?”

“Oh fuck, just…please don’t stop.” It’s like being impaled while still feeling insanely pleasurable,
making me writhe around on your fingers as if I’m riding them.

“That’s it,” you say as I start to pick up a rhythm. “Good boy, that’s beautiful.” You lean further
forward then press your face against the small of my back. “You are not to shower after this,” you
say, your tone soft yet vaguely threatening. “I want my scent all over you: I want you to smell
exactly like me.”

For a few seconds you let your hand go still, then wait until I’m on the verge of begging before
starting to move it again; slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed until I’m gasping at the
relentlessness of the pace and wildly bucking my hips as I fuck myself on your fingers. “That’s it,
isn’t it?” you add as I make a desperate moaning noise. “Mylimasis. Is that the place you like?
Right…there?”

By now you’ve draped yourself across my back, leaving me pinned by your weight and helpless to
do anything except stay where I am and take it. I can feel your mouth pressing onto me, breath
scalding hot against my throat, and as another finger works its way in I give a sharp cry then fling
my head against your shoulder. You make a soothing sound as you twist them together, stroking
and rubbing while your thumb massages around the taut, tender skin where you’re scissoring me
open.

“Pay attention, my love,” you say, straight into my ear. “I asked you a question.”

I give a low moan then let my head tip further back. My cock is really throbbing now and when
you kiss my throat I make an involuntary whining sound, helpless and faintly humiliated as I feel it
spasm with an obvious trickle of pre-come. You hum with approval then wait a few more seconds
before reaching up to give my hair a small tug. “I asked you a question, Will.”

For a few manic seconds I wonder what you’d do if I turned round and requested you to kindly
fuck off. “Yes,” I manage to gasp. “Yes. You know it is.”

“Yes, I know…but I still like to hear you tell me.”

You pull your hand away as you’re speaking, waiting a few tormenting seconds before slamming
back in as my hips give another jerk in an urgent, useless attempt to get some friction. My breath
seems to be ripping out of me as I thrust against the long slide of your fingers, screwing my hands
into the bedclothes then groaning even louder as my cock twitches violently like I’m about to
come. Oh God, I really need it now. The urge for release is so intense it almost hurts, ratcheting
higher every time your fingertips stroke across my prostate. I’m letting out the sort of noises I’ve
never made with anyone except you: very urgent and deep-pitched, interspersed with breathy little
moans and cries. It’s making me self-conscious, but when I bite my lip to stifle them you reach out
to give my hair another tug.

“No,” you say. “I want to hear you. I want all of you; don’t you understand that by now? I want to
see you, feel you, taste you. Are you going to you let me do that?” You lean down then slowly lick
up a trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades. “How long do you think you could last like
this?” you add softly. “Could you climax this way? Would you like us to try?”

I take advantage of the pause to draw a few hitching breaths, still twitching and shuddering from
the intensity of it. Then I shake my head, partly because it’s true but also because I know it’s what
you’ll want to hear. “No,” I say. “I need more than that. I need…I need you.”

“Good boy,” you reply in the same low voice. You pause yourself; supposedly to listen to me
panting, but really so you can draw a few deep breaths of your own. It’s a trick you often use, and
in this case is clearly because you’re so turned on from eating me out that you need a cooling-off
period to make sure you don’t end up coming too quickly. The way you do it would be too subtle
for most people to notice, but I always spot it immediately and it provides a satisfying flare of
triumph that, despite the impassive exterior, you’re not quite in control as you seem.
“So…” you say finally. You give another audible sigh then press a kiss on the side of my throat.
“To return to my original query: how hard?”

In theory this is extremely tame compared to the type of domination play you’re capable of, but in
practice the frustrated discomfort is almost unbearable. “Oh my fucking God,” I say. “Can’t you
just…”

You deliver a light slap against my thigh. “How hard, exactly?”

“As much as you want.” My own breath is really hitching by now; it makes me sound slightly
feral. “As much as I can take.”

You repeat the same sighing sound then take hold of my cock so you can smear the pre-come
around the head with your thumb. You’re leaning over me again now, your weight bearing down
like a vice as I feel the thick hard line of your erection jabbing into my back. “That’s not very
specific, is it beloved? You’re always able to take whatever I give you.”

While this exchange is clearly designed towards me begging you it seems you might have
overdone it this time, because coherent speech has gone completely beyond me. There’s no way
I’ll be summoning Pornhub-inspired declarations anytime soon. “I want you,” I’m finally able to
say – which admittedly isn’t very imaginative but at least is sincere. Normally I’d describe a lot
more than this, but the strain of seeing Jack has got to me and I’m past the point of being able to
manage it. As a last resort I try to work a deliberately quivery tone into my voice, relying on how
even a hint of me being distressed will usually make you back down. I’m not certain how
successful I’ll be, but fortunately it seems that this time it’ll be enough for you because you
promptly tug my head back to kiss me – very hungry and rough with your tongue stabbing into my
mouth – before reaching towards the nightstand for some lube. I give a small sigh of relief then
slump back onto the mattress and bury my face in my arm.

“Come here,” I hear you say.

I turn around, squinting blearily to see where I’m meant to go, and find that you’re arranging
yourself against the headboard with your legs stretched out, in what (not to put too fine a point on
it) is a clear invitation for me to sit on your cock and ride you. You give a distinctly sultry smile
when you see me looking at you, but while I don’t need asking a second time I’m already getting
the usual pangs of self-consciousness at how my enthusiasm is going to outweigh my technique.
It’s hardly the first time we’ve done this, but the penetration’s so deep that I often struggle with this
position and it’s hard to ignore the hovering sense of performance anxiety. Oh well, fuck it – it’s
not like you’re going to care. Rather cautiously I now take hold of your cock in my hand, teeth
slightly gritted as I prepare to lower myself onto it. The stretch is dauntingly large, and I’m clearly
tenser than I realised because for a few moments it seems like the tight clench of muscle isn’t
going to loosen up enough to take you. I make a frustrated noise, so you wrap your hands around
my waist to help me: murmuring words of praise and encouragement until the resistance finally
gives way and I’m tipping my head back and moaning as I feel the thick, blunt head start to force
its way in. I wait a few seconds to adapt to the stretch then catch my lip between my teeth, slowly
sinking down inch-by-inch until I’m finally sitting on your lap and your full length is buried inside
me.

“Oh God,” I say helplessly. I’m soaked with sweat by now, my muscles aching and raw from what
feels like hours of clenching. “Fuck…Hannibal. It’s so deep.”

My voice sounds embarrassingly wrecked, but it’s hard to manage anything better when the
sensation is this intense. ‘Fuck’ I keep saying, ‘Oh fuck…fuck’ (because my language abilities have
clearly collapsed now along with everything else). My thighs are throbbing with the strain of it but
as I begin to move my hips I manage to hit the perfect angle for you to rub right up against my
prostate. The initial sting made me lose my own erection but this immediately gets me hard again,
leaving me quivering then gasping as my cock jerks with a flood of pre-come. Some of it drips
down onto you so you quickly scoop it up with your fingers, tugging me backwards until I’m close
enough for you to press them against my lips.

“Open your mouth, my love,” you say.

I obey immediately, licking your fingers clean then giving another soft whine at the sense of being
able to taste myself. The sparks of pleasure have grown so intense it’s disguising any lingering
discomfort, helping me to roll my hips then plunge down harder and faster as I try to find my
rhythm. Beneath me I can hear the catch of your breath; can feel how tightly wound your muscles
are as you fight to stay in control.

“Look at you,” you say, and you sound almost as wrecked as I do. “Look at this beautiful body.”

This makes me smile slightly, because in this instance ‘body’ is such an obvious euphemism for
‘ass’. You’ll never speak about me in such a vulgar way, but verbal delicacy doesn’t change the
fact that watching my ‘body’ slide up and down your cock is guaranteed to drive you out of your
mind. It’s why you’ve made me sit with my back to you: you want the best possible view. I moan
loudly at the thought of it, rocking myself downwards just as you pivot upwards to give it to me in
a series of rhythmic powerful thrusts that I can really feel. It’s like I’m being speared, the pleasure
so enflamed it’s close to flirting with pain. Your hands are gliding across my back, a show of
calmness and comfort to let me know you understand I’m struggling and are grateful I’m persisting
through it. Even so, you must know that it’s not just for you. A part of me loves this – loves the
crudeness and indecency of being fucked so thoroughly as my body gets pushed to its limit.

Behind me your thumb’s now massaging the slippery ring of muscle that’s stretched so tightly
round your cock and it feels incredible: my head snaps backwards as my spine sways forward,
using all my leverage to take what you’re giving me as hard and deep as possible. By this point I’m
almost desperate to relieve the pressure and make myself come; I’m not sure I’ve ever been this
hard in my life. Blindly I reach out to take hold of my cock, but before I can even get near it you
dart out your hand to stop me. You actually make a growling sound as you do it (I promptly growl
back even louder) before rearing yourself off the bed so you can twist my wrists together. Your
hand’s so big you can grip them both at the same time, which means I’m now trapped in place and
can’t even grind my hips against the mattress and get myself off that way. Your other hand is
running up and down my thigh, although from the tender way you do it I can tell you’re pleased
with my reaction.

“What the hell?” I manage to splutter out. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” you reply. I repeat a version of the growling noise then for a few
seconds completely lose control and start wrenching my arms in a frantic attempt to free myself.
“Stop that,” you say. “Otherwise I’ll have to tie you to the bed.” You reach up with your other hand
to give the back of my neck a light squeeze. “Perhaps I should do it anyway. Would you like that,
Will? I might like it myself – to have you spread out for me, vulnerable and helpless.”

“Don’t you dare,” I snap, but this time there’s no reply. Instead you wait a few moments until
you’re satisfied I’m not going to fight you off before letting go of my hands and laying back down.
I pretend I’m going to play along, but as soon as you’re out of touching distance I promptly dive
round again to jerk myself off – at which point you lose patience entirely and just hook both arms
around my shoulders to flip me off you and onto the bed. I make a groan of protest. My skin’s so
sensitive that even the pressure of the sheet feels too much, plus the sense of you pulling out my
body feels wrong…a kind of empty, restless craving to be filled up again.

For a few seconds you look at me, still radiating control and with the same inscrutable expression
on your face, before leaning forward to brush your lips along the edge of my jaw. “Not yet,” you
say softly. “Remember what we agreed? Today your job is to make me happy.”

My voice is hoarse from all the panting; I clear my throat a few times then roll my eyes at you from
beneath a tangle of hair. “Actually,” I say, “you looked pretty happy to me.”

“Perhaps.” You’re cupping my face now: your fingers, ghosting along my cheekbones, feel
strangely delicate despite the firmness of the touch. “But you have already agreed to my proposal;
it’s a little late now to change the conditions. And what makes me especially happy is when you
give up control of your own pleasure and allow me to have it instead.”

I roughly jerk my face free which makes you smile in a rather feline way, rather like you’re
fascinated by my attempt to resist you. “You know, your flashes of anger are immensely
charming,” you say. “Perhaps I should allow you to simmer for a while simply to relish the
spectacle of it.”

I repeat the growling noise and you give me a rather wolfish smile then lower you head to kiss me
– tenderly, sincerely and on and on and on – before grabbing my hips to yank me upright onto my
knees. I see it coming and attempt to roll away, only you move too quickly for me to properly react,
darting out unnaturally fast like a snake or mantis. Your grip isn’t particularly tight, but while
you’re giving me the leverage to struggle I know I don’t really want to.

You now stare at me with an unreadable expression for what feels like several minutes before you
abruptly come back to life again and lean down to rub your face against mine – cheekbones,
jawline, the bridge of my nose – the press a final kiss to my forehead. “Good,” you say. “Are you
ready?”

“Of course,” I reply, and my voice sounds so raw and urgent. “I want this…I want you. I want to
feel you come in me.”

By now I’m trembling so much it’s a struggle to stay upright so you end up having to wrap a hand
around my throat to keep me still while the other curls across my hip. “That’s it,” you say tenderly.
“I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.” As you’re speaking you take hold of your cock and begin to rub
the soaking wet head against my hole, very slow and persistent. “Is this what you want? To have
me inside you?”

I give a small hiss of impatience. “You know I do.”

“Deep inside you,” you repeat, like I haven’t even spoken. “It would mean you don’t entirely
belong to yourself anymore; just for those few moments, you’ll belong to me instead. After all,
what does it really mean to be inside someone?” There’s another pause, followed by a sting of your
teeth against my throat. “Would you like me in your mind as well as your body?”

“Yes. I don’t care.”

"Don't you?" you say. "You're so vulnerable right now, my love. Letting me handle you like this: it
shows a level of trustfulness towards me that, objectively speaking, is extremely ill-advised.
Human bodies and human minds…they’re so delicate, Will. So apt to rend and tear. There’s a
certain grace to it: how swiftly, simply, and beautifully they can be breached and broken apart. You
understand that as well as I do, but you still say you don’t care. That you’re not afraid.” You pause
again then bury your face in the curve of my neck, inhaling deeply as if trying to breathe me in.
“Does that disturb you?”

“No.”

You murmur a snatch of something rapturous in a foreign language then roughly tug my head back
by the hair until my throat is exposed; for a few seconds I can feel the sharp edge of your
cheekbone pressing against my own. “No? But you’re trembling beloved – why is that?”

“Oh God, why do you think?”

“Because you’re overwhelmed,” you say calmly. “Which is exactly what I intended you to be. It’s
all about your mind, Will; even though it’s protesting so fiercely. You’re so astute and ingenious –
so endlessly clever – yet your intellect’s abandoning you isn’t it? Instinct is taking over. All your
autonomy and self-determination…they’re of no possible use to you now. And such a burden to
you most of the time; you may as well give them to me. You know you can trust me as a suitable
custodian. Then you won’t have to do anything at all. All-you’ll-have-to-do-is-let-go. You belong
to me now, Will. Me, not Jack. Don’t ever forget that.”

As you’re speaking you’re pushing your cock against me, forcing forward until the tight ring of
muscle gives way and you’re sinking your entire length inside me with a single hard thrust. I cry
out with a noise I don’t think I’ve ever made before – something deep and visceral, almost animal-
like in its intensity – as you seize my waist to drag my body back onto your cock as hard as
humanly possible. Your muscles seem to be pulsing with the force of each thrust, but I’ve already
been taken so thoroughly that I’m stretched wide open and it makes the movement incredibly
smooth. My breath hitches into a ragged series of gasps, chest heaving unnaturally fast as I twist
my face around and contort into increasingly painful angles to search out your mouth. I want to tell
you I love you but somehow the words feel totally inadequate for what I’m feeling. It’s almost
easier to trade in symbolism instead – emblems and images, what I’d do: I'd wait for you. I'd fight
for you. I'd feel pain for you. I’d kill for you.

“Oh God,” I gasp out. “Yes. Yes, like that. Come on – harder. I want this, I want you to fuck me.”

You’re clinging to me so tightly I can barely move but it hardly matters anymore because you’re
doing all the work for both of us. Instead I just listen to the noises I’m making, breathy, broken and
desperate as I urge you to fuck me even harder (please, please please). You mutter my name under
your breath then pull out nearly all the way: nudging my hair aside to kiss my neck then waiting a
few moments before slamming back in with so much force I’m almost jolted against the wall and
need to grip onto you to stay upright. I don’t care though: you know my body so well you can
always gauge the perfect angle to thrust against my prostate and the sensation is phenomenal, like
lights sparking in my head each time you move. It’s makes me want to stop you from coming so
we could make it last all evening…not that I’ve sure how long it has lasted, because time has lost
all normal meaning. It could be seconds or minutes, or even hours. Then I rock back against you as
much as I can, my own hips working harder and faster as I do my best to counter each push of
yours. I’m really going to ache with this tomorrow, but I don’t care about that either. I just keep
chanting your name and telling you I love you, not only from how good it feels but because you’ve
totally lost control of yourself and seeing you like that drives me out of my mind. There’s
something almost primal in it: the destructive, predatory part of you which answers, then
acknowledges, the echoing strain in me.

Above me you make a growling noise in your throat, tangling your fingers into my hair so you can
jerk my face back. I immediately brace myself for a sting of teeth, aware of how you almost always
bite me when you’re feeling this possessive. Only this time it doesn’t happen as you snap forward
instead with another rough thrust, pushing me onto my knees so you can drape your body across
my back. Your breath against my throat is so hot it’s like a brand and I can feel your arms on either
side of my face, the muscles tense and quilted with barely repressed anger. From this angle I can’t
see your expression, but I know if I could then it would be completely feral. There’d be a glimpse
of the inhuman terrifying side of you, pulsing behind your eyes like a heartbeat in streaks of
crimson and black. Utterly ferocious and uncontrolled, the same as a pledge of love.

“He can’t have you,” you say. You tone is low enough to resemble a hiss and confirms that the
laidback response from earlier was hiding a far deeper layer of fury than I fully gave you credit for.
“Never again. You. Are. Mine. Not Jack’s. You belong to me. Do you understand Will? If he
comes near you a second time I will eat him alive. I will kill him.”

You’re so absorbed in your outrage it’s like you’ve forgotten you planned to kill him anyway. In
another situation the incongruence would feel bizarre, but I’m too delirious by now to respond with
anything more meaningful than a groaning sound. I’m getting so tight that it makes you feel huge
inside me, almost too much to take. Oh God, it might be enough to make me come; just a few more
seconds and it really might be enough. Just from the feeling of your cock in my ass…how is that
even possible? From the way your hips are stuttering I can tell you’re also getting close, but even
though I haven’t come myself I’m more concerned now with making sure you do. I want to watch
you; I want to see it happen. To help you out I arch my back a bit more, thrusting against you with
a force that’s almost brutal with how intense it is. Your response is to scrape your teeth across my
neck, roughly dragging them downwards until finally settling in the curve of my shoulder. It
doesn’t hurt, yet your posture is fierce enough to provoke a shocking image of how your jaws
could snap down to rip out a chunk of flesh and muscle – perhaps even eating it – as for a few
frenzied moments it requires every shred of self-restraint not to give into instinct and aggressively
fight you off. As if sensing my tension, you eventually seem to gain control of yourself and close
your mouth before you’ve had a chance to so much as graze the skin. My hands are scrabbling
against the bedclothes, desperate for something to hold on to, so you finally cover them with your
own then lock our fingers together.

“You know I’m yours,” I manage to pant out. I twist round far enough to kiss you, pulling your
lower lip into my mouth then briefly gripping it between my teeth. Speaking is such an effort now
but after a few more shaky breaths I’m able to add: “And if he does then I’ll help you kill him
myself.”

Deep down I know I don’t really mean it. It’s just another type of performance – like the stagey,
exaggerated way of begging you to fuck me – but right now it’s what you want to hear so I’ll still
tell you anyway. And it works even better than expected, because as soon as I’ve said it your
rhythm breaks and you give a loud gasp, quickly followed with the hot familiar flood of you
pumping me full of your come. I gasp myself then buck up against you, determined to make it last
for as long as I can. Oh God it’s good. It feels so good…how is that possible? No one has ever
made my body respond the way that you can. Not even close.

You always stay hard for a while after you’ve come, so even once you’ve stopped moving I carry
on rocking myself against your cock until the first sharp stabs of pleasure start to build in my
stomach. I’m trying to tell you about it, but the words are getting mixed up: I think I might…I’m
going to…Oh God, I’m nearly. You lean in like you’re about to kiss me, then seem to change your
mind and stroke my lower lip instead to encourage me to open my mouth. I obey immediately,
sucking your fingers then grazing them with my teeth while you tenderly nuzzle my hair from
behind. You’re working your own hips now to help me to ride you and it feels so good I almost
don’t want it to end. Yes, I keep chanting, like that, yes, yes. I can feel it starting as a series of deep
contractions around your cock, but even though I haven’t touched my own there’s no doubt it’s
going to be enough. For a few seconds I’m genuinely afraid I might breakdown from the intensity
of it and need to bite my lip in an effort to stay in control.
“Oh fuck,” I say; I sound completely shocked, like I can’t quite believe it. “I’m…oh fuck, I’m
going to come. Hannibal. Oh God, I’m coming, I’m coming…”

I let my head fall back on your shoulder, aware of how we seem to be breathing in unison –
breathing for one another – as your chest covers my back in weight and warmth and I’m giving a
frantic jolt then crying out as thick ropes of come begin spattering against the sheets. I’m gasping
so loudly it nearly drowns out everything else, but I’m still vaguely aware of you murmuring words
like ‘perfect’ and ‘beautiful’ as you cover my face and hair with kisses. This is excessive, but also
predictable, because coming untouched around your cock is always guaranteed to send you into
extravagant raptures of praise. Every single goddamn time – it’s actually pretty ridiculous. Anyone
hearing you would think I’d solved the Enigma Code.

After a while I manage to stop wailing before all my muscles seem to crumple at the same time and
I slump down onto the bed with a series of scratchy, laboured breaths. My body’s absurdly over-
sensitive now, almost like a layer of skin’s been removed, and I’m slick and wet and fucked wide
open in a way that should possibly feel degrading and yet…doesn’t. You take a few deep breaths
yourself then give my neck a farewell kiss before bending down to lick up the stray trickles of
semen on my thigh. The sensation is surprisingly arousing, but instead of pulling away you just
keep on going; further and further upwards until I quiver and give another moan as I realise you’re
letting it drip out your mouth so you can use your fingers to push it back inside me.

“Well, it would appear I gave you what you asked for,” you say languidly when you’ve finished.
You make a satisfied sound then lean down again to press a kiss against the small of my back.
“You should thank me.”

“Thank you Dr Lecter,” I reply in an overly serious voice. “Grazie.” If I had the energy I’d
probably start laughing. Only you can talk about your come as if it’s goddamn Holy Water,
generously bestowed on mere mortals by divine decree. It’s as if anything from your own body is
automatically sacred; possibly I should just politely excuse myself and leave you and the damp
patch alone together.

“I ought to have brought one of your plugs,” you add smugly. “That was rather remiss of me. You
could have kept it inside you even longer.”

I swivel round and give you A Look. “Yes, it’s terribly disappointing,” I say solemnly.
“Devastating, in fact. I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to cope.”

You begin to smile, then notice that I’m about to move and dart out your hand to stop me. “No,
stay as you are,” you say – which is a huge giveaway that you want to watch the rest leaking out.
You absolutely love doing this; it almost borders on a fetish. Once you even got me to hold onto a
shelf with my arms above my head, squirming with self-consciousness the entire time as it dripped
onto the carpet before being asked to get on my knees to lick it up. You’ve been desperate ever
since for me to do the same thing again, but I keep saying no. Not because I didn’t enjoy it though,
but because I enjoyed it a bit too much – and the awareness of that feels vaguely humiliating.

I now decide to give you a few more minutes for you and your bodily fluids to spend a bit of Smug
Time together before rolling onto my back so I can pull you on top of me. Your weight feels very
comforting somehow. Considering you’re the most dangerous person I’ve ever met this is highly
ironic, yet there’s no doubt your presence makes me feel safe. It’s as if nothing exists but you in
those moments, and you’re the only thing that I need. Silently I run both palms across your chest,
noting the softness of your skin above the hard ridge of muscle or the way I can feel your heartbeat
beneath my fingertips which seems to pulse in time with my own. You smile down at me in an
unusually tender way then press your lips against my forehead: very light, feathery touches, of the
kind which always make me smile then catch my breath. As you see me do it your own smile
broadens before you lower your head again to stroke your tongue across one of the grazes your
teeth have made.

“Are you all right?” Your tone is so soft; I can almost feel your breath ruffling my hair. “Did I hurt
you?”

“Yes,” I say. “Actually, you did. But it’s fine.” A line, faint as gossamer, promptly appears between
your eyebrows and I reach up to smooth it away before trailing my finger down your cheek.
“Honestly, it’s fine,” I add. “If I didn’t like it I’d have made you to stop. Anyway, I assume you
feel better yourself?” You raise your eyebrows and I smirk a bit then tap the edge of your nose with
my finger. I’m being playful now; something I often fall back on to avoid for difficult feelings. “I
hope you’ve got that tantrum out of your system.”

“Tantrum?”

“Yes – tantrum. It means an uncontrolled outburst.” I lean further over then nudge our foreheads
together. “Typical, I might add, of small annoying children.”

“I am perfectly aware of what it means.” You give me a rather pointed look. “As it happens, I
could ask you the same thing.”

“I know,” I say. “And yes, I do. I needed that.” It’s worked, too: the stress of the day seems to be
dissolving, melting into a drowsy sense of relaxation that’s left my limbs feeling molten and my
eyes drifting shut.

You dip your head in agreement then wait a few seconds before adding, in a rare moment of
honesty, “I think we both did.”

After that you don’t say anything else and neither do I. Instead we just lie there, gazing fixedly into
each other’s eyes while you stroke my hair (and I wonder how much of that the neighbours must
have heard) before you finally reach up to take hold of my face with both hands. It feels different to
the affectionate, casual way you usually touch me – as if I’m something rare and fragile that rough
handling would cause to break – but in that moment it doesn’t seem embarrassing or awkward. It
just feels…natural. It feels right. In return I gently kiss the side of your wrist, thoughtful and
careful with a tenderness that’s also untypical. We’re pressed together so closely, I feel like I’m
aware of each point of contact from my body to yours. Each place our skin is touching; the tiny
flickers of emotion every time we move.

“Mylimasis,” you say eventually. “Beloved. You were right all along.”

“About what?”

“Jack.” You practically spit out his name, like its taste in your mouth offends you. “His presence
here alters the stakes considerably.”

“I know,” I say wearily. “I know it does.” It occurs to me that you haven’t asked if I meant what I
said about killing him, although this isn’t especially surprising. You already know I didn’t: you’re
not going to waste your time. Besides, as far as you’re concerned, convincing me to hurt Jack isn’t
a problem to be overcome but an interesting challenge to be savoured. It’s something into which
you can pour your considerable resources as you persuade me to change my mind – preferably
before I’ve fully realised you’re doing it.

There’s another long pause; it’s so quiet I feel as if I could count your breaths. “I failed to
anticipate my own reaction,” you finally add. “I did not expect to feel such intense resentment at
having him near you.”

It’s rare for you to admit any kind of miscalculation, regardless how minor, and the confession of
this one stirs immediately something in me because I know that I’m at least partly the cause. It’s
clear that seeing Jack has re-activated your existing doubts about my commitment, and it’s a
response that almost certainly wouldn’t have happened if I’d agreed to get married when you first
asked. There’s something rather painful and ironic at how we both see him as a threat for
completely opposite reasons: me because I’m afraid he could take you away from me, and you
because you think he could lure me back to America.

“Hey,” I say quietly. I reach up then take hold of your hand in mine, slowly stroking my thumb
across your knuckles. “You know I’m not going anywhere. You know that.”

You’ve closed your eyes again but as soon as I say this you snap them back open. “You mean like
you know that I’m not about to be apprehended?” you say sharply. “Are we to take so much on
faith Will?”

“That’s not…”

“You seem to have far lower standards for your own conviction than for mine.”

“It’s not the same.” I’m trying to sound firm, but having my own argument flung back in my face
has thrown me off course (no doubt exactly as intended). “You can’t fully control whether or not
you get caught. You can’t,” I add as I see you opening your mouth to object. “But staying together
is a conscious decision. No one can change it but me.”

This time you don’t even bother to reply, instead just staring back at me in the same silent way as
before. That’s exactly my point, the stare seems to be saying. You might change your mind and
betray me…just like you did the last time. The unspoken reproach is obvious and it hits me a with a
sudden surge of helplessness that I don’t know what to say to convince you – or, more to the point,
myself – that this time I really mean it.

“It is what it is,” I finally reply. “We both knew this was never going to be easy. We’re just going
to have to try and trust each other.”

As soon as I’ve said it I’m aware that this really isn’t good enough. It isn’t anywhere near good
enough, I know that it’s not: such a simple, inadequate response to such a frighteningly complex
question. But if nothing else it at least has the benefit of being true, because we have to place our
trust in ourselves. What else can we possibly do? We need to do what we’ve always done. And the
reason for that is because of another thing that’s also true: something which hasn’t changed since
the day I first realised it all those years ago. Which is that you, for all your boldness and brilliance,
are just as alone as I am – and that we’re both alone without each other.
 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The next day is unusually gloomy and overcast with a bitter welter of wind and a tattered sickly-
looking sky that’s pock-marked in clouds the same livid grey as a bruise. It’s hardly the type of
weather to inspire much optimism, and after a half-hearted attempt to make some coffee I take one
look at it then crawl back in bed before curling into a determined ball and refusing to get out again.

“You’ll have to remove yourself at some point,” you say when you see me. “Or do you intend to
stay there all day?”

This request is delivered to the top of my head, which is the only part of me currently visible. A
few seconds later my hand joins it over the top of the covers and makes an irritable shooing gesture
in your direction. “I suppose that means I’m being dismissed?” you ask. I growl something
indecipherable and you reach out to give my hair a light tug. “How incredibly rude you are.”

I finally emerge from my dark hiding place (blinking like a cave dweller) and scrub my fingers
across my face before scowling rather ferociously at you over the top of them. “What a look you’re
giving me,” you add with obvious amusement. “It would quell a lump of granite.”

“I’m tired. Go away.”

“Go where?”

I wave my hand at you in a repeat of the shooing gesture, at which point you catch hold of it then
stroke your finger across the knuckles. “Anywhere but here,” I say. “Use your imagination; I’m
sure you’ll think of something.”

“So I’m being thrown out of my own bedroom?”

“Since when was it your bedroom?”

“Since you technically declared the top floor to be yours.”

“So what?” I reply in my best Smug Bastard voice. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“Then you are throwing me out?”

“Looks that way.”

“That’s nice for me,” you say drily. “Not one of my finest moments either, I’ll admit. I suppose I
shouldn’t really worry about Jack trying to make off with you, should I? You are such an unearthly
horror he’d just bring you straight back again.”

“Yes,” I say with gloomy satisfaction. “I suppose I am a bit of a horror.”

“Indeed you are,” you reply with mock-seriousness. “But you are also my horror, so it doesn’t
really matter.”

I pull the cover down far enough to roll my eyes at you. “That was terrible. Sentimental much?
You should count yourself lucky I don’t turn round and vomit over you.”
“Agreed,” you say serenely. “It was abominable. It’s as I’ve told you before: there’s something
about the sight of you sleeping in my bed – or, indeed, our bed – that brings out my most
embarrassingly mawkish instincts. You should not be so severe on me. If anything, I deserve the
utmost pity.”

I huff out a laugh and then give my face a final rub before struggling out of bed so I can grope
around to locate yesterday’s shirt. You watch my progress with a faint smile, so I smile back then
sit down and stare at my hands for a few seconds, consumed with a sudden urge for contact but
unsure of the best way to ask for it. If I’m honest I feel like climbing onto your lap would be the
most preferable thing, only I can’t quite bring myself to do something so mortifying and eventually
settle for kneeling behind you instead so I can massage your shoulders. You lean into the touch
immediately so I resettle myself until my legs are bracketing you on either side and you can rest
against my chest. It’s rather endearing and reminds me how, even now, I’ll still catch myself
feeling surprised at how well you respond to being touched with gentleness. I’d always expected
you to grow impatient or irritated by it and demand to be handled more roughly, but you really
don’t. If anything, it’s the opposite; just one of several wrong assumptions I’ve made about you
over the years.

“So how are you feeling?” I eventually ask. “Your muscles seem tense. Much more than usual.”

“You sound surprised.”

I shrug, despite the fact you can’t see me, then tug your collar down to give me better access to
your shoulders. “I guess I am,” I say. “It’s hard to imagine you being on edge. You always seem…I
don’t know. So calm. Like nothing ever fazes you.”

“And yet you spending so much time with Jack was extremely tense,” you reply, elegantly flexing
your neck. “See how deceiving appearances can be?”

I go still for a few seconds then give you a nudge with my forehead. “Don’t say that. It makes it
sound like you don’t trust me.”

“It is not a matter of trusting you.”

“Then what is it?”

“It is simply an observation. I disliked Jack having an opportunity to be alone with you.”

“Yes…I know,” I say. “But it was better that way.” And then, because this is such an obvious set-
up to be contradicted: “At least, it was better from my point of view.” This time you don’t reply at
all, instead just leaning backwards until your head is resting against my shoulder. It’s such a small
gesture, yet somehow feels extremely pensive – and therefore extremely out of character. “Hey,” I
say gently. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing at all,” you reply without opening your eyes. “I’m just happy that you’re here.”

I briefly go quiet myself, surprised how moved I am by this simple declaration, then lean down to
press my lips against your forehead. “Same,” I say. Your normally sombre face promptly arranges
itself into a smile and I smile too then run both palms along your shoulders and down your arms.
“Look at you,” I say fondly. “You’ve gone all floppy.”

“It’s because I feel content. Like a cat.”

“Actually, it reminds me of that time you got tasered.”

You make an amused sound then open your eyes. “At least we don’t need to worry about my
excess sentimentality,” you say. “You can always be relied upon to inject a bit of realism.”

I smile again, then gently push you back upright so I can resume massaging your shoulders.
“Speaking of realism,” I add. “Here’s some more for you: I’ve just realised our rent’s due.”

“I know it is. I’ll take it myself this afternoon.”

“No, you stay here – I’ll take it.”

“You will not,” you say firmly. “Matteo has now joined the dubious company of Jack: I’m not at
all happy with how he interacts with you.”

“Tough,” I say, deliberately squeezing your shoulder to emphasise the point. “Because I’m not
happy with the way he talks about you. Anyway, you’re over-reacting. He’s never been
inappropriate with me.”

“The way he looks at you is inappropriate.”

“What does that even mean? He looks at you the same way. Plus he’s always asking about you.
Every time I’ve been it’s the same: How is your friend today? What is he doing?” I pause in
pummelling your shoulders then give your hair a light tug. “He seems to like you a lot more than
he does me.”

“Oh? Are we rivals then?”

“Seems that way. Do you want to fight me for him?”

“It’s an extremely tempting offer,” you say. “But no. You can have him all to yourself – as long as
it’s from a distance. However, that doesn’t alter my determination to pay the rent on my own.”

“Yes, but…”

“If anything I am doing you a favour,” you add smugly. “He can lecture me instead of you over its
lateness.”

You sound very pleased with yourself and I can’t help giving a small snort at the image of Matteo
earnestly attempting (and spectacularly failing) to pull this off. Of course this doesn’t change the
fact that there’s no way I’m letting you go yourself, but the thought of the arguments required to
achieve this are already making me tired and I’m not sure I’ve got the energy for it. In the end I opt
for the coward’s way out and stop rubbing your shoulders so I can drape myself across your back
instead then press my face against yours. You immediately reach up to tangle your fingers into my
hair.

“Let’s talk about it later,” I say. “We don’t have to decide right now.”

“Of course, there is also a third option,” you add, almost lazily. “Which is that you relax your rule
about never targeting acquaintances and we pay him a visit that is entirely unrelated to the paying
of rent.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. I sound almost comically pompous, as if I think I’m your dad (although
honestly, God knows what he must have sounded like). “We’ve been through this. And it was a
bad idea even before Jack turned up.”

“Perhaps it is,” you reply with obvious relish. “Yet some people are so fatally compromised in
their capacity to live well. People just like Matteo. So coarse and inelegant – so sadly unrefined –
that one wonders how they have managed to stumble and blunder along in the world for so long as
they have. Removing them from it is almost a kindness. An act of mercy, one might say.”

“Actually, I don’t think anyone would say that.”

You turn round far enough to give me a faint smirk. “But I just have, mylimasis. Our moralists,
after all, show significant arrogance in attempting to define the principles of mercy. Consider
doctors for example…”

“Like you.”

“Like me.” As I watch your faint smirk grows ever-so-slightly broader. “Consider doctors who
save lives and refer to being in possession of a ‘god complex’ when doing so. Is it all that different
to play at God by saving lives as it to play at God by ending them?”

“Don’t be stupid, of course it’s different. Although I can think of one commonality: in fact you just
said it yourself.” I finally give into temptation and reach down to deliver a sharp prod to your
shoulder blade. “Arrogance. Being so convinced of your own superiority that you underestimate
how anything could go wrong.”

“Well, here we are philosophising,” you reply briskly. “And yet actions, as they say, speak far
louder than words. Namely that the absence of Jack appears to be a common denominator to
several of our current problems.”

As predicted, it seems this entire conversation has now gone round full circle: I sigh rather fretfully
then bury my face into your neck. “I know it is,” I say. “You’ve made that point already; you’ve
made it a lot. I’d even go so far as to say you’ve laboured it. And unlike you I’m not wearing my
god complex, which means I’m not committing to anything that might risk you getting caught.”

Of course there’s no way you’ll be satisfied with such a curt response, but while I know this isn’t
the last I’ll hear about it, at least you seem to understand that right now I’m past the point of
further discussion. Instead, you obediently fall silent (for once) then allow me to slump against you
without making any more attempts to argue. “Look at you,” you say once a few more minutes have
passed and I’ve shown no signs of getting up again. “My poor boy. How exhausted you are.”

Considering how much sex we had yesterday I’m fully expecting a smug observation about your
personal role in wearing me out. In the end you don’t, although from the expression on your face
you’re definitely thinking it: I give you another prod to show I’m on to you, then yawn so hard I
nearly dislocate my jaw before rolling myself off your back so I can roll beneath the covers
instead. “You can stay if you like,” I add when I notice you’re about to move. “I revoke the
previous throwing-out.”

You smile again then give my hair an affectionate ruffle, but by now I’m getting so tired I’m barely
even aware of it and within a matter of minutes have pretty much passed out. I’m hoping I might
wake up feeling better, but while the nap starts off soothing it quickly descends into something
more restless that’s filled with images of shrieking squad cars and tattered crime scene tape. I
finally jolt myself awake again an hour later and have a few moments of anxious confusion before
launching myself across the bed to grab my phone. I do this in a rather guilty way, like I’m
committing some sort of crime by looking at it, but when I finally bring myself to check the screen
it’s reassuringly blank and clear. No calls. No messages. No sign of life from Jack. I stare at it a
little longer like I can’t believe my luck then replace it on the nightstand and roll back over to gaze
at the ceiling. My relief is obvious, yet also completely pointless, because I know this silence is
only a delay and not a reprieve. There’s no doubt he’ll be in touch eventually.
As thoughts go this isn’t a particularly pleasant one and I now find myself staring aimlessly into
space as I brood about it, frowning away while gnawing my thumbnail, before finally rolling over
again to retrieve my glasses. I’ve no idea where they ended up last night, but you must have found
them eventually because they’re now safely back on the nightstand. In fact by this point the whole
process of losing-and-returning has evolved into a full scale ritual, in which I’ll manage to
misplace them during the evening and you’ll reliably find them again then return them while I’m
asleep. Recently you’ve added a new variation to the routine by arranging them in a deliberately
stupid way whenever you bring them back – this time hooked around the top of the lamp with the
switch acting in place of a nose. I suppose you think this is entertaining, but even though it’s not (at
all) it never fails to make me smile. With anyone else I’d just find it annoying, but it’s so rare for
you to make intimate gestures that their charm is automatically amplified whenever you bother to
try one.

Your own side of the bed is empty and, judging from the coolness of the sheets, has been that way
for a while. Most likely you’ll be in the kitchen: I strain my ears to confirm this and sure enough
hear a faint clatter of porcelain, followed by the sound of you whistling. The first noise is expected
but the second is unusual, because you’ll almost never do this if you think there’s a chance you’ll
be overheard. I suspect your reluctance stems from a belief that it’s vulgar or something like that,
but I’ll never understand why you’re self-conscious about it because you’re undoubtedly the best
whistler I’ve ever heard. I mean you really are. You can do vibrato, staccato and long lingering
notes which seem to last forever, and you’ll always avoid the tuneless, absent-minded melodies
favoured by the typical whistler in place of full-on recitals of classical music. Today you’re
attempting Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria so I wait with interest to see if you’ll be able to hit the
F major (you do, although clearly not to your satisfaction because you briefly go quiet for a few
seconds before starting the entire section again).

I smile to myself at the sound of it then pull on one of your robes and tiptoe down to the kitchen
doorway, pausing for a few seconds with my fingers on the handle so I can admire you in private
before walking in. This is accomplished in a series of stealthy glances and, even as I’m doing it,
I’m awkwardly aware of how hard it is to admit to myself that it’s only because I find you
physically attractive. It always seems easier to pretend that I’m predominantly drawn to your mind
and personality: that the appeal is something lofty and intellectual, belonging more to the brain
than the body. But it’s there all the same and is impossible and pointless to deny, because there’s
no doubt that you’re beautiful – even though this isn’t an epithet that’s typically applied to male
attractiveness, and which shouldn’t even be true at all given that your component parts don’t really
work in isolation. You have too many slants and sharp angles: all glacial skin, chiselled juts of
bone, and features that are as planed and fleshless as a slab of alpine rock. Even so, when
combined together, they still create something undeniably striking.

This silent staring continues a while longer until it occurs to me (too late) that I’ve now crossed the
line of respectful appreciation and am instead doing a convincing imitation of a creepy sex pest.
Then I open my mouth to announce my presence, only to have you save me the trouble by saying
“Hello Will,” without even turning round.

I feel myself flush slightly, resentful of being caught in the act. “How’d you know I was there?”

“I can smell you of course,” you reply. “I apologise if you were trying to ambush me and I ruined
your plans.” You finally turn round then give me a faint smirk. “Feel free to go out and come in
again if you wish, and I will pretend to be startled by your unexpected arrival.”

I start to smile then up walk up behind you so I can press my face between your shoulder blades;
your skin feels very warm through the thin material of your shirt. “Oh well,” I say. “I’ll get you
next time.”
“Of that I have no doubt at all.” You put down the coffee grinder then reach round to run your
fingers through my hair, gently tugging at the ends in a gesture that’s intimate yet casual. I
promptly lean into the touch (because getting caressed like this is always enjoyable), then try and
fail to resist the temptation to whistle the last few bars of the aria (because despite my best efforts,
it’s sometimes impossible not to be a massive dick to you).

“Eccellente,” you reply. You’re smiling as you say it, although I can still tell you’re annoyed at
being overheard. “I didn’t know you could whistle.”

“I’ve owned dogs. Of course I can whistle.”

“But not so melodiously. That hairy pack of yours could hardly have appreciated such a precise
pitch.”

I give you a nudge between your shoulders. “Don’t call them a hair…”

“Are you also able to sing?” you ask. Your ability to conceal your basic contempt for dogs varies
considerably from moment to the next; clearly today is one those times where you’re less inclined
to make the effort to hide it. “I’m curious.”

“No,” I say sulkily.

“I’m not sure whether to believe you. I suspect you probably can but have either never tried or are
simply reluctant to admit it. I imagine you as a tenor; possibly a baritone.”

“So I’m an opera singer now?”

“A tenor is just a vocal range. It doesn’t denote opera.”

“Fair enough,” I say. I press my forehead against your back at assorted angles, trying and failing to
find a spot that doesn’t have a ridge of bone. “The answer’s still no. What about you?”

“It depends,” you say thoughtfully. “How would you define ‘can’? If the standard is remaining in
tune then the answer is yes, although admittedly in a lower range – I would not succeed in reaching
much above a middle C. But if you mean can I sing with any kind of proficiency, then I would
confess such a talent is beyond me.”

“So you’re a bass?” Privately I smile again: only you would interpret such a simple query in terms
of classically trained professional standards. “That figures. You have such a deep speaking voice.”

“Not necessarily. Speaking tone does not reliably associate with singing capacity.”

“So what makes you think I’d be a tenor?”

“Because I have heard you humming,” you say. “You can reach a high C with very little trouble.”

Even though this makes me laugh, I’m still struck by the forensic levels of attention you seem to
pay to whatever I’m doing – even something so pointless as humming in the shower. Once I’d have
found it unnerving to be the focus of such intense interest, but now it just seems endearing;
something to make me feel valued and appreciated.

“I like to see you laughing,” you say fondly. “You did it so rarely in the past, Will; so serious, all
the time. Hearing it now gives me a similar satisfaction as listening to music.”

“Oh yeah?”
“Yes: because it shows me you’re happy.” For a few seconds you take hold of my hand, lightly
tracing your fingers across the wrist. “Nevertheless, your amusement leaves me undeterred. I want
to hear you sing sometime.”

“No,” I tell you. “No way.” You give an exaggerated sigh and I nudge you a few more times with
my forehead. “It’s still pretty early,” I add. “Not even lunch time. Come back to bed.”

“You have only this moment got out of bed. And it is not so early as all that; Giulietta will be here
soon.”

You look rather solemn when you say this, although I can’t help feeling you’re just being awkward
for the sake of it. Anyway, it’s rare for me to initiate things so it’s not hard to believe that you’re
secretly pleased at how I’m taking the lead for once. I decide to put this theory to the test, and
promptly discover that you’re so pleased you’re even content to let me drag you upstairs by the
hand (complete with officious little tugs when I feel you’re not moving fast enough, almost like
you’re a naughty toddler). Once we’re in the bedroom I push you down then scrabble away at your
clothes while you just sit there with a look of amused contentment on your face. It’s obvious the
roughness doesn’t bother you, and the contrast with how I react in similar circumstances makes me
think how different our tolerance is for being touched. I’m a bit more cat-like (rapturous for
affection, but only on my terms and liable to lash out in irritation when it goes on too long) whereas
you’re more like a dog in your limitless ability to absorb whatever admiration is on offer. Although
admittedly the analogy pretty much collapses after that, because in general personality types
almost the total opposite is true. It reminds me a bit of an old joke postcard my dad once sent me:
A dog looks at the humans in its life and thinks “These guys are amazing! They feed me, love me,
and give me a home. They must be gods!” A cat looks at its owners and thinks the same, only its
conclusions are different. A cat thinks: “I must be a god.”

I now glance down at you (currently wearing your favourite ‘I must be a God’ expression) and feel
a sudden wave of affection for how arrogant and absurd you are – quickly followed by a wave of
guilt at how my previous plan to be considerate only lasted a few days before Jack arrived and
fucked everything up. Although, on the plus side, this seems as good a time as any to do something
about it. I smile at you rather fondly then lean down to press a kiss on the tip of your nose (and
which, as gestures go, is sufficiently ridiculous to make you start smiling too).

“Just stay there,” I say. “And behave yourself for once.”

You obediently lie back against the pillow and close your eyes. “What an outrageous charge,” you
say leisurely. “I am always exceptionally well-behaved.”

Even for you this is excessive bullshit: I give a loud, sarcastic snort then watch as your smile grows
a little bit wider. “I suppose that signals disagreement?” you say. “Perhaps I ought to defend
myself, but an argument would almost certainly ensue. I shall hide behind the Fifth Amendment
instead and let my silence speak for itself.”

“Yes Dr Lecter: you do that.”

“I assure you I intend to.”

“Good. And when you’ve finished doing that you can turn yourself over. I want you on your front.”

You obey almost straight away, so I kiss your neck as a reward then reach across to the nightstand
to retrieve a bottle of massage oil. The lid has got clogged since we last used it, but I finally
manage to get it open and drizzle some into my palms, rubbing them together to warm it up before
slowly sliding across your shoulders. I deliberately take my time: alternating short strokes with
long glides, pushing in my thumbs to find your tense spots, then gathering up the pools of oil to rub
it up and down again. It feels incredibly sumptuous, the fragrance an enticing blend of spices and
cloves with a texture that’s silkily smooth without being greasy. It’s also been ages since I’ve last
bothered to do this, and the awareness makes me feel guilty all over again for neglecting you when
I know how much you like it. Your back now arches appreciatively at the touch so I press down
even harder, firmly swiping at your muscles while enjoying the way I feel them flex beneath my
fingers. In fact by this point I’m pretty desperate to just fling you down and fuck you senseless, but
it’s always so hard to get you to do what you’re asked that I know it's going to need a bit of
planning in advance. It’s not that you don’t enjoy it, because I know that you do, and as far as the
dynamic goes you never seem to care that much who goes on top. It’s more a case that your
instinct is to take charge of every possible scenario – which, when combined with your crazy
possessiveness, means I’m far more likely to be the one who gets flung down than you are.

Beneath me you’re now starting to shift again (right on cue) and I put a hand on your waist to keep
you still. “Look at you,” I say fondly. “Pretending to be passive; it’s almost convincing.”

You hum with agreement so I push down a little harder, applying more and more of my weight
until you’re being pressed against the mattress and can feel my own erection digging into your leg.
Then I run my palm rather idly across your shoulders, pausing every so often to pepper your throat
with kisses as I plot out possible positions. Usually the easiest way is to get you up against a wall,
but that doesn’t feel tender enough for my current mood. Hands and knees is also no good: you’d
do it if I asked, but I know you don’t really like it and it’s impossible for me to enjoy something if
you’re not enjoying it too. Me on my back won’t work either…I made that mistake a few weeks
ago after asking you to ride me and ended up getting pinned to the bed with my wrists held above
my head. Eventually I decide it’ll be easier if I keep you lying down, otherwise you’ll start darting
about and be almost impossible to deal with. In fact you already look like you’re on the verge of
getting up. I put my hand on your leg again to stop you, smirking slightly at the urge to order ‘Stay’
in true dog-owner style. Oh God, you are going to move, I can tell.

“Stop it,” I say in amusement. I lean further downwards, letting my cheek rest against your hair as
my hands slip around your chest for a quick exploration: the flat, hard muscles of your abdomen,
the razor-sharp slices of hip bone. “You’re impossible, do you know that? Just calm down.”

You obediently go still almost straight away, although I’m not convinced how long it’ll last. To
help persuade you I stroke across the length of your spine, slowly caressing lower and lower until
my hand’s sliding down between your legs. You’re already so drenched and glistening from all the
oil…oh God, it’s going to feel amazing: I’m getting a lurid fantasy of holding you down on the bed
then fingering you until you’re out of your mind and desperate to have me fuck you. Unfortunately
I also know your self-control’s too strong to waste time attempting this, so I rub the tip of my finger
in teasing circles instead, gently stoking without ever pushing in until you’re starting to gasp and
arch your back against my hand. I’m planning to make you wait a bit longer for it, but you’re so
slippery from all the oil that the smallest jerk of your hips ends up being enough to send my finger
plunging knuckle-deep inside you. I give a small groan at the sensation then lean down to kiss the
back of your neck.

“That’s it,” I say softly. “Do you like that? Does it feel good?”

The low gasps rumbling through your chest suggest it does, so I add a second finger then crook
them upwards, mirroring the same technique I’ve learnt from you. The noises you’re making are so
sensuous I’m getting harder from the sound of them, spurring me to twist my wrist into
increasingly painful angles just so I can find your prostate and get you to make them again. With
my other hand I do my best to spread you open, trying to keep you still to get a better view of my
fingers as they slide in and out of your ass. Oh fuck, you take it so well: the tight, slippery heat of
your body feels incredible and seeing the way you thrust against my hand is driving me wild. I’m
so turned on I’m leaving smears of pre-come against your skin whenever I press against you.

Your face is only a few inches from mine, but right now that seems like miles away so I drape
myself across your shoulder to nudge your mouth open, gently licking into it then letting out a soft
moan as I feel our tongues slide together. I like kissing you so much: I like the noises we both
make, the way we pull apart to gaze at one another, or how you’ll stroke my face then pause to run
your fingers through my hair. They’re the sort of kisses that only happen from pure desire. The
kind I remember later with a catch of breath and a quickened pulse, just recalling how that was a
moment we made together and how it was beautiful.

I love you, I think fervently. I love you, I love you. You’re breathing so fast and your skin’s so
warm…I hold you tight to my chest then feel you shiver against me and it’s perfect. I’d like to keep
on kissing you for longer – for hours, if I could – but I don’t have the patience to wait anymore and
tug you backwards instead, trying to get you to lie on your side so I can reach round to take hold of
your cock. Promptly I feel my own breath hitch. “Oh fuck,” I say. “You’re so hard. Jesus. You
really want it don’t you?”

I’m not expecting you to reply. You almost never admit to wanting things. You’ll just find ways to
show it instead: either with looks and gestures, or with swooningly elaborate plans which ensure
your needs always end up being met without you ever having to express what they are. I playfully
nip at you with my teeth to show I’m onto you then lean round a little further so I can use my
thumb to slowly smear your pre-come round the head of your cock. It’s almost impossible to stay
in control when you’re lying against me like this: beautiful and available and mine.

“You’re desperate to get this in me aren’t you?” I say, straight into your ear. “You always act like
you’re above it; like you think you’re better than the rest of us.” Your breath catches loudly but
you still don’t reply. “I want you to admit it,” I add. “Say it out loud. If you do I’ll give you what
you want.”

“I admit it,” you say promptly.

“What do you admit? Be specific.”

“I admit that I am no better than anyone else.”

“And?”

“And that I am just as base and dissolute as the rest of you.”

I huff out a laugh then begin to kiss your neck again. “Good,” I say. “Then I guess you won’t mind
proving it, will you?”

Your movement seems to be stuttering slightly by now; it’s as if you can’t decide whether you
most want to rock downwards into my hand or push upwards to where my fingers are exploring
your ass. I lean further back again to get a better view, letting out another groan as you tightly
clench down like you’re trying to keep them buried deeper inside you. It’s intensely erotic and
reminds me of how much you always like to have me in positions that let you watch yourself
thrusting into my body. Not that I can blame you…I’d quite like to see it myself. “One day I want
you to film me,” I hear myself blurting out. “I want to see what I look like when you’re fucking
me.”

Your breath promptly catches even louder than before. “You look perfect,” you say. “You always
take it so beautifully. And yes, I would love to film you – I think you’d enjoy watching yourself.
Although I do have one condition of my own.”

This makes me smile; it’s like there’s no possible situation where you won’t find a chance to be
demanding. “What’s that?” I ask.

You arch your back again, all loose-limbed elegance and easy grace. “I would want to have you
lying in my arms while it was playing,” you reply. “And I would want you to describe exactly how
it made you feel to see it.”

I sigh myself at the thought of it then give my fingers another twist. “You mean so you could see
how hard it made me get,” I say. “How much it was turning me on to watch my ass getting
pounded with this huge cock?” I’m pushing things a bit far now – I know this is much too vulgar
for you – but I’m so keyed up I can’t quite stop myself. “This is driving you crazy, isn’t it,” I add.
“You want to fuck me and you can’t.”

You nod with agreement, clearly past the point of being able to hide it, then empty your lungs in a
long exhale before twisting round to search out my mouth for another kiss. It’s passionate and
almost painful in the hungry scrape of teeth and stabbing tongues, only parting for a few seconds to
breathe before clashing back together. The sensation is electrifying and I moan loudly and
shamelessly as I feel my cock give another violent spasm against your thigh. Even so, when you
flip yourself over to pull me on top of you I quickly grab your arms to make you stop.

“No,” I say sharply. “What did I tell you about waiting? Otherwise I’ll leave you here and finish
off without you.”

You make an impatient sound between your teeth then bury your face in my hair like you’re trying
to breathe me in. Your hands are still gripping onto me, but when you show no signs of letting go I
give my own hiss of annoyance and wrench myself backwards to force you off. You land neatly
next to me and for a few seconds look genuinely surprised before your face shuts down with an
eerie, blank intensity that borders on frightening. There’s a certain glamour and ferocity to it that’s
only just concealed below the surface – hunger and fierceness exuding from every coil of muscle
and rasp of breath – and I simply stare back, privately consumed by a dizzily powerful sense that in
my whole life I’ve never wanted something, anything, as much as I want you.

“Lie down,” I say, refusing to be intimidated by the look. It’s a similar tone that I’d use with the
dogs: calm but with a hint of firmness that’s unmistakable. “Now.”

Your eyes flash in response, and a wary part of my brain immediately whispers that the situation is
becoming too risky; that I’m goading someone incredibly dangerous who’s clearly on the edge of
losing control and is strong enough to injure me if they wanted to. It’s rather like having a tiger by
the tail, yet despite the initial flash of fear I know you won’t do anything to hurt me. Even so, the
rejection has clearly triggered you and given the context of the past few days it’s hard not to feel
guilty at my poor timing. For a few seconds I catch your eye in a silent apology then lean forwards
to gently push you onto the bed. The contact itself is brief, yet it’s obvious the sensation of my skin
against yours has a calming effect because this time you lie very patiently without making any
attempt to argue.

I kneel over you and place a steadying palm on your forehead while gently stroking your face with
my other hand. The movement is deliberately soothing, although if I’m honest it’s as much for
myself as for you. Glimpses of the fierce, predatory parts of you are always guaranteed to do this,
creating a passionate explosion of emotions in me that even now I still struggle to process. In fact
the frenzy of it all is making me hesitate, forcing myself to draw some deep breaths in a desperate
attempt to calm down. I’m concerned that if I get too carried away I might end up hurting you,
despite the fact it’s hardly realistic because I don’t think I could hurt you even if I wanted to. It’s
one of the reasons there’d be no point trying BDSM because I know you don't feel pain the way
ordinary people do. In this respect I'm always careful to think ordinary rather than normal, because
it implies that what you really are is extraordinary rather than abnormal; just like how some of your
behaviour is off-the-charts psychopathic, yet I can't ever think of you as an actual psychopath. Not
that I have the right word for what you are. I’ve never had one. You’re just…you.

When I finally glance up I can see that you’re watching me. “Mylimasis,” you say quietly. “It’s all
right, my love. Take your time.”

Your tone is unusually tender. You can probably tell I’ve freaked myself out – or, more the point,
freaked us both out – although it’s safe to say that you like it. Any semblance of me losing control
never fails to delight you: I could wind up hurting you for real, even hurting you badly, and you’d
probably like that too. I’ve admittedly come close to it though, because sometimes I can be really
rough with you. I’ll bite and scratch or shove you up against the wall, sometimes hard enough to
leave actual bruises. Only recently I gave you one which lingered on for several days, highlighting
a single sharp cheekbone like a duelling scar. The sight filled me with a genuine sense of remorse,
yet your own satisfaction was obvious and it was impossible to ignore the way you’d sensuously
trace your fingers across it (sometimes idly, sometimes with clear deliberation) before your eyes
calmly swivelled in my direction. Even so, you’ll never do the same thing to me without
permission. It’s yet another thing we don’t discuss, but I can still sense it’s a boundary you’ve set
for yourself after injuring me so badly in the past.

Thinking about this is making me sad, which seems wrong. I shouldn’t be sad right now. I take a
shaky breath instead then slide down behind you to kiss the back of your neck, shifting my hips
until I have enough room to move without needing to let go of you. Normally I’d take hold of my
cock to get the angle right but I’m so hard by now that I can line up and push in without even
having to use my hand. Oh God, the tightness is going to give way any second now…any second.

“Fuck,” I say breathily.

The oil makes everything slippery smooth and when I slide a palm across your chest I can feel your
heartbeat beneath my fingertips. I’m trying to take things slow and make it last but I can’t, I know I
can’t – how can I? The self-control is beyond me: you’re rocking yourself backwards, trying to
push me deeper inside you, and it’s impossible not to respond. My cock feels like it’s getting
squeezed from how strong your muscles are as you clench round me; if I let myself I could easily
come right now. Then I swivel my hips and speed up the pace, grinding against you so hard and
fast I’m briefly worried I might fuck you into the wall and have to protectively cradle your head to
shield it from the impact.

“I love you,” I mutter against your skin. “I love you.” And I do. So much so that I can’t process
anything beyond it: urgent and desperate, and so in love I can barely think. “You’re mine. Mine.
Do you understand?”

“Yours,” you say, reaching round to skim your hand against my leg. “Always.”

Your voice sounds so intense that any remaining shreds of my self-restraint instantly start to
crumble. I cry out again, arching myself up against you with a passion that’s almost brutal in its
sincerity. “If you ever so much as look at anyone else I’ll give you so much hell,” I say, and this
time my voice is close to a snarl. “I won’t share you with anyone.”

You murmur your agreement then seize hold of my hand to knot our fingers together. It’s clear how
much you mean it, yet somehow the words aren’t enough anymore and I have an urge to mark the
proof of my ownership that’s slightly shocking in its intensity. Shifting my hips to give myself
more room I lean down and then, with no warning at all, sink my teeth into the side of your
shoulder until I taste a coppery bloom of blood. It’s urgent and adoring and, oh God, is making my
cock even harder than before, but while you give a faint gasp of surprise you don’t pull away.
Instead you’re tugging my hand towards your face, kissing every part of it you can while
murmuring snatches of something rapturous in a foreign language. In response I drag my tongue
across the wound then grab your waist to hold you still, my other hand beginning to pump at your
cock in a rhythm that’s hard and fast to match each thrust of my hips. Normally I’d make you wait
a bit, but the way I’m going I won’t last long and I want us to come as close together as possible.
Besides, you’re being so pliant now and it’s rather addictive; not least because I don’t know how
long it’ll be before you’re like this again. But right now your head is resting softly against my
shoulder in a way that’s unusually passive and I can tell without asking how happy you are. I think
it’s my intense devotion that’s responsible: the adoration is so fierce and obvious, it’s as if you’re
basking in it like a cat in a patch of sunlight. I’ll never get tired of this – how you can always make
me feel like an object of desire rather than an article of damage or a problem to be solved.

“You feel incredible,” I say, almost desperately. “Oh fuck, Hannibal…I’m getting so close.”

I gasp again then buck my hips brutally hard; raw and primal – animalistic, almost – and shot
through with a heady urge to claim, consume and own. It’s like being on fire…like falling off a
cliff. I swipe your jaw with my tongue, tasting salt and sweat, then seize a handful of hair and
roughly tug until your throat is exposed. Desire has taken over now and there’s no sense of restraint
at all, just warmth and responsiveness as your body slides so smoothly against mine. I’m kissing
every bit of you I can reach, gasping your name then nuzzling your neck with my lips and teeth
until the pressure finally gets too much and I’m spilling inside you in a series of thick wet pulses.
Moments like this are so intense it’s genuinely hard to process; not just the physical feeling, but the
incredible emotion of it. You’re my entire life, I think fervently, even though it seems too much to
say it out loud. My heart and soul, my reason and purpose. My one and only thought.

“Now you,” I manage to gasp out. “Oh God. Do it. Let me see you. I want you to come for me.”

You give another deep groan and I can immediately tell when it happens because it’s so hot and
gushing across my hand and seems to last an incredibly long time. I devotedly hold you through it,
pressing passionate kisses on your back and shoulders then stroking your face as I ramble rather
senselessly about how perfect you are. In fact, I ramble for so long and so intensely that I manage
to send myself to sleep with it, waking up with a jolt sometime later to find one of your hands
cradling my face as your other strokes across the scars on my abdomen.

You smile when you see me looking at you then lean down to kiss my forehead. “Welcome back,”
you say.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Not long. Less than half an hour.”

I make a soft, contented sound then settle back down against you. I’m contemplating falling asleep
again, but you clearly have other ideas from the way you’ve begun to rub my lower lip with your
thumb as your hand rests beneath my chin. “Spit,” you say. “Make it as wet as you can.”

“Oh Jesus, really?” I open my eyes just so I can roll them at you. “You’re insatiable. Shouldn’t you
be past this at your age?” Your only response is the most godawful smirk and of course I end up
obeying anyway; spreading my legs without even meaning to, then letting out another moan as I
feel your finger sliding inside me. “Uhh, no way,” I gasp out. “Hannibal…I can’t.”

“Yes you can.”

“Don’t,” I say, rather half-heartedly. “Stop it. Oh God. That’s…ah. No, use your thumb. Just there.
Fuck. Yeah, like that.”

“Like…that?” You kiss my forehead again, slowly stroking my cock back to hardness as your other
hand continues the rhythmic back-and-forth against my ass. “You’re getting so tight. Mylimasis.
You’re close already, aren’t you? I can feel it.”

I groan then catch my lip between my teeth, spine arched and head flung back as I work myself
against the long slide of your fingers. I can hear a rustling sound as you lean down to run your
tongue along my throat. “Did you mean what you said before?” you ask. “About letting me film
you.”

I’m already past the point of speech so just nod rather helplessly. You give a low satisfied sigh,
although I suspect it’s not the act itself that’s making you so happy; instead, it’s the level of trust in
you that my permission implies. Then I just screw my eyes shut and forget about everything except
how good it feels: your hands expertly sliding and stroking, playing me like an instrument, until I
finally make a small mewling noise and come all over myself for a second time.

“Perfect,” you say with obvious delight. “My beautiful boy. I knew you could do it for me if you
tried.”

“Oh shut up,” I say. “Put your god complex away.” Then I just collapse rather inelegantly against
your chest and bury my face in your shoulder. I’m clinging onto you by now, all four limbs
wrapped around your body like a limpet. The closeness is blissful while it’s happening, but as the
seconds turn into minutes I grow predictably self-conscious and decide to pull away. My main
thought is how much I need a shower (because, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m sweaty and
smelly and covered in come) but when you see I’m about to move you dart out to take hold of my
hand.

“No, don’t run off,” you say. “I want to talk to you.”

Your voice is still slightly hoarse from all the panting; it’s actually quite endearing. I smile a bit
then settle down next to you on the bed. “Okay. What about?”

For a few moments you just stare at me, slow-blinking like a cat. “Guess,” you finally reply.

As soon as you say this I feel my good mood start to evaporate, because your invitations to ‘guess’
are never sincere. What you’ll often do instead is use the question as a kind of Rorschach test in the
hope my answer tricks me into giving away what’s on my mind, regardless of whether it matches
what’s on your own. Sometimes you’ll even ask when you don’t have a specific topic to discuss
simply to see what I’ll say. Even in good circumstances these covert interrogations can be
irritating, but today I’m really not in the mood for it. I make an impatient gesture with my hand
before deciding to respond with something totally random just to call your bluff.

“You want to talk about a vacation,” I say blithely. “A chance to get out the city – and avoid Jack.”

“I do not wish to do either of those things.” You must know I’m deliberately dodging the question
but you still sound extremely calm: clearly you’re not going to take the bait. “Although I wouldn’t
be averse to a daytrip if you wanted. Even a weekend away. Did you have anywhere particular in
mind?”

This, of course, is just using my own strategy right back at me because you’ll already know that I
haven’t. “Not really,” I reply, purposefully casual. “I guess a daytrip would be good. Maybe we
could hire a car; I quite miss driving.”
“Do you? I wouldn’t have expected that.” I immediately frown at you: why the hell not? “As I
recall you never drove that much before,” you add in the same calm way. “My prevailing memory
of you is falling asleep in other people’s cars. But regardless, it still won’t be possible because
you’d require an international driving permit – which I don’t believe you have.”

“And you do, I suppose?” You immediately look smug and I reach out to prod you on your arm.
“Yes, of course you do. Seeing how you’re always having to flee the country at short notice.”

“What a rude little monster you are,” you say affectionately.

“What a liar you are. Or do you seriously expect me to believe that you’re scandalised at the idea
of driving illegally?”

“You may believe whatever you like. In view of the circumstances I would have thought it wise to
avoid unnecessary trouble.”

“Yeah right: you love trouble.”

“I suppose I do,” you say. “It must explain my enduring fondness for you.”

This makes me smile and you smile back then lean over to brush a strand of hair out my eyes. “I
couldn’t help noticing that you didn’t contradict me before,” you add. Now you sound thoughtful
again; it’s so typical that even a blatantly bullshit answer still manages to rouse your curiosity.
“What I said about sleeping in other people’s cars. It was true, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so. What does it matter?”

“It scarcely matters at all. It’s just one small fragment of a larger mosaic – namely how vulnerable
you were back then. So vulnerable, Will. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I was
extremely surprised the first time I saw you.”

“Were you?” I say with interest. “How so?”

“Because I was expecting someone so much older. In my mind’s eye I saw you as greying and
battle-weary and instead you turned out to be a beautiful young man, barely older than some of the
trainees. That was when I knew how fascinating you were going to be.” You catch my eye and give
me a rather eerie little smile. “You had the vitality of youth yet the graceful methods of maturity;
ferocious and audacious, with an exquisitely obscure mind and a dark slender soul.”

“Allow me to translate that,” I say wryly. “What you really mean is you liked the idea that being
younger would make me easier to manipulate.”

“Naturally,” you reply, which immediately makes me laugh. It’s so typical of you not to deny it,
despite the way the admission makes you look like a massive asshole. “It also increased my
determination to prise you away from your Uncle Jack as soon as possible – and transfer that rather
luscious dependency to myself instead.”

I reach out and give you a second, harder prod. “I was never ‘dependent’ on Jack. Stop projecting.
And for God’s sake don’t start with that whole father figure thing again.”

“But why not?” you say innocently. “Why not when it’s true? Not that I am a conventional father
figure, I’ll certainly grant you that. Jack’s paternal feelings were akin to one of your own dogs.
Very clumsy and ineffectual. I, on the other hand, am a father in the same way a lion is.”

I raise a sceptical eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“Because when a lion conquers a pride he destroys the existing cubs and establishes his own.”

“Delightful,” I say drily. “Thanks for that. You’re really not selling this analogy – just so you
know.”

As usual you completely ignore this and just continue staring at me with the same cryptic smile on
your face. “Most likely he’ll slay several of his own offspring too,” you add. “But there is usually
one who survives. The favourite. The one who he teaches how to hunt and thrive.” You smile a bit
more then trail your finger across the scar on my cheekbone. “And then, one day, this younger lion
finally moves on himself: roaming around to spread beautiful chaos. Naturally his neighbours fear
him, but his presence among them helps to establish stability. Without him the Savannah would be
destroyed through over-grazing, so each time he kills he promotes a natural harmony. His society
ultimately prospers from his villainy.”

You conclude this speech then lean back a little and run your eyes across my face, completely
oblivious to the awkward silence that’s begun to hover over us like fog. My own response, on the
other hand, is far less poised and mainly consists of opening my mouth then shutting it again while
trying not to catch your eye. A part of me is tempted to make a dumb joke about The Lion King’s
circle of life and laugh the whole thing off, but I know it would just be another childish attempt at
avoidance so naturally I don’t. After all, you’re hardly being subtle about it; your analogy is a
pointed reminder of how you still think there’s a chance I might leave you to go back to Jack – this
time as a predator with a ‘good’ purpose. I give a restless shuffle and you stare a bit more before
adding, seemingly from out of nowhere: “Do you know what makes me such a successful therapist,
Will?”

I flinch without meaning to, surprised by the abrupt change in tone, and as you watch me your faint
smile begins to flicker around the edges. “It’s because I know how to recognise a person’s desire,”
you say, drawing out each word with slow precision. “And then, after that, how to help them act
upon it. A person can only be fulfilled when they obey their natural instincts.”

“I know,” I say irritably. “You’ve told me that before, remember? You’ve told me a hundred times:
‘Because to deny and repress one’s true nature is the greatest act of self-violence it is possible to
commit.’”

“Indeed,” you reply, provokingly calm as ever. “And I am entirely correct. We owe ourselves
nothing less than actualisation: to embrace our purest natures and reject the deluded version which
society clamours for.” Briefly you fall silent again as you stroke your eyes over my face, loving
and languorous like you’re committing each feature to memory. “To do so is therapeutic, Will:
even if the process is painful and frightening at first. Even if it torments you. Even if it feels like
it’s going to push you past your breaking point. Not that I blame you for resisting it, of course.
Why wouldn’t you prefer to turn all your stunning perception on something other than yourself?” I
don’t reply and you add after a few seconds silence: “You’re still so conflicted aren’t you? You’re
consumed by it.”

This time I’m better prepared for you so manage not to visibly react. “And you’re consumed by a
need to ask pointless questions,” I say. Then I just lie there in a cool unflinching way that gives no
hint to what I’m thinking while you gaze back with equal intensity and the same inscrutable stare.

“Would you like to know why?” you finally add. “Why the therapeutic value is so high?”

“Would it shock you to know that I wouldn’t? Or that I know you’re going to tell me anyway?”

“It’s because that’s when you will no longer be haunted,” you reply without missing a beat. “And
it’s the point that you’ll finally force yourself beyond what you think is possible to endure and
emerge at the other side, completely and fully alive.” As you’re speaking you raise your hand
again: this time to run a finger across my forehead, very slow and deliberate like a surgeon tracking
out where their scalpel would go. “The real spectres are the living Will, not the dead. We haunt
ourselves – never forget that. Drifting through the remains of our lives consumed with all the
burdens and regret we never found the strength to dispose of.”

You give a final eerie smile then coil your head to one side in a curiously serpentine gesture before
going completely silent and still. In fact you’re so motionless it strikes me as unsettling: like living
taxidermy, or some kind of sinister museum specimen that could come to life without warning. I
hate it when you do this. It’s a reliable sign you’re preparing a full-on verbal assault, and while it’s
been a long time since I’ve been afraid of physical harm your capacity for psychological wounding
still genuinely bothers me. You’ve always had an unnerving ability to get inside someone’s head,
and while I know it’s been done to me numerous times already the idea of it happening again
unsettles me more than I like to admit.

“Okay,” I say sharply. “You’ve made your point. I get it.”

“What do you get?”

“All this: what you’re really trying to say. And I don’t know what more you need to convince you.
I mean look at everything I’ve given up to be here. Do you really think I’d walk out on you now?”

“What I think,” you say, “is that there was a point in your life – not all that long ago – where you
would rather have killed us both than submit yourself to my version of you.” I wince slightly and
you wait a few seconds, rather like you’re studying my reaction, before finally choosing to
continue. “Another thing I think is that I recently asked you to consider formalising our relationship
with marriage and you never gave me an answer. Then ever since you’ve avoided the issue –
because you are avoiding it Will. You must think I’m either blind or stupid not to have noticed?”

“Of course not,” I say wearily. “You know I don’t think that.”

“Then it’s reluctance on your part? That’s rather unusual. You’re not a coward, yet when it comes
to this issue you’re radiating fear.”

“No,” I say. “It’s not fear. Not exactly.” For a few moments I fall silent, trying and failing to
summarise the extent of my inner contradictions: at some point I must have started to gnaw my
lower lip, although I only notice when you reach out your hand to stop me. “Do you remember
what I said to you just before we left America?” I finally add. “I said that I didn’t know exactly
what was going to happen and that we’d have to figure it out as we went along.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well…this is me figuring it out.”

You start to frown at me but this time I just absorb it, staring back and refusing to drop my eyes
until you give a small shrug as a sign you’re prepared to back down. “A beautiful lack of concern
there my love,” you say; and while it’s obvious you’re displeased with my answer the hint of
approval in your voice is still unmistakable. “I congratulate you on your resolve. Most people in
your position would be discomfited beyond belief but you just cast it to one side and move on.
That’s good Will: never be governed by your emotions. Relish them, exploit them, or recruit them,
but don’t allow them to control you.”

“You mean like you?” I say wryly.

 “Exactly like me.” Very briefly the eerie smile returns to your face, flickering round your mouth
like flame on paper. “We’re quite a singular combination aren’t we Will? Me the doctor with death
as a vocation…you the investigator with a secret flair for murder.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I snap. “Just don’t. Not now.”

“But if not now, then when?” you reply with awful calmness. “What’s the alternative? That violent
part of you is always going to be there, yet even after all this time you can’t fully allow him to
breathe. One day you’re going to have to find a way to take solace in him, and to do so you need to
learn to look him in the eye. It’s a feature of all the best narratives after all – a true Hero’s Journey.
A plunge into the Underworld to face your darkest, greatest challenge…then arise afterwards,
blood-smeared and triumphant.” There’s another long pause before you finally speak again, this
time quoting in a tone that’s vaguely hypnotic: “‘Wind them up and watch them go. You wanted to
see what somebody like me would do.’ That was your moment of self-acceptance, wasn’t it Will? It
was your realisation of exactly who you are and what you’re capable of. And now you’re so close
to getting across the line but still there’s something which holds you back. And as long as that
remains the case then you’ll always be vulnerable to the overtures of Jack Crawford.”

“As opposed to what exactly?” I’m trying to stay calm, but by this point my simmering sense of
resentment is almost impossible to hide. “The overtures of you? I told you this Hannibal; I told you
right from the start. You don’t get to try and mould me into another version of yourself.”

Your face visibly flinches when I say this and it occurs to me that the harshness of the reply has
hurt you. I can’t help it though; it’s true. Besides, it not like causing pain has ever stopped you
from doing anything. “Do you want to know something?” I add. My voice has completely dropped
in volume now: one extreme to the other. It’s almost like I’m thinking out loud. “There was a time
when I really wanted to hate you. I spent years wishing I could.”

This time you’re more in control of your reaction and your expression remains smooth and
impassive, refusing to give anything away. “Yes, I can imagine you did,” is all you reply. “And
after that I suppose you began to hate yourself instead – frustrated by your own lack of ability. Yet
you always deserved the kind of transformation I could offer you. You deserved your freedom. I
warned you that it would be painful the more you resisted it, but I was always prepared to wait for
you. I told you so didn’t I? To wait for you as long as it took; how I knew you were worth waiting
for.”

“Then you have to let me be free,” I say, equally quietly. “And you have to let me do it in my own
time. Which means I get to live how I want to, not like someone who’s been made in your image.
I’ll never leave you Hannibal. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t – I think I’ve shown that by now. But
I can’t be you either. And I won’t. I can only be myself.”

Your only response is to stare at me, eyes bearing into mine with an expression as blank and
tranquil as a slab of marble. God knows what you’re really thinking. It’s true you’re not trying to
argue, but even the most optimistic part of me can’t believe you’re happy with what I’ve just said –
much less that you agree with it. But none of that matters so much as what you’re planning to do
about it; and even after all this time together, it troubles me that I’m still not fully able to tell.

Chapter End Notes

I’ve mangled the analogy somewhat, but the idea of a predator helping to regulate the
environment was stolen from an interview with Bryan Fuller (may his name be
praised) where he talked about the effects of reintroducing wolves to Yellowstone
National Park xox
 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

Lol, sorry in advance guys, but this chapter is basically just filler (stuffed with nothing
but fluff). This is because (a) all the drama and major plot beats are due to kick off
soon, (b) for which I’ll need peak performance Writing Mojo, and (c) I don’t have
enough coffee in my house that’s needed to write the intense Hannibal dialogue, so (d)
I finally wussed out and decided to write something easy instead XD

It’s not like this is the worst disagreement we’ve ever had. It’s not even in the top 50. But once it’s
over an epic sense of awkwardness still sets in which succeeds in lingering across the house for the
rest of the morning like a covering of fog. In fact it persists past lunch time, then extends towards
dinner, and only looks like it’ll finally disperse when I realise I can’t stand it anymore and ambush
you in the kitchen with an impromptu hug as an emergency peacekeeping gesture. At least it’s
meant to be a peace-keeping gesture, except I fuck it up halfway through and it ends up being more
like a football tackle (or possibly a wrestling move). This is awkward, yet also typical, because my
attempts at affection are nearly always incredibly half-assed. I like to think I’ve improved a bit
since we started living together, but moments like this make me realise how far off I still am from
being genuinely good at intimacy. Although admittedly, as transitions go, this doesn’t seem
particularly promising…it's like I’m a caterpillar that went into a cocoon then came out again as an
even shittier caterpillar.

Predictably, you take the tackle like a total champ. Then you catch hold of me with both arms and
wrap me against your chest (partly as a sign of affection but also, if you’ve got any sense, to
prevent further ‘hugs’) before stroking my shoulders in a soothing kind of way that someone might
try to calm a frightened animal. This is very deliberate on your part: you know it’s still a novelty
for me to be touched in a way that feels safe or pleasurable, and the way I’ve grown yearning and
dependent on it if it comes from you is something you’ll exploit every chance you can get.

“Il mio amore,” you say fondly. “Va tutto bene.”

I immediately start to smile at the sound of the Italian, because I know this is another thing that’s
deliberate. You can tell how overwrought I feel, so are using a foreign language to offer
reassurance while also giving me the option to avoid a conversation if I don’t want to talk. Despite
your capacity for epic ass-holery you can be surprisingly considerate with things like this and I’m
always grateful when it happens. Even so, I ignore the offered Get Out Of Jail Card and decide to
just acknowledge things directly instead.

“I’m sorry I spoke to you like that,” I mutter into your shirt. “I meant what I said, but I shouldn’t
have been so…hostile.”

It’s rare for me to apologise this bluntly, and I can tell you’re pleased with it from the way you shift
your hand upwards to cradle the back of my head. “Thank you,” you say. “The remorse is
appreciated, but unnecessary.”

“We need each other,” I add. “We shouldn’t fight.” In place of the wrestling I’ve begun to hang off
you instead, which involves hooking both arms around your neck then clinging on aggressively.
You always say it makes me look like a monkey, which I think is supposed to be a deterrent but
just makes me want to do it even more.

You now adjust your posture a bit to counterbalance the clinging then use your other hand to
resume stroking my back. “I wasn’t aware we were doing that,” you say. “Perhaps my threshold for
disagreement is higher than yours.”

“Maybe,” I say doubtfully. “I still agree we should talk about it properly…” Then I remember what
this would involve and trail off for a few seconds before awkwardly clearing my throat. “At some
point.”

“By which I suppose you mean that point is not now?”

My only response is to clear my throat again. God, I’m so shit at this. “Look, you were right what
you said,” I finally add. “I have been avoiding it, and I want to have a proper discussion with you.
But Jack being here changes everything. I can’t deal with both at the same time.”

“I’m afraid that statement isn’t quite the solution you think it is,” you say crisply. “You were
avoiding the subject long before Jack arrived. Nor is it very flattering to your state of mind to
suggest the appearance of Jack, and me suggesting marriage, are an equivalent scale of problem.”

“Yeah, okay – sorry. That sounded really bad.” For a few seconds the image of the shitty
caterpillar flashes into my mind; it’s wearing an expression of mournful confusion that’s only
marginally less pathetic than the one I’m almost certainly modelling myself. “I didn’t mean it like
that.”

“Very well,” you say. The fond tone has returned to your voice now; I think you find my emotional
constipation endearing, despite the way you’re always its main target. “I accept your apology.”

“Thanks. And no, it’s definitely not the same.” I reach round and give you a playful dig on the side
of your ribs. “I like you a lot better than I like Jack.”

“What an astounding compliment. I am too emotional to speak.”

“I suppose it could be worse,” I add sardonically. “I could be about to marry Jack and you were the
one who turned up unexpectedly.”

Despite this clearly being a joke (I mean…Christ) it’s still enough to make your face completely
shut down before springing back to life again a few seconds later wearing an expression of truly
magnificent outrage. In fact your reaction is so ridiculous I can’t even be bothered to call you out
on it, so in the end just let go of you and walk away before you can start obsessing about a parallel
universe where Jack and I are Husband and Husband. I’m hoping you might take the hint, but of
course you don’t and instead just follow straight after me and proceed to loom around while I’m
making coffee like the official team mascot of creepy stalkers (in other words: situation normal).

“Where did all these come from?” I say eventually. ‘These’ happen to be a small mountain of paper
towels I’ve discovered in the cupboard, and while the query was initially meant to change the
subject I’ve realised I genuinely want to know. “There’s an absolute ton of them.”

“You have a stunning gift for exaggeration: there are around 20 packets. And in answer to your
question, they came from Rinascente.”

“Seriously?”

“I am entirely serious.”
“Yeah, but I go in there all the time,” I say gloomily. “They know me.” Your eyebrows elevate so
far up your forehead they look like they might become airborne; I frown back at you in response
then pick up the nearest packet and brandish it accusingly in your direction. “Now thanks to you
they’re going to think we spend all day jerking off. I mean, what else would two men be doing with
this many paper towels?”

“That is so preposterous I’m not sure it deserves dignifying with a reply. But since you asked, they
are going to think they will be used during food preparation – which is precisely why I bought
them.”

“But why…”

“Because,” you say briskly, “they have the absorbency and texture of linen yet are also
disposable.”

I blink a few times then glance from you to the towels and then back again. “Are you kidding me?”

“On the contrary.” Your tone is so incredibly solemn that anyone listening would think you were
discussing world peace, or irrigating the desert, or raising the dead, or pretty much anything except
the absorbency of paper-towels-which-are-not-linen (and also disposable). “It’s a quality which
renders them both practical and convenient,” you add; you actually manage to sound smug about
this, as if you’ve scored some kind of epic point and I should just give up now and apologise to you
and the towels together. “And because I don’t wish to be constantly re-stocking, it made sense to
acquire them in bulk.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I say witheringly. “I hope you know that. At the very least I hope they were
cheaper to buy in bulk?”

“Is that so? Then I’m afraid you are destined to be disappointed.”

“So how much were they?”

“I don’t quite recall. Probably around 40 Euros.” I must look aghast because you immediately start
to smile. “As you can see I favour plain to patterned, so compared to the alternatives they were
rather competitively priced.”

“I don’t care if they were signed by all four Beatles,” I say. “That is a complete waste of money.”

“It is, indeed, a terrible scandal. I hope in time you will learn to come to terms with it.”

I glare at the towels for a few seconds like they’ve personally offended me before realising how
stupid the whole thing is and starting to laugh. “So is this what being married would be like?” I
say. “Deranged disagreements over paper towels?”

“I would certainly hope so,” you reply airily. “I enjoy these trivial domestic disputes with you very
much. Our more serious conversations are equally satisfying of course, yet one still needs to leaven
the severity with something lighter. It is like balancing the flavours of a meal. I consider all this
agonising over paper towels to be a kind of sorbet.”

I pick up one of the packets again and examine it incredulously before waving it at you like a
fencing sword. “So they’re a palette cleanser, then?” I say. “A pretentious, over-priced companion
to the main dish?”

“Exactly so.”
“Okay, great,” I say. “That’s…great.”

On an impulse I pitch the packet towards you, which you neatly dart out and catch one-handed.
“Yes, isn’t it?” you reply happily. “I think I shall have to find some new ways to outrage you,
simply for the pleasure of being lectured by you afterwards for how irresponsible I am.”

“It seems like you’d be getting a bit more out of that arrangement that I would.”

“Not at all. Only think how cross you’re going to be while you’re doing it. You love being cross –
I think you will enjoy yourself enormously.”

This makes me laugh again and you smile back before sauntering over to prop yourself next to me
against the counter. You look very elegant as you do it, and I can’t help thinking how anyone else
would look as slovenly as hell in the same position whereas you manage to drape yourself about
like an artist’s model. It always makes me wonder how consciously done it is; whether you
purposely arrange yourself to look as striking as possible or if it’s just natural poise? Everything
you do has such deliberation that it’s hard to imagine even something so simple as your posture to
be entirely accidental. But then again, you’re so aloof that it’s equally hard to imagine you getting
hung up over whether other people find you attractive or not. I smile to myself at the sight of it
then finally reach out to run my finger along one perfectly positioned forearm.

“Look at you,” I say fondly. “You’re such a poser.”

Your only response is to smirk very faintly without even attempting to deny it. “Let’s go out
tonight,” you say instead. “I’d like to buy you dinner.”

“No way,” I say quickly. “Absolutely not. Not while Jack’s here. You need to be careful Hannibal;
I’ve told you that. I’m worried he might want to come after you.”

“I’m always careful,” you reply, in the sort of dismissive tone that’s easy to translate as I’d like to
see him try.

“I’m serious. If you’d heard him you’d understand what I mean. It’s like he’s obsessed with having
a chance to confront you.”

“That’s extremely ambitious of him.”

“Cut that out,” I say sharply. “Don’t be so arrogant – I know you think you’re invincible but you’re
not.”

“Well, Jack is going to be here for some time. And seeing how we agreed that I am not going to
submit myself to house arrest...”

“Actually, we never agreed…”

“…then it makes sense to make our life as comfortable as possible in the meanwhile. Besides, we
are currently occupying what is known as ‘the calm before the storm’ so why not take advantage
of it? You said yourself how tired Jack was: the only place he is likely to be for the next 12 hours
is fast asleep in his hotel.” My face must show a slight sign of weakness because you promptly
lean in to press the advantage. “But that won’t be the case forever. Soon he is going to grow active
again, at which point a little more caution would be advisable. It therefore makes sense to seize the
moment while we can.” You run your eyes across my face then smirk a bit more. “There is also the
fact that you’re looking particularly bad-tempered and beautiful, and I want to take you somewhere
I can show you off.”
“Don’t say ‘show me off’,” I reply irritably. “It makes me sound like I’m your car or something.”

Your only response is another smirk and despite myself I can feel my resolve starting to waver.
After all, the next day or so probably is the last chance for a bit of freedom before Jack’s presence
grows genuinely oppressive. You obviously feel the same, because your features promptly arrange
themselves into one of your favourite yearning expressions (which you always whip out to get me
to do what you want, and which somehow manage to make you look deeply devoted yet incredibly
mournful all at the same time). It’s complete bullshit of course: I know you do it on purpose. In
fact, you’ve been pulling the same face at me for so long that I can’t help feeling you must have
been honing it over the years for maximum effect, probably combined with regular practice in the
mirror. The main problem, unfortunately for me, is that the only thing more predictable than your
Sad Bullshit Face is my own expression in response (and how it always tends to run along the lines
of ‘No I can’t…I really shouldn’t…Oh fuck it, why not, I might as well’).

I now stand there for a few seconds, struggling with an increasingly faint conviction to Do The
Right Thing until I’ve finally reached the inevitable ‘oh fuck it, why not’ phase – at which point
you can tell you’ve won and your own expression changes back from Tragic to Smug with the
speed of someone flicking a switch. However this still leaves the problem of where we can actually
go, because I’m still not at a sufficient stage of ‘fuck everything’ to agree to somewhere as
crowded as a restaurant or bar, whereas you refuse to go somewhere secluded like a cinema on the
grounds that the only films you’ll deign to watch are lengthy arthouse nightmares; and even if I
was willing to subject myself to one (which I’m not) there isn’t anywhere nearby that shows them.

A prolonged stretch of bickering now ensues in which you reject my suggestion of going for a walk
(because we are not a pair of pensioners, Will) and I refuse a fundraising gala at the Bargello
(because it’ll be heaving with people. No, definitely not – and stop making that goddamn face )
until a compromise is finally reached with the Opera di Firenze, which satisfies your need for
something cultured while reassuring my own concerns that Jack would surely prefer to gnaw off
his own feet than sit through Don Giovanni. Although if I’m honest I’m not that far behind him,
because I’ve already seen it twice – both times with you – and while the first was mildly enjoyable,
the second was borderline dismal, and the third is pretty much guaranteed to reach levels of tedium
that are feet-gnawing in severity. Only I don’t have the stamina to withstand another round of your
Sad Bullshit face, so dutifully haul myself upstairs to fling on the same black suit I always use for
formal occasions, and which has now sat through so many graduations, presentations and assorted
ceremonies that given a pair of glasses and a briefcase it could probably turn up on its own and do
the job without me. You keep pestering me to let you buy me a new one and I keep refusing you
permission, although you admittedly scored a small success last month by wearing me down
enough to accept two new bottles of aftershave. They were so exclusive I didn’t even recognise the
brand names, but while it technically crossed my ground rule for not letting you control my
appearance it’s still been worth it just to spare myself the agonised sighs and nostril flares
whenever I was around you in my usual cheap stuff.

Once I’m done I stare rather critically into the mirror, craning my neck in several directions before
twitching my tie into a crisper angle and smoothing down my lapels. I guess I look passable
enough, but there’s no doubt these situations always highlight the social contrast between us:
mainly because you possess the type of patrician good looks that go extremely well with evening
dress, whereas I’ve never managed to shake the suspicion that I look like an advanced form of
primate in comparison who’s been coaxed into a formal jacket before being systematically and
selectively shaved. Then I start smiling to myself, because it’s always a relief to realise that we’ve
been together so long I’ve got past the point of seriously caring about it. There’s no doubt the
flickers of self-conscious still exist, but by now they’re more based on what other people might
think about seeing us together rather than any judgement from you.
I now go downstairs to the living room, where this theory is promptly confirmed when you throw
me a look of such obvious admiration it makes me think I could be wearing a trash bag and you’d
still think I looked like The Shit. Then I pour myself a glass of wine and brace myself for a second
round of bickering, because while you’re raring to leave I’m equally determined we arrive late
enough to limit the number of people in the foyer. To me this seems like an obvious precaution, but
I can already tell you’re not happy about it. Not that I expected you to be. Being the centre of an
admiring crowd has always been a source of enormous satisfaction to you and the social aspect of
attending the opera has almost as much appeal as the music does. It always makes me wonder how
the hell you get away without being spotted, although admittedly it never seems to be a problem. I
remember once asking you how you managed it the first time round when you made yourself even
more visible than you do now, but you didn’t seem to have a straightforward answer. ‘Hiding in
plain sight,’ was all you said. ‘As a strategy it’s remarkably effective. People only ever see what
they wish to.’ Of course it’s also a strategy that ultimately failed, although needless to say you
never acknowledge this. At least now you’ve got me in tow you’ve become a bit less reckless and
your public appearances are fairly few and far between. This is something I’m much happier with;
not only for safety reasons, but because I’m far more introverted than you and a subdued social life
suits me. Privately I’m sure you must miss it – all those soirees and dinner parties – although you
always deny this when I ask you. Why would I? you’ll say. Your company is more than enough.

As predicted you start to brandish the Sad Bullshit face at mega intensity to get me to change my
mind, but this time I manage to man up enough to ignore you (and it) and finally succeed in getting
it (and you) to the theatre a mere 15 minutes before the performance starts. Even so, the plan is still
less successful than hoped for because the foyer, while sparse, is nowhere near as quiet as I’d like
it to be. Seriously, why are all these fuckers stood around out here? I find myself staring round at
them in annoyance, wondering who the hell they are. Have they all been battling Sad Bullshit faces
too? But there’s only a matter of minutes left before we go inside, and in the end I decide to park
you behind one of the pillars (a bit like tying a dog to a lamp post) then make you promise not to
move before heading over to the bar for a tray of drinks. I have a vague plan of using alcohol to
take the edge of my uneasiness – while also doubling as a helpful sedative for the tedium of Don
Giovanni x 3 – but when I turn round again my unease promptly gets replaced by irritation when I
see you’ve been joined behind your pillar by a man with a lot of very white teeth, an extremely
deep suntan, and waves of jet black hair (all of which look equally artificial in their separate ways).
He’s standing much closer to you than I’m happy with, brandishing his glass around with the same
enthusiasm as someone waving a stick for a dog, and my eyes instinctively narrow at the sight of it
as the irritation shifts again and turns into resentment instead. There’s no doubt I’ll have to get rid
of him: not even the risk of causing a scene and all the resulting awkwardness is enough to stop
me. Anyway, it’s not like you can complain because you’re just as bad as I am around rivals. In
fact, if anything, you’re much, much worse – the key difference being that you tend to be more
subtle and lethal about it, whereas I just go full Neanderthal and act like I’m about to hit the other
person on the head with a rock before dragging you back to my cave.

I now launch across the foyer at full maniac speed and rudely insert myself between you and the
stranger, who immediately turns round to flash his teeth in my direction. Up close he looks older
than I first thought, although it’s difficult to pin him down to an exact age: the most precise I can
manage is that he’s older than me but younger than you. Or possibly he’s not – it might just be all
the fake tan and hair dye helping him out. He greets me loudly in Italian and in return I give him a
rather severe look, which essentially translates as Don’t make me get my rock.

“Chi è questo?” he adds, turning back to you again. He’s smiling as he says it and my frown
deepens even further (Find your own high cheek-boned sociopath, you lecherous toothy shit). “Chi
è lui? He is a friend of yours?”

He follows this up with a deliberate pat on your arm; I make a subdued snorting sound then
practically shoulder-barge him out the way so I can hand you your glass of wine then plant myself
in front of you and swing my metaphorical caveman club. Then I realise I’m possibly being a bit
too obvious about it so thrust my hands into my pockets instead in an attempt to look casual (I can
see you wincing at the way it’s ruining the lines of the suit and determinedly ignore you). In fact by
now my irritation is shifting slightly towards you as well as him, because your willingness to
accept rude behaviour from anyone except me is always guaranteed to drive me insanely jealous.

“He is very…ah, aiutami per favore,” adds the man. He smiles a bit more then snaps his fingers
before turning back to you again. “I forget. Un uomo attraente. What is the word in English?”

Even my shitty Italian can interpret this as ‘good-looking’; at which point I adjust the frown and
swivel it in your direction instead, because from the look on your face I just know you’re going to
tell him something stupid on purpose to annoy me. Sure enough you give me a triumphant smirk
and then reply, in a voice of excessive innocence: “Pretty.”

For a few seconds I indulge a highly enjoyable fantasy of taking the wine back again just so I can
throw it at your immaculately groomed head. “Pretty?” I say to you in an undertone. “Are you
shitting me?”

Unfortunately this last part comes out a bit louder than intended and manages to coincide with the
other man leaning forward towards you, right on time to hear it. “Scusi?” he says merrily. “Non
capisco. What is that? ‘Shitting’? I am not familiar.” He turns from one of us to other, obviously
waiting for someone to help him out. “That is English slang, no?”

My sole contribution to this interesting social dilema is to open my mouth to reply before realising
halfway through that I can’t be bothered and closing it again. You, on the other, are completely
unfazed. “Indeed it is,” you reply calmly. “Very avant-garde in certain circles. Avanguardia –
capisci cosa intendo? You ought to try it.”

You catch my eye as you’re speaking and I have a sudden urge to laugh; partly because your smug
malevolence is always amusing, but also at the idea of various well-bred Italian socialites
innocently competing over who can devise the most avant-garde conjugations of the verb ‘to shit’
(including, but not limited to, ‘to shit oneself,’ ‘to shit them all’ and ‘I shitted him most
efficaciously’).

“Sì, sì,” says the man. “Perhaps I will.”

With a colossal effort I sober up sufficiently to arrange my expression into something vaguely
resembling neutral. “Yeah,” I tell him. “You really should.”

“Ah, bellissimo, that accent,” coos the man “Così Americano. It is adorable.” I catch your eye
again, then am just about to contemplate saying something about shit in an adorable way when
rescue obligingly presents itself in the form of the bar bell telling everyone to take their seats.

“Bye then,” I say loudly. The man promptly shakes your hand and you ciao at each other a few
times before he finally manages to fuck off down the stairway in the direction of the stalls and I
give in to the urge to laugh.

“Who the hell,” I say, “was that?”

“I have spoken to him a few times in the past,” you reply. “He owns a local art gallery. He is also,
as you see, a horrendous bore.” You smile sardonically but don’t add anything else, and I manage
to stop sniggering long enough to ask if you’ve been shocked into silence by excessive bullshit
exposure when you reply in a thoughtful voice: “No, I appear to be sulking because I am not as
adorably voiced as you are,” which promptly sets me off again.

You’re smiling yourself now, which is always nice to see. Both of us are generally rather stony-
faced around other people but we can make each other laugh all the time when we’re alone. “I
knew you were going to do that,” you add. “I had already set a countdown in my head until the
cavalry arrived.”

As soon as you say that it strikes me that you might have been letting him slobber over you on
purpose (or, more likely, actively encouraging it) just to provoke a reaction. In fact, you almost
certainly did: you’ve always enjoyed seeing me get aggressive on your behalf. As if to confirm this
you give an eerie little smile then place your hand on the small of my back to guide me towards the
staircase.

“I confess, I was expecting him to show a little more decorum,” you say. “I was not particularly
pleased with the way he spoke to you.” You pause suggestively then press against my back a little
harder. “Perhaps we should pay him a visit?”

Internally I feel myself sigh. It’s so painfully easy to recognise this for what it is; namely one of
your many (many) overtures to calibrate my standards of worthiness a little closer to your own, in
which who gets to live and who deserves to die stops being rational and shifts onto some abstract
plane of morality instead. Considering our setting it’s also strangely fitting: part of your endless
quest to transform carnage into performance, where killing is borderline operatic and death is
brash, beautiful, over-the-top extravagant. A gothic Grand Guignol, which takes the macabre then
transforms it into a vista of viciously infernal artistry. You’ll suspend these suggestions over me
like dainty little morsels just there for the taking, and while I refuse them each time you do it it’s
never enough to stop you trying.

“No,” I now reply, just like I always do. “Not unless you can prove he’s done something worse
than just being drunk and sleazy.”

This makes you sigh yourself. Unlike mine it’s positively lavish in how expressive it is: as far as
you’re concerned, it’s clear that either of these crimes are more than sufficient justification. “Well,
perhaps you may be right,” is all you say. “A metamorphosis to a new, superior form is a gift
which he may not be fully deserving of.”

Even now – even after everything – there’s something about the calm way you describe killing
someone as a ‘gift’ that’s still jarring enough to make me wince. Although surely that’s a good
thing? At least it shows I’m not completely numb to it, despite the way I sometimes wish I could
be. Instead of replying I just cast a quick, covert glance in your direction, staring at you almost
guiltily from beneath my eyelashes before you have a chance to see me doing it. You look so
striking this evening. Mesmerizing, almost. You’ve got your hair slicked back off your face, which
is something you hardly ever bother with anymore yet always makes you look incredibly sleek and
glamourous whenever you do it. It highlights your cheekbones and the angular slants of your face,
making you look more aloof and, in some indefinable way, more dangerous and predatory. Even
so, your general person suit is on impeccable display and no one watching would ever guess you
were anything beyond the suavely charismatic centrepiece of High Society that you appear to be.
They’d never imagine the extent of that terrifying core simmering beneath the surface, the same
way I sometimes couldn’t tell anymore whether you really were a person or just playing the part of
one. Although I suppose that’s always been the secret of your success hasn’t it? People find it so
hard to truly see you.

Of course the irony of this isn’t lost on me, because I had the exact same problem for most of my
life and never really found a solution for it until the day I found you. I now cast another glance in
your direction, this time a bit more softly than before. Admittedly it didn’t feel like a solution to
begin with, and I used to really resent it – hated it, in fact – because of how deftly you were able to
rifle through my emotions without permission before holding out whatever you’d found to inspect
it. It used to drive me wild with irritation…until suddenly it didn’t. I can even remember the
moment the shift first really occurred. I was in your office one day, snappish and skittish while
staring out the window, when you suddenly asked, apropos of nothing, what was wrong.

Why are you asking? I’d said. I was angry with you and I can still hear the tone of my voice; how
annoyed and indignant I’d sounded. How do you know anything’s the matter?

How do I know? Because you’ve told me of course.

No I haven’t. I haven’t told you anything.

Your mouth had flickered then: that eternal ability you’ve always had to indicate amusement
without taking the trouble to smile. No, and you never tell me if you’ve cut your hair, or acquired a
new shirt, you’d said. But I observe it nonetheless. And in the end I’d just smiled for the both of us,
because I instinctively knew it was true. You could just see it, couldn’t you? You could see me.
And in turn I don’t think I’d ever really understood how badly I needed that until it was on offer.
To be really seen, despite there being so much at that point I felt I could never possibly show. In
some of my bleakest, loneliest moments I think I could have even believed that there was no
greater way to demonstrate regard than those three small words, surpassing even love itself. I see
you. As if love was just a pale and unconvincing counterfeit of perception; of the acceptance and
awareness that comes from being seen. It was true back then and it’s true now, and it’s enough to
dissolve the previous flash of discomfort and make me pull a bit closer to you before taking hold of
your hand.

The touch makes you glance down immediately. Possibly you’re surprised: it’s rare for me to be
affectionate with you in public. I also suspect you’re fully aware of the mental wrangling I’ve just
undergone, but it’s clear you don’t intend to pester me about it and instead just guide me towards
the top floor where you’ve reserved a private box for us. This is something you’ll often do, and
despite finding it needlessly extravagant it’s something I’ll never complain about because I know
how unbearable it is for you to be surrounded by other people coughing and shuffling. It also
means I’m sensitive to not becoming a similar distraction myself, and I now make a concentrated
effort to conceal how bored I am by sitting very quietly to avoid disturbing you. Not that this is a
very promising plan; the options for entertainment in a pitch-black auditorium are, after all,
somewhat limited. I start off with translating the libretto to practice my Italian and then, once I get
sick of that, lean over the balcony instead and count the orchestra to see if all the sections are
complete (they are). Oh God, I’m so bored…I can’t help it. No doubt I’m just a massive cultural
peasant, but opera never manages to transport me the way it does you. Authentic emotion seizes
my attention so fiercely that I don’t seem to have any left over for artificial versions, regardless of
how skillfully they’re performed. It’s one the reasons movies and plays so often leave me
indifferent.

Having said that, even you aren’t looking quite as rapt this evening as you generally are. It’s not
like you’ve been reduced to counting the musicians, but you do keep shifting in your seat at
intervals then restlessly drumming your fingers on the armrest in a way that’s out of character. It
occurs to me that the music isn’t up to your typical standards, although to be honest it’s hard to tell.
It certainly sounds good enough to me (but then I’m a massive peasant so what would I know?) To
test this theory I lean over until my head is resting against yours and then wait to see your reaction.
If you’re engaged you’ll barely notice me beyond a token gesture – a touch to the hand perhaps, or
a brief return of pressure on my face – but this time you respond immediately by pressing a kiss to
my forehead then draping your arm across my shoulders. Now I feel smug, because this not only
confirms you’re not concentrating on the music but suggests it might be a good idea to do
something about it. Should I? Yeah…yeah, I think I should. It’ll probably cheer you up a bit and
will undoubtedly make me much happier. Two birds with one stone, as it were.

On stage Leporello is now busy reciting a list of conquests to an anguished Donna Elvira, which I
suppose is as suitable a soundtrack as any to act like a massive Man Slut. Besides, at least it means
everyone around us will be focussed on the performance. I decide to go in for the kill and begin to
lavish your throat with feathery kisses, slowly progressing upwards until I can tug at your earlobe
with my teeth. As much as you love attention you’re more than capable of telling me to
metaphorically piss off when you want to, so your silence makes it safe to assume you don’t want
me to stop. Even so, I still slide my hand along your thigh to check for sure, promising myself that
if you’re not enjoying it I’ll move back to my own seat and leave you alone. Hmm, no…no you’re
definitely into it. In fact you’ve got so hard so quickly you must have been even less invested in the
music than I’d realised. It’s also more than enough to help make up my mind as I silently slide off
my chair to kneel in front of you, reaching out to unfasten your belt one-handed as I go. The fact
there’s no one nearby makes the risk of getting caught exceptionally low, yet the mere possibility
of it still adds a perverse thrill of danger to what I’m about to do.

The same thought must have occurred to you too, but it seems you’re equally cavalier about it
because you make no attempt to stop me. I mean of course you don’t – why would you? The more
debauched and inappropriate something is the better you like it. Instead you offer silent
encouragement by tangling your fingers into my hair, gently stoking and tugging before
possessively gripping the back of my neck at the exact same moment I slide your cock into my
mouth. Fuck, I can actually feel you hardening on my tongue; I give a small moan then get to work
in earnest, using as much saliva as possible to keep things wet and soft while cupping you with my
hand to get some extra depth. Above me you make a sound that’s close to a hiss then dig your nails
into my skin as your hand trails across my shoulder. Your desperation is so obvious that it spurs
me on to double my effort, sucking hard enough for my cheeks hollow out then screwing my eyes
tightly closed with the intensity of how good it feels. I absolutely love doing this for you; it’s one
of those things where giving is almost as good as receiving. Partly it’s from how much I like to
watch you unravel, but also because you’re so exposed and defenseless this way and the fact you’ll
allow it always seems like a powerful sign of how much you trust me.

Your now hips give a violent twitch and as a spurt of pre-come leaks into my mouth I lick it up
greedily, swirling my tongue around the head of your cock then digging into the slit until I’m
rewarded with another flood of it. The whole thing is gloriously fast and messy and the forbidden
element makes me clumsily over-excited; at one point almost choking with a series of gags that are
so intense they make my eyes water. There’s also no denying that the position is terrible. I’m
rammed against the wall with your legs pressed tightly round me, and while I know you prefer to
have me gazing up at your face while I’m doing this the cramped space makes it impossible to
move. I can’t even jerk myself off because my elbow would thud too noisily against the balcony.
But I don’t care about any of it and the discomfort is nowhere near enough to make me want to
stop. Instead I reach out into the darkness to grab your hand in mine, widening my mouth to take as
much of your cock as I can then speeding up the pace until your breath is hitching into a gasp. In a
way I almost feel bad for you because it must be agony not to make any noise; I can tell from how
you’re squirming against the seat and the tense drag of muscle as you grip me tighter between your
thighs. I’m probably making it worse by clenching your hand so hard I feel the bones grind
together, although the urgency isn’t for myself – the only thing I care about anymore is to make
you feel as good as possible. By the time you’re giving my hair a warning tug the intensity and
intimacy have grown close to overwhelming and when you start to come straight down my throat
it’s almost enough to make me come myself. I’m so turned I even forget how over-sensitive you
must be, so continue sucking and lapping long after it’s over until you have to catch hold of my
chin to make me stop.

I finally pull off you with a wet, slippery noise (which somehow sounds far louder than it should)
then tenderly lick you clean while you stroke my hair and rub my lower lip with your thumb. If I’m
honest I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself: that whole experiment worked out even better than
hoped for. I have a private smirk against your leg, then am just about to haul myself back to my
seat when you catch hold of my waist to pull me onto your lap instead. It feels pretty ridiculous to
be honest (an image of a ventriloquist’s dummy unhelpfully comes to mind) but I stay there
anyway without attempting to move. Behind me I can hear the rough heave of your breath as you
reach round to take hold of my tie, jerking my head back with it like I’m on a leash until I’m close
enough for you to savage my throat with your lips and teeth. It’s almost aggressive in how
passionate it is, but before things can get painful your mood switches again as the kisses stop just
as abruptly as they started and grow soft and affectionate instead. It’s extremely rare to ever get a
sense of you feeling vulnerable, but I really have it now from the tender way you murmur my name
before both your arms wrap around me and hold on so fiercely it’s like your life depends on it.
Times like this have been increasingly rare in the past few weeks, but they always feel profound
whenever they happen. They’re the times when you speak to me without saying a word; when your
touch and gestures alone are enough to communicate what you want to. I love you, you’re saying. I
need you. Beloved. Don’t ever leave me. Don’t betray me a second time.

In that moment it seems as if the specter of Jack is hanging right over us and I can tell you’re
thinking about our conversation from this morning. But just like before I don’t know the right
words to convince you, so in the end I just speak silently too: tipping my head back against your
shoulder until my face is tucked beneath your chin and you can rest your cheek contentedly against
my hair. The music is still soaring and plunging in the background and as we settle down to watch
the rest I make a final effort to banish the image of Jack and focus on this feeling of togetherness
instead. I might as well because God knows how long it’ll last: realistically it’s only a matter of
time before another drama come crashing in to spin things even further out of control. But it hasn’t
happened right now, and in these few fleeting moments there’s no madness, misery or bullshit to
distract me; nothing at all except that overwhelming sense of love and connection. Just me, just
you. Just us.
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

Lolol, omg, this chapter is even more obvious filler than the last one was, so sorry in
advance about that! My only defence is that it contains what’s probably the most
frequent request I’ve had since writing The Shape of Me, and this seemed like a good
place to slot it in before all the drama starts. And in terms of what ‘it’ is…let’s just say
you’ll spot it when you see it ;-D

See the end of the chapter for more notes

By the time the opera ends I’ve grown relaxed and happy in a way that feels fairly unusual. I even
unwind enough to agree to have a drink with you afterwards, as long as it’s on the condition we go
somewhere quiet and you keep yourself out of the way. We walk off in companionable silence, my
hand gripped tightly in yours, and despite how much time has passed the simplicity of it still feels
striking: no concealed weapons or fatal schemes, just me and you in the moonlight, together at last
with nothing to hide.

The bar we end up in is a few blocks from the theatre and is lit entirely by candle lanterns, as well
as filled with the type of curios that might look quaint by daylight but in the flickering shadows
come across as comically eerie: a stone row of human faces, banks of dried twigs, even a
taxidermied crow that glares above the bar with weird glinting eyes. You conceal yourself in the
corner without complaint and we stay there for over an hour, drinking wine and dipping focaccia
into bowls of oil while nudging each other’s feet beneath the table and competing over who can
devise the most absurd analogy for the décor. It’s very good-natured and casual, and it makes me
wonder what an outsider would think if they saw us. I suppose they’d guess we were a couple from
the way you reach across the table to tuck a bit of hair behind my ear, and on hearing our accents
they’d probably assume we were tourists. But regardless of how observant they were, no one
looking at us would actually know.

In an odd way it reminds me of being in high-school and a particular girl I’d nurtured a long-term
crush on. At that point I was still the awkward new kid who could never look anyone in the eye,
but she’d tolerate my silent admiration in exchange for homework help, and one afternoon when
the books were put away, I managed to tag along with her when she took her little brother to the
store. I even offered to push the stroller for her, and I remember how I spent the entire time
pretending we were a couple and imagining that the cashier would look at us and think the baby
was ours. It’s the same sense I have now: of playacting normal. Just a nice, normal couple on
vacation, gazing at each other through the candlelight while sharing a bottle of wine. The
dissonance feels similar to my previous thoughts about your person suit – the enormous gulf
between what we seem and what we actually are – but ultimately I know it doesn’t matter, because
I never really wanted normal. I only ever wanted you.

By the time we get home it’s late enough to be early and we collapse into the living room with an
atmosphere that’s happier and more carefree than I’ve felt for ages. It’s more like how we used to
be when we first left America (lots of grinning, touching and barely subdued laughter) and the
awareness of it makes me wistful for how much I wish we could be like this all the time. I now
smile at you in a rather dumb, sentimental sort of way and you smile back before disappearing into
the kitchen to retrieve another bottle of wine. You then put some music on in the background and I
loll around on the sofa with my head on your knee while amusing myself with folding the edge of
your jacket into elaborate concertina shapes. My own jacket was discarded in the hallway some
time ago and I now tug my tie off as well and crumple it onto the floor. Formal wear drives me
insane with irritated discomfort but you never seem to mind. Although I suppose you wouldn’t,
would you? People can put you in a strait-jacket and you’ll just sit there and look pleased with
yourself, so it’s not likely you’d have any shits to give about a collar or waistcoat.

Behind me the music swells with a sudden surge of chords and I pause in fiddling with your jacket
then pull on your wrist instead to get your attention. “Bach,” I say rather dreamily. “You used to
play it over and over. Do you remember?” You nod to suggest you do and I smile again then
stretch out a bit further across your knee. “If this was a movie it would be our love theme,” I add.
“They’d use it as the soundtrack whenever we were on screen together.” Then I go completely
silent because even to my own ears this sounds as cringey as hell and it occurs me, a bit too late,
that I’m actually rather drunk.

You smile too and give my hair an affectionate ruffle. “Then they’d have to play it all the time
wouldn’t they?”

“Mmm, I don’t know. I suppose they’d have to alternate it.” I roll my eyes rather lavishly before
resuming my previous fiddling with your jacket. “What about the scenes where you try to turn me
into a serial killer through the power of suggestion?”

Your lips twitch at this, the way they always do when you’re trying not to laugh. “An undeniable
challenge,” you reply. “Even for the deftest of composers.” I begin nodding like a bobble head and
you give my hair another ruffle then lean forward to open a second bottle of wine, nimbly twisting
the corkscrew around in your fingers like someone twirling a baton.

“Corkscrews…” I say thoughtfully as I watch you do it. “Isn’t the design…amazing.”

“No. Not especially.”

“It is,” I say firmly. “It’s amazing. It’s inventive. Elon Musk could never.”

You choose to ignore this (I can’t say I blame you) and instead reach for the remote so you can turn
the music a little louder. “Your objection is noted,” you add. “Although our soundtrack would still
have to feature the love theme in some way. After all, it’s often said that people don’t wish to be
loved so much for who they are as for what they appear to be – and your dilemma was always the
exact opposite.”

The thoughtful way you say this reminds me of my earlier reflections in the theatre and I reach out
so I can cup your face in my palm. “I see you,” I say.

You smile again then put your own hand over mine. “Yes,” you say simply. “I know you do.”

You don’t add anything else and instead just continue to smile down at me, very fond and tender-
eyed. In fact it goes on so long I start to feel like I should make another declaration, only I’m too
drunk to think of anything to say. I begin to scowl to myself with the effort of summoning
something suitably profound and/or poetic and your smile promptly broadens at the sight of it.

“Yes?” you eventually ask.

I open my mouth, frown a bit more, then finally admit defeat and close it again. It strikes me that a
hen possibly has a similar expression on its face when trying to lay a particularly large egg. “No,
that’s it,” I say eventually. “I’m done.”
“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah…I’ve got nothing.”

“Then the conversation is officially closed. I congratulate you. Brevity is, indeed, the soul of wit.”

“Oh shut up.” I prod your forearm then settle down again across your lap (which is absolutely not
snuggling) and close my eyes. After a while I open them again. “Hey!” I say brightly. “Do you
remember the first time we had sex?”

“Always.” You smile a bit more then smooth my hair out of my eyes. “Why do you ask?”

I suppose this is a fair question. Unfortunately it’s also an awkward one, because I’ve suddenly
realised I’ve no idea what the reason was. Although surely there have been one? Something to do
with the music I think, but God knows exactly what. I practically go cross-eyed trying to work it
out and you wisely decide to give up on me and wait until I’ve gone still so you can run your finger
along my face instead.

“Stop wriggling,” you add when I try to twist out of reach. “Let me admire you in peace.”

“I am not wriggling,” I say indignantly (because surely wriggling is something that children or
invertebrates do, rather than grown functioning adults with beards and college degrees). Then I
open my mouth again to tell you that it tickles before realising that this is the sort of word that’s
almost impossible to say in front of you. “It’s uncomfortable,” I say instead. “Has no one ever told
you to ‘look with your eyes, not with your hands’?”

“Probably,” you reply, resuming the stroking motion on my cheek. “I expect I ignored it, as I do
with anything else I find inconvenient. You looked very striking this evening mylimasis – I should
have told you so earlier. No wonder that man was so taken by the sight of you.” You give a faint
smirk then press down harder on my forehead in a way that’s clearly intended to annoy me. “It
appears he shares my own fondness for fine-boned young people with languid eyes and lovely
faces.”

“Oh God, do shut up.”

“Well, you have. Complaining about it will not improve your situation.”

“Actually, genius, I’m complaining about you.”

“I’m afraid that will be even less effective,” you say cheerfully. “I am always extremely single-
minded in pursuit of my goals – and right now my goal is to sit here and congratulate myself on
acquiring something so singular as you are.”

“Well do it silently.”

“No,” you say, beginning to stroke my cheek again. “I wish to speak my thoughts aloud. Besides,
I’ve always liked your face. It’s as gracefully moulded as a piece of porcelain. You’re so artistic,
Will. It’s a very refined type of beauty. If you’d lived in this country centuries ago you would have
been the favourite model of some Renaissance Master. They would have been delighted with you,
just as I am. You possess the required characteristics to have stepped straight from a Medieval
fresco.”

As you’re speaking you narrow your eyes slightly then hold up your fingers like you’re checking
items off some mental list. “Delicate bones and willowy limbs,” you add. “An elegant pallor which
defies the sun. And a general look of grimly haunted glamour which hints of exquisite suffering
and fortitude. How would one capture it, I wonder? A Bellini martyr perhaps…or
Mantegna’s Saint Sebastian? But then you also have those large luminous eyes and coils of hair
which are pure pre-Raphaelite. Those qualities are much less about pain, and belong more to
enticing, sensuous spheres of bliss and decadence. Really, you could make yourself at home in any
era you wanted. Art for art’s sake, beloved – I congratulate you.”

I roll my eyes so hard there seems a real risk they could spin right out my head. “Jesus,” I say. “Are
you done?”

“I am not done. Not remotely. I could rhapsodise over you for far longer if you permit.”

“I do not permit.”

“But I am feeling inspired. Divine inspiration, mylimasis. If the Gods were real then you would
certainly be their masterpiece. Although not the Abrahamic Gods of course; they are so stolid and
severe – so concerned with morality. No, you would be the result of the Hellenic Gods from
Ancient Greece and Rome. Divine passion and dazzling violence.”

In the resulting silence I now just stare at you and blink a few times. Fucking hell, I think. All this
just from an illegal blowjob during Don Giovanni. Then I notice the aimless way your eyes have
started to wander round the room and the penny finally drops.

“I don’t believe it,” I say fondly. “You’re drunk aren’t you?”

You narrow your eyes again like you’re thinking about it, weighing up all available evidence
before committing to a decision. It takes you absolutely ages. “Yes,” you say finally.

I give a snort of amusement (which, because I’m more than a bit drunk myself, ends up sounding
less like amusement and more like I’m about to combust). You continue to stare down at me,
waiting patiently until I’ve finished. “You’re never drunk,” I manage to say. “When were you last
drunk?”

“I don’t quite recall. Perhaps a few years ago.”

I frown a bit over this, trying to work out when it might have happened and whether I was around to
witness it. It’s a real pity there’s no obvious proof: documentary evidence is needed for the public
record (and by documentary evidence I mean photos, and by public record I mean me).

“How can you be drunk?” I say eventually.

Just like before you treat this question as if it’s something deeply profound, puzzling over it in
silent concentration before committing to an answer. “I suppose because we didn’t have dinner,”
you finally reply. “Plus the alcohol content in this wine is incredibly high – and I have drunk it
incredibly fast.”

“Well, at least it makes sense now. I didn’t think a clandestine opera blowjob could have blissed
you out this much.”

Your eyes immediately narrow even further. “I can guess what you’re referring to, but I confess
that I don’t understand that term at all.” You pause then give a little theatrical shiver of disdain.
“It’s ridiculous. I suppose it’s American?”

“I’ve no idea what it is.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” you say. You sound genuinely aggrieved about it.
“None at all,” I reply in an exaggeratedly sombre voice. “What are we going to do?”

“It is not a laughing matter.” You pause again then draw your eyebrows together across your nose.
“The entire premise is conceptually flawed.”

“I know it is. No one cares.”

“How does one contrive to blow a job?”

“Oh God, just…stop.”

“It is absurd,” you reply firmly. “You must not say it again.”

“Fine,” I say. “From now on I will only ever fellate you.” There’s another pause while you just sit
there with an expression of self-righteous suffering that would be more suitable for a martyr tied to
stake. “I hope you feel better now?” I add. “I hope you can put this travesty behind you and move
on.”

“I do not feel better,” you reply with excessive seriousness. “Absurdity of any kind is deeply
offensive to me.”

“Oh dear,” I reply, equally seriously. “I am deeply sorry that you are so deeply offended by
blowjobs.”

At the sound of the felonious phrase your face acquires an expression of outright horror and I
slowly open my mouth like I’m going to say it again before changing my mind and starting to
laugh instead. “You’re the one who’s absurd,” I say. “All the things you’ve done over the years
and the thing that’s made you lose the will to live is bl…”

You hold up your hand. “Please,” you say faintly. “Not another word.”

“It could be your safe word,” I say. “Have you heard of that before?” You narrow your eyes again:
it’s obvious that you haven’t but don’t want to admit it. “It’s a type of code word,” I add helpfully.
“You use it to let another person know they’re crossing a physical, emotional or moral boundary.
So, for example, if I was doing something you didn’t like you could say it as a sign for me to stop.
Or you could say it to one of The Rudes when they’re getting annoying. Oh, hey, I know…” I trail
off for a few seconds then let out a poorly subdued snorting noise. “You could use it on Jack when
he tries to arrest you.”

You wait patiently until I’ve finished cackling then lean over me to replace your wineglass on the
table; it takes you several attempts because you keep missing the coaster. Although even then you
still manage to look more elegant than most people would manage under similar circumstances:
you’re a sexy bastard, there’s no denying it (although mostly, it must be said, just a bastard). You
finally succeed in getting the glass where you want it then give a satisfied nod like you’ve just
achieved something truly awesome. You even turn round and give me a smug look straight
afterwards as if you’re expecting applause (Well check me out, the look says. Look at me handle a
wineglass like a total boss. My level of greatness is so extreme it’s no longer quantifiable with
modern mathematics).

“I shall do no such thing,” you eventually add. “Not with you, and not with Jack either. I should say
that arrest would be preferable.”

“Are you sure about that?” I let out another stifled cackle then attempt to mimic your previous
horrified expression. In my drunken state I slightly overdo it and end up looking like someone
whose extremities are being slowly dissolved in acid. “You looked like you thought death would
be preferable.”

“Yes, you have already made that observation. You claimed that I appeared to be losing the will to
live.”

“So you’re admitting it?”

“Not necessarily.” You smirk a bit then wave your hand towards the stack of papers on the desk.
“Besides I have a will. I also have the will and, most importantly, my Will, so shall no doubt
struggle on regardless.”

For a few seconds I go a bit cross-eyed again as I try to categorise all these separate wills. It seems
like an excessive amount of will-age for one person. This is typical of you; you always over-do
everything. “A will and testament, the will to live, and me,” I say finally. “One of those things is
not like the others; it comes with blowjobs attached.”

You roll your eyes even harder and I patiently wait for them to reappear so I can roll mine right
back. “And they call me a monster,” you say. “Ti adoro così tanto. I adore you utterly, yet you are
insufferable in every possible way.”

“Then you’re going to have to suffer aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you say mournfully. “It would appear so.”

“Commiserations,” I tell you. Then I have a sudden flashback to Giulietta and repeat the same
subdued snorting noise as before. “Bad luck, patatino.”

For a few seconds you stare at me in silence, blinking several times before your eyebrows slowly
start to knit together. “I beg your pardon?” you say finally. “Either I am drunker than I realised, or
else you have just referred to me as a little potat…”

“No, I didn’t.” I smirk again then reach out to give you a kindly pat on the arm. “You must be
imagining it. It’s all right, though – cheer up old man. You know how the expression goes: where
there’s a will there’s a way.”

This time you don’t even bother to reply and just put your palm over my mouth instead. I entertain
myself pulling a series of drunken faces at you over the top of it to try and make you laugh before
abruptly remembering something that causes me to go totally still before starting to frown for real.

“Oh God,” I say. My voice is muffled beneath your hand; I jerk my face free then try again. “I’ve
just realised.”

“What have you realised?”

“We were supposed to pay the rent today.” I scowl a bit more, trying and failing to work it out. “I
mean yesterday.”

“Well I realised that already,” you say smugly. “And I’m afraid I don’t share your sense of
urgency. It will do him no harm to wait at our convenience.”

I give a final, ferocious frown the reach up to push your hand away. You might not share my
urgency but I definitely don’t share your no-fucks-to-give attitude, and as an image of Matteo’s
face swarms into my mind I can feel myself starting to tense. How the hell could I have forgotten?
Although of course I know exactly how – it’s because Jack seemed like a far bigger source of
danger, enough to temporarily eclipse him.
“Oh fucking…fuck,” I announce. You raise your eyebrows. “Well it is,” I add defensively.

“It is – what?” you reply, which is your way of saying ‘You are talking total crap – desist’. It’s a
tone of voice that just begging to be argued with, but I don’t bother responding because asides
from ‘Well the entire situation is a fuck of the fucking variety, obviously. Duh’ there doesn’t seem
to be any real answer to this question. I retreat into mutinous silence instead.

“Don’t look so concerned,” you add. You actually have the nerve to sound amused; you’re lucky
my coordination is only slightly less shit than yours is at the moment, otherwise I’d probably be
tempted to punch you. “If he had any sort of scheme planned he would have acted on it by now. I
shall take the money myself tomorrow – I mean today – and be done with it.”

“You will not,” I say firmly. “The whole point was to keep him away from you.”

“What are you talking about? What point?”

This is a fair question, because I don’t seem to remember what the original point was myself.
Although surely there must have been one? “The point,” I finally reply.

“There was no point,” you reply, equally firmly.

“There was!” I say. “There was absolutely a point.”

Now it’s your turn to frown at me. I frown back, and it ends up going on for ages with both of us
pulling increasingly bad-tempered faces at each other without the slightest shred of self-awareness
at how stupid we must look. “There was no point,” you finally add. “None at all. My point, on the
other hand, is that his lack of action suggests a lack of threat.”

“Your point is shit,” I say crossly. “It’s a shit point.”

“It is not.”

“It is. If this was the Internet then you would have just posted cringe.”

Your only response is to give me an incredibly withering look before you appear to grow bored
with the whole thing and reach out for your wineglass instead. Your first two tries are unsuccessful
because your aim has grown so bad; I watch your progress with interest. “On the contrary,” you
add after several years seem to have passed and you finally pick it up. “My point is impeccably
well-reasoned.”

“On the contrary,” I reply in an ominous voice. “Your point sucks.”

“I disagree.”

I open my mouth to summon a suitable reply before realising I’m too drunk to properly manage it.
It should be an analogy of some kind; something pithy and devastating. What though? A bit more
silence passes while I consider it and you raise your eyebrows expectedly.

“It sucks balls,” I say finally.

As I watch your eyebrows start to lower before slowly raising themselves up again. “It does not.”

“All the balls!” I say, in something close to a shriek.

This time your eyebrows look like they’re struggling to decide whether to raise or descend before
giving up completely and returning to their resting position. Then you take a dainty sip of your
wine and lie back on the sofa with your eyes closed, letting out dramatic sighs at intervals like
someone with the weight of the world on their shoulders.

“How tiresome you are,” you say eventually.

“You shouldn’t have put your glass down,” I tell you in my best Smug Bastard voice. “It’ll take
you about three hours to pick it back up.”

“Indeed it will,” you reply without opening your eyes. “Although perhaps by that time I shall be
sober again.”

Your tone sounds incredibly irritable. More than that: it sounds grumpy. In fact it feels like a bit of
an insight into what you might be like when you’re an old man. Most people mellow with age but I
bet you won’t – I bet even then you’ll still be a massive dick. I’ve probably got nothing to look
forward to except years of being lectured by you in an old-man voice about how tiresome I am
before getting swiped round the ankles with your walking stick.

“Listen to that,” you say suddenly. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“What?”

“The sound of silence.” You crack open your eyes just so you can roll them at me before abruptly
snapping them shut again. “The complete absence of you talking.”

In exchange for this insult I reach out to give you a malevolent poke on the arm. “You’re going to
have a hell of a hangover tomorrow,” I say.

You catch hold of my hand with your own then press it against the sofa like it’s being sent to
solitary confinement. Normally you’d accomplish this with ninja-like speed but by now you’re so
tanked it takes you two attempts.

“I most certainly shall not,” you add with excessive dignity. “I have not had a hangover since I was
a teenager.”

My ears prick up a bit at this, although while it seems there might well be an interesting story
behind it I think I’m getting too tired to ask you what it is. Anyway, I’ve already tried to visualise
you as an old man and seeing you as a drunken teenager requires more imaginative powers than I
currently possess.

“Well, whatever you do, just don’t forget the point,” I add sleepily. “I don’t want Matteo anywhere
near you.”

“What a cautious boy you are.”

“And stop calling me a boy. I’m a man. I’m mannish.” I go quiet for a few seconds, trying to
summon some suitable proof. “Look, I’ve got a beard and everything.”

You yawn so widely you almost dislocate your jaw then idly run a forefinger along my cheek.
“Yes,” you say. “A boyish beard.”

“Ugh, did you just insult my beard?”

“It would appear so. Although you are in no position to rush to its defence. You have abused it
yourself for years.”
“I have not.”

“On the contrary, you have shown considerable cruelty. You forced it to parade around in public
wearing that atrocious aftershave; its sense of shame must have been considerable.”

“Yes, well, now you’ve offended us both.”

“Have I?” you say lazily. “Then perhaps I should desist while I still can. After all, I am sadly out-
numbered – two of you and only one of me. In fact, as an additional sign of goodwill, I shall give
my word to both you and your beard that I will not forget the point.”

I try to poke you again before remembering that my hand is still banished beneath yours on the
sofa. “But you can’t just not forget it,” I say. “You have to follow it.”

“And now you are being suspicious. Don’t you trust me?”

“No,” I say flatly. “Not at all.” You open your eyes very wide in an attempt to look innocent and I
throw you another scowl. “Don’t even bother,” I add.

This time you just give the most godawful smirk then obediently close your eyes. At least you’re
admitting it I suppose. After all, you might possess a wide range of assorted skills but looking
innocent definitely isn’t one of them. I don’t think you’ve ever looked innocent in your life. In fact
you were almost certainly born looking lethal. I bet the midwife’s first words were: What an
extraordinarily malevolent looking infant. Fingers and toes all correct, but quite unusually evil-
looking. I bet if you’d been born now then you’d have undoubtedly become an internet sensation…
possibly a meme called ‘Evil Baby.’

“You know, I’m not sure which version of you is worse,” I add thoughtfully. “A criminal baby, a
drunk teenager, an old man hitting me with a stick, or how you are right now.”

There’s a long pause before you finally open your eyes again. “I hope you’re not waiting for a
response to that query?” you say. “Because it is without a doubt the stupidest thing I have ever
heard in my life.”

“Is it really? Worse than attempting to blow one’s job?”

“Enough. Be quiet, you little horror.”

“I’m not,” I protest. “I’m not little. Or a horror.”

“You are both of those things,” your reply firmly. “So I assume it is the terms rather than the
concept itself which offends you. Perhaps you’d prefer to be a tiny terror?”

“Yeah, well…you’re a jerk.”

“And you are a brat.”

“Well, you’re a little potato,” I say. This is announced with excessive dignity, like I’ve just scored
the most epic insult imaginable. “I’d rather be a tiny terror.” Then I try and fail to rescue my hand
from exile before giving up and slumping against your knee with my face against your chest. You
reach down and gently run your fingers through my hair. “You know I’d kind of like to go to bed,”
I say hazily. “But I think I’m too drunk to move.”

“Then I suppose I shall have to carry you.”

“You will not,” I mutter into your shirt. “I hate being carried.”

I sound very firm, although in fact this isn’t entirely true. I’d rather die than admit it, but deep
down I know I find something just the tiniest bit thrilling about having a partner who’s so much
stronger than I am that they’re able to pick me up. You must never find this out though, or else all
bets will be off and I’ll spend the rest of my life in assorted bridal lifts, or fireman’s lifts, or
possibly just stashed under your arm for convenience like a plank of wood.

“Is that so?” you reply in your usual smug way. “I’m afraid you are not in a position to do much
about that. Although admittedly I am also somewhat drunk myself…”

“Somewhat? Admit it: you’re trashed.”

“I am somewhat drunk. Therefore my coordination is not ideal: there is a real risk I could drop
you.”

“No, you can’t do that,” I say mournfully. Then I have a sudden flash of insight that I actually
possess two hands, so recruit the free one and triumphantly wave it at you before giving you
another poke. “Don’t you dare drop me.”

You shoot my hand a distinctly resentful look; it’s as if you can’t quite believe it’s managed to get
the better of you and appear at the last minute to save the day. “Why not?” you reply. “You are so
resilient it would hardly matter. I could drop you out the window right now and you would simply
bounce back up again.”

“Just try it,” I say ominously. “I’ll push you off a taller cliff and see if you bounce.”

You laugh out loud at this then bend down to kiss me on the forehead; it’s a bit of repeat of the
wineglass in that you mistime the first attempt and land on my eyebrow instead. “In that case I
suppose I had better sit here for a while and sober up,” you say. “After which I shall carry you to
bed and hold your beautiful drunken self in my arms as you sleep.”

“How are you going to manage that? You’re even drunker than I am.”

“That I cannot agree to. I think we are both as bad as each other.”

I make a vague grunting noise then use my recently discovered hand to take hold of yours before
settling down again and closing my eyes. “Remember what I told you,” I add sleepily. “About the
point.”

“Oh yes – the point. Hallowed be its name.”

“You’re not to go anywhere near Matteo.” I’m doing my best to sound severe, although I know I
could probably be singing or rapping for all the difference it would make to stop you doing what
you want. “I forbid it.”

“Oh. You forbid it, do you?”

“Absolutely I do. I’ll sort it out myself.”

“Yes beloved,” you reply in an overly innocent voice. “Whatever you like.”

“I mean it,” I say – and even through the haze of drunken tiredness I know I really do. The image
of Matteo is still gnawing away at me and I cling onto your hand even harder, suddenly
overwhelmed by a powerful urge to protect. If he tries to do anything to hurt you I’ll kill him, I
 think wildly. I’d even kill Jack. I’d kill all of them – anyone I had to. The grim commitment to such
violence is startling and it makes me realise how much the alcohol is acting as a leveller by
stripping away my usual layers of inhibition. In a way it reminds me of my previous contemplation
in the theatre: how you’ve always tried to draw out the aspects of myself I’ve denied and give me
permission to embrace them. First you did it through persuasion, then you did through force, and
now you hardly need to do it at all because my love for you does all the work instead.

“I see you,” I now mutter out loud. “Always.”

The words are abrupt and random, but I know you understand. Although perhaps what you won’t
know is that this time I’m also talking to myself…safe in the knowledge that this moment will also
pass and, when morning arrives, allow me to take comfort in denial again.

Chapter End Notes

Huge thanks to doe_eyes who’s compiled the most awesome YouTube playlist for me
that I’d highly recommend for anyone trying to meet their Hannigram fix. Discovering
someone had made a fab Hannigram video using one of my fave musicians (Glitter
and Gold by Barns Courtney) completely made my day…although judging from the
2M view count I’m probably the last Fannibal to realise it existed XD. Also, for the
record, “Will Graham Being a Rude Little Gremlin” is worth 2 minutes of anybody’s
time :-D
 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes

Huge love and thanks to nonGMO who’s made the most amazing fanart for the series
that’s just…GAH. Suffice to say it combines Disney and Hannibal, and is so cute it
just has to be seen to be believed :-D

Despite my previous mocking I’m convinced it’ll be me who gets struck down by hangover rather
than you, which means I’m pleased yet surprised to wake up next morning and realise it doesn’t
seem to have happened. I shake my head a few times to make sure: admittedly I’m a bit dizzy, but
nothing that some breakfast and a cold shower won’t fix. Now I feel smug, like I’ve achieved
something impressive. In fact I’m so pleased with myself I’m tempted to go downstairs just to
inform you about how badass my metabolism is, only to turn over and realise I won’t need to
bother because you’re still lying right there. This is very unusual. I tend to be an early riser myself,
but you’re still pretty much guaranteed to wake up before I do and either be out of bed entirely or,
at the very least, sat bolt upright with a cup of coffee in one hand and your iPad in the other.

I stare at you for a few seconds like you’re some sort of museum exhibit then reach out to give you
a cautious prod. Your only response is a vaguely inconvenienced sound, and it occurs to me that I
should probably be trying something more proactive then just lying there jabbing you with my
finger.

“Hey,” I say, then watch as your head slowly tilts upwards to show that you’re listening. “Are you
okay?”

This time you glare at me; it looks a bit weird because your eyes are still closed. “Of course,” you
reply. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Are you sure? You don’t look okay.”

“I’m perfectly fine. Just more tired than usual.”

Even for you this is some God-tier level bullshit because it’s obvious you’re not remotely close to
being fine. “Do you want some D-Tox?” I ask, attempting to be tactful.

“I do not.”

“Actually, I think we’ve run out. I can go and buy some though…or whatever the Italian equivalent
is.” I fall silent for a few seconds, trying to work it out. “Trattamento per i postumo della sbornia.”

“It’s postumi, not postumo. And it is not necessary, because I don’t have a hangover.”

You sound annoyed now, like the assumption you’re anything less than perfect is deeply offensive.
But I know you well enough by now to be immune to your bullshitting and there’s no doubt that
beneath your suntan your skin looks flushed and damp. I frown to myself for a few seconds then
give you a gentle pat on the hand before heading off to the bathroom to rummage around in the
cabinets. It takes me ages to find what I’m looking for, but I’m eventually successful and duly
traipse back again so I can clamber onto the bed and sit cross-legged in front of you.
“Open your mouth, please,” I say.

You crack open an eye and catch sight of the thermometer in my hand – at which point you open
the other eye too just so you can narrow them both in my direction. “You can’t possibly be
serious?” you say with obvious annoyance.

Having delivered this lecture you now close your eyes again in an obvious gesture of dismissal and
I use the thermometer to give you a light poke on the jaw. “Come on. It’s not like anyone’s going
to see you but me.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

I poke you again, this time a little harder. “Open up.”

“All right, I admit I am slightly feverish,” you reply. “There. Are you happy now?” I take
advantage of your mouth being open to try and ram the thermometer in and your lips twitch
slightly like you’re trying not to laugh. “I don’t require it to be confirmed.”

“Well I want to confirm it. Stop being such a baby. You know you’d do the same if it was me.”

“It was you not so long ago,” you say irritably. “And as I remember you wouldn’t allow it either.”

I decide to ignore this and instead continue poking your jaw at intervals until you finally admit
defeat and grudgingly let me slot the thermometer beneath your tongue. This at least has the
benefit of forcing you to stop complaining, although unfortunately the sight of you lying there with
it hanging out your mouth is also unexpectedly hilarious and it takes a colossal amount of
willpower not to laugh. Then I immediately feel guilty, because it’s hardly what could be called a
noble reaction to seeing someone ill (and probably confirms that beneath the surface I’m almost as
big a bastard as you are).

“Nearly 101,” I say when I finally remove it. “I told you so.”

You hitch the covers further up until they’re partially covering your face then glare at me over the
top of them. “Actually, I think you’ll find that I told you. You have achieved nothing except
corroborate something I was already aware of.”

Unlike me (who stews in a permanent state of seething irritation) it’s rare for you to show obvious
impatience and I can’t help finding it endearing. It humanises you somehow: being cranky and
short-tempered when feeling ill, the same way as anyone else.

“Well, it’s not dangerously high,” I say. “But you’re clearly sick.”

“Yes indeed,” you reply with obvious sarcasm. “Your diagnostic capacities are extraordinary. It
makes me regret the time and money I wasted studying to be a doctor.”

“Actually, you’re not a doctor,” I say helpfully. “You were struck off – twice.” Above the blanket
your eyes practically disappear into little glinting slits of disapproval and I find myself battling
with another urge to laugh. As a distraction I lean down to gently smooth your hair off your
forehead. “Do you want anything?” I ask.

“As it happens I do.”

“What?”

You give me a final glare then disappear entirely beneath the covers: this time the discipline not to
start cackling is borderline superhuman. “What I desire above all things,” you add in a muffled
voice, “is some peace and quiet.”

By now you’ve managed to exceed the frontier of irritation and passed into something that’s
unintentionally comical. I try to think of an appropriate word to describe it…possibly peevish.
Yeah, that’s about right: it’s quite old-fashioned sounding, the type of thing a character in a
Victorian novel might be expected to be. I smile fondly to myself at the thought of it, but when I
get up to leave your hand still shoots out to grab my wrist in a silent request to stay where I am. I
can’t help feeling touched by this, so settle down next to you and wait for your head to eventually
reappear from beneath the blanket so I can stroke your hair again. You seem to like it to begin
with, but then I absent-mindedly twist a piece round my finger and you promptly revert to pissed-
off mode with a vengeance.

“Stop that please,” you say. “It’s extremely uncomfortable.”

I remove my hand then watch as you burrow a bit further beneath the blanket, rolling your eyes
around like I’ve been tugging out your hair by the handful. “Look at you,” I say affectionately. “Do
you know what you are? You are peevish.”

You give me one of your more ferocious glares, but I’ve been receiving these for so long I’m pretty
much immune to them by now and it bounces off with no obvious effect. “Are you sure you don’t
want anything?” I add. “Maybe something to drink?”

You shake your head at this, although you’re always so reluctant to admit any weakness that I
know there’s no guarantee you’d tell me if you did want something. I don’t want to argue with you
though, so just wait until you’ve fallen asleep before creeping downstairs to assemble some orange
juice, chopped fruit, Greek yoghurt, a damp facecloth and a bottle of aspirin, all neatly arranged on
a little wicker tray. There’s a good chance you’ll just refuse the whole lot, but in a weird way the
tray feels like it’s more for my benefit than yours. I need something proactive to do. Action has
always been my main way to stave off anxiety and seeing you sick has unsettled me more than I
want to admit. You always seem so infallible and a bout of illness, no matter how minor, is an
unpleasant reminder that you’re actually not.

You’re still asleep when I go in, so I place the tray on the nightstand then tiptoe round to my own
side of the bed. I’m doing my best to be as quiet as possible, but your eyes still snap open almost
immediately.

“Ačiū mielasis,” you say as you notice the tray. “Esate labai dėmesingas.”

A recurring habit when you’re tired is forgetting how to speak English, and no matter how often it
happens I’ll never stop finding it charming. On the other hand your own response is always
irritation – like you’re annoyed at your mouth for failing to keep up with your brain – and you now
start rolling your eyes at yourself for getting caught out again. Normally I’d ask for a translation,
but I don’t want to draw attention to your lapse when you’re not feeling well. Besides, I recognise
ačiū’ as ‘thank you’ and mielasis as an approximation of ‘darling’, so it’s safe to assume the rest
was just some way of expressing appreciation. Having said that, the use of mielasis is a clear sign
you’re not yourself. The quaint formality of your endearments always resembles something from
the 18 th century (my love, beloved, dearest) and you never call me ‘darling’ except in a deliberately
sardonic way – usually because you’re trying to annoy me. I sigh a bit then watch as you struggle
to sit upright and begin nibbling half-heartedly at some of the fruit. You seem to be doing your
best, although it’s obvious you’re not really that hungry and are only having it because you think
it’ll make me happy.
“I’m sorry you feel so ill,” I say when you’ve finished. You’re lying down again now with your
eyes closed, very still and motionless with both arms neatly folded across your chest. It reminds me
of one of those Medieval monuments I’ve sometimes seen in churches; all that’s missing in a sword
clasped between your hands and a plaque at your feet declaring how full of nobility and honour you
were (which admittedly aren’t words that any shrine to you would ever include except as an
elaborate form of post-mortem sarcasm).

As I watch you fold then re-fold your arms in what seems like a doomed attempt to get
comfortable. “Thank you,” you finally reply. “Your sympathy is appreciated but unnecessary. It’s
only a mild virus.”

“It’s a freak virus,” I say, with a sudden surge of insight. “I bet it’s the freak virus. You probably
caught it off me.”

You crack open an eye and regard me rather owlishly. “I was about to contradict you,” you say.
“But on reflection that seems entirely plausible.” I nod in agreement and you shoot me a distinctly
dirty look. “No doubt you have been incubating it all the way from America.”

I promptly start nodding again, because of course this is exactly the kind of dick move that The
Freak would pull. It’s also incredibly typical: Jack managed to get a firearm through customs
whereas all I’ve managed to sneak past them is that little biohazardous shit instead.

“Well, I hope you are satisfied now,” you add. You sound a bit defeated.

“No, I’m really not.” I reach across and give you a kindly pat on the hand. “Although maybe I
should be – I’m probably entitled to enjoy watching you suffer.”

“Probably,” you reply. “What a malevolent boy you are.”

I lean down to kiss you then give your hair a gentle nudge with my forehead. “Do you want me to
take you for a brain scan?” I add. “I can if you like. Just say the word.”

“What an exceptionally tempting offer. I shall bear it in mind.”

“Yes,” I say. “You do that.”

You try to roll your eyes at me but are too tired to manage it, so I roll my own to save you the
trouble then reach over for the washcloth so I can mop some of the sweat off your face. I already
know before I start you won’t like it, and sure enough you don’t. In fact it’s really not easy to clean
someone when they’re trying to wriggle away the whole time, but fortunately I have a lot of
experience towelling down reluctant dogs so am more than able to deal with you.

“Enough,” you say as I apply a few more dabs to your cheekbones. “You are over-reacting. I am
not the invalid you seem to think I am.”

“You have a temperature of over 100. You also have a freak virus. That officially makes you an
invalid.”

You look like you want to argue with me but it’s clear you don’t have the energy for it and in the
end just lie there looking resentful instead. Your brow is already beaded with perspiration again but
when I look closer I can also see that you’re shivering. The covers, chosen to suit an Italian
summer, are obviously no match for The Freak so I climb off the bed again for further supplies –
this time to the spare room to rummage around in my old suitcase. You open your eyes as I walk
back in then immediately start to smile when you see what I’m carrying.
I smile too and hold it out for inspection. “Remember this?”

“Indeed I do,” you say. “I had no idea you’d brought it with you.”

“Yeah, well…” I feel a bit self-conscious now – although to be fair it’s hard not to feel self-
conscious when you’ve been exposed for not only smuggling The Freak through customs but also a
fluffy blue bastard of a shock blanket as well. Even so, it’s still got serious sentimental value and I
can’t really regret not leaving it behind.

“You appear to be tucking me in,” you add as I start arranging it round your shoulders. “What a
supremely undignified situation. I can’t decide whether to laugh or cry.”

“You could do both,” I say helpfully. “There’s a fine line between comedy and tragedy.”

“Very true.” You smile a bit then catch hold of my hand. “I was too harsh before in dismissing
your medical abilities. You are a very attentive care-giver.”

“You’re welcome.” I pause in adjusting the blanket then give your arm a playful nudge. “If you’re
very lucky I might let you draw a clock later.”

“That is supremely generous of you. But in the meantime I’d appreciate it far more if you could
settle for fetching my razor.”

“Your razor – seriously? What do you want that for?”

You open your eyes again and give me A Look. “I agree it is a terrible conundrum,” you say.
“However, if you exert yourself then I’m confident you’ll arrive at a solution.”

I’m about to tell you I didn’t mean it that way, then remember what a nightmare you are when
you’re feeling sarcastic and decide not to bother. Besides, I already know exactly why: it’s because
you’re a massive narcissist and even with a temperature of 101 degrees are too vain to lie there
with stubble. I suppose it’s yet another of your cat-like traits, because no matter what state you’re
in you’re always guaranteed to be fastidious about grooming yourself to perfection. So in the end I
just obediently go to the bathroom again, where I find your razor lounging around on a special
porcelain tray and managing to make my cheap plastic disposable look hugely sorry for itself in
comparison. Yours, on the other hand, is a vintage straight razor with a glossy wooden handle and
is surrounded by a whole array of products (shaving brush, leather strop, soap and facial oil) that
cluster round the tray like members of an entourage paying tribute. I doubt even you’ll have the
energy to bother with the full routine, but to be on the safe side I still bundle the whole lot into a
towel and take them back into the bedroom.

“Don’t they call these cut-throat razors?” I ask as I hand it over.

You give me a rather ghoulish little smile. “Yes.”

“Do you want me to do it for you?”

“I do not.”

“Are you sure?”

You impatiently wave me away with your hand, then instead of answering just apply some shaving
cream to your face and proceed to slice the whole lot off without even bothering to look in the
mirror. I’ve always been slightly envious of your ability to do this. If I tried the same thing I’d cut
myself to ribbons, but you manage to achieve a vaguely sensuous, Zen-like quality as you feel your
way with your free hand then pull the skin taut in a series of flawless swipes. I guess it’s mostly a
show of dexterity, although (knowing you) is very likely a sign of how you’re so in love with your
own face that you’ve managed to commit every single contour of it to memory. I wait until you’ve
finished then return everything to the bathroom again and lay the razor back in its little porcelain
shrine. I’m hoping the fact you were up to shaving means you’re feeling better, but when I go back
to the bedroom you’ve retreated into your shock blanket again and are looking rather sorry for
yourself.

“Would you like me to read to you?” I ask.

You open your mouth, presumably to say no, before appearing to reconsider and nodding instead.
“Actually, I should like that very much.”

“Any preferences?”

“No, not particularly. Read whatever you like.”

Your copy of Arte Classica is lying nearby so I decide to start with that. I make a few mistakes on
purpose, partly because you always enjoy correcting my Italian but also because I want some
reassurance that you’re alert enough to focus on what I’m saying. Fortunately you seem just as
precise as you always are, but after the first few paragraphs I notice you’ve stopped commenting on
the errors and are just lying very still with your eyes half-closed. Quietly I put the magazine to one
side then stroke your hair for a few seconds before reaching back for the thermometer. This time
you let me do it without complaint and as I check the reading I can feel myself starting to frown.

“It’s gone up,” I say unhappily. You raise an eyebrow so I hold it a bit closer so you can see for
yourself. “Look: it’s nearly 102.”

“It’s less than that.”

“It’s not much less.” I take a deep breath, aware of a weirdly childish urge to resist reality by
speaking it out loud. “Maybe I should call for a doctor?”

“You couldn’t possibly. Your Italian is nowhere near good enough.”

“I’m serious.”

“As am I.”

I make a frustrated sound and you relent slightly then take hold of my hand. “I may have been
struck off,” you say, “but I am not completely ignorant of all matters medical. Which means you
can believe me when I tell you that a doctor is unnecessary.”

While you haven’t actually said so, it suddenly occurs to me that it also wouldn’t be possible – or
at least not very easily – on the basis that neither of us have a valid Tessera Sanitaria, let alone any
registration with a medico di base. It’s one of the many, many complications of having to operate
beneath the radar for anything official, and I privately curse myself for not having the foresight to
arrange something earlier.

“I suppose we could go to the ER,” I say, half to myself. “If we really needed to.”

“We could indeed do that. Only we will not need to.” You shrug then lie back and close your eyes
again. “Besides, with the heightened police presence I’m not sure it would be advisable.”

The fact you’re pretending to take the police presence seriously – despite not giving a single shit
about it for the whole past month – strikes me as perverse, and for a few seconds it takes a serious
amount of willpower not to snap at you. It’s also difficult to tell what’s motivating it: whether it’s a
genuine belief you’re not as ill as you look, a stubborn reluctance to admit any sort of weakness, or
just a hefty dose of good old-fashioned arrogance that refuses to ask for help. With you it could be
anything…most likely it’s a combination of all three.

I must look pretty wretched because as soon as you notice the expression on my face you tighten
your grip on my hand. “Will,” you say gently. “I appreciate your concern – and I admit that if our
situations were reversed then I would behave exactly the same – but I promise you that I am not
seriously ill. There’s absolutely no need to seek medical help.”

I sigh again, then start to trace an absent-minded pattern on the sheet with my finger. “Yeah, well,”
I say gruffly. “I hope you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” you reply, briefly sounding more like yourself. “I am almost inevitably right. It
is one of my defining traits.”

I give a rather mournful smile then finally lift my head to look at you directly. “Then you better
start recovering,” I say. “Hadn’t you?”

“I shall do my absolute best. Although not too quickly, because I’ve decided that I rather enjoy
watching you fetch and carry things for me.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.”

“And if you experience further concern in the meantime, then I advise you to remember how
inordinately fond of myself I am. In fact, with the exception of you, I am my absolute favourite
person in the whole of this godforsaken world – and if I thought I was at risk of leaving it
prematurely then I can guarantee I wouldn’t hesitate to seek assistance.”

“True,” I say with amusement. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

In fact, I feel like I can argue with it; not least because I know you’d never be so cavalier about
getting medical attention for me as you are with yourself. Even so, I’m still prepared to admit I’m
overreacting. It’s partly because seeing you ill is so unfamiliar – almost bordering on surreal in
how unexpected it is – but also because concern for your welfare has been nagging at me for
weeks now ever since that strange encounter with Matteo. Only I don’t want to annoy you by
labouring the point, so finally just drop it completely and ask you if you want a shower instead. I
deliberately don’t mention helping you to have one, but in the end you’re so unsteady on your legs
it really does feel like that. I’m careful not to comment on this and instead stand silently behind you
with my arms around your waist and my chin tucked snugly on your shoulder; holding you close
whenever you look like you’re about to sway then pressing the occasional kiss against your throat.
I can tell you’re struggling not to rest your whole weight against me, so I wash your hair as a
distraction then lather your favourite shower lotion across your back and chest before helping you
back to bed. At least the shower seems to have done you some good; you seem more alert than you
did earlier and instead of falling sleep are managing to sit upright with your knees pulled up to your
chin. I’ve never seen you in a position like that before; it makes you look vulnerable, and somehow
younger than you really are. In fact I’m finding the sight of you rather touching – all limbs and
sharp angles, a bit like a teenager – so prop myself next to you then press my head against yours.
You immediately shift over to give me more room and contentedly wrap your arm round my
shoulder.

“So how long do you think this’ll last?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Most likely no more than a week.”

“No doubt it’ll be me next,” I say wryly. “I suppose I should be quarantining you to make sure you
keep your freak to yourself.”

“I thought we had already established that it was your freak? Besides, I would have been most
infectious a day or two ago. It’s a little late by now for you to isolate.”

“I wouldn’t anyway.”

You reach up and give my hair a gentle tug. “No,” you say. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“Although on the plus side,” I add, “at least you can remember the point.” I’m trying to sound
casual – borderline humorous, even – but deep down my sense of relief is genuine. There was
never any guarantee I’d be able to stop you seeing Matteo, so while I’m not happy you’re ill the
benefit of forcing you to stay at home is still undeniable.

Briefly you catch my eye; it’s obvious you’re thinking the same thing. “Yes, indeed,” you say
wryly. “The point.”

“I’ll have to go myself now. We can’t leave it another week.”

“Actually, we could very easily do that.”

“No,” I say, doing my best to sound firm. “I’m not risking getting evicted. That’s the last thing we
need.” You make a grudging sound of agreement and I sigh back at you then bury my face a bit
further against your shoulder. “I’ve been looking into new places,” I add forlornly. “I’ve been
looking a lot. But it’s so hard when we don’t have the right papers.”

“I’m aware. It’s therefore a good thing that it will not be necessary.”

“Well, I’ll see what he’s like when I go. If he’s weird again…” I trail off, suddenly guilty about
complaining to you when you’re not well. “Look, don’t worry about it,” I add, doing my best to
rally a bit. “I’ll sort it out today – as long as you’ll be all right on your own.”

“I am not remotely worried about it. And I will be eminently all right on my own.”

“No you won’t. No one to fetch and carry for you? You’ll be as peevish as hell.”

You make an amused noise then pretend to swipe my arm when my phone suddenly starts ringing
and makes us both glance up at the same time. Considering the only person who ever calls me is
you I have an immediate swell of apprehension as to who it might be. Sure enough, my pessimism
is richly rewarded the second I pick it up, and I now wordlessly hold it in front of you so you can
see the caller ID for yourself.

Both your eyebrows elevate so far they look like they might be on the verge of going airborne.
“How apt,” you say drily. “Just when I thought my suffering could not be more prolonged then
Jack Crawford appears to torment me further.” I pull a gloomy expression and you frown a bit then
lean back against the pillows. “Aren’t you going to answer it?”

My gloomy expression now changes course halfway through and becomes annoyed instead. “No,”
I say sharply. “I’m not speaking to him while you’re here.”

“Why not? Unless you think he’s developed the gift of telepathy since you last saw him.”
“Oh come on. It would be…” For a few seconds words fail me and I end up giving a little shudder
of disdain instead. “It would be so awkward.”

You lean back even further then dart me a sly look from beneath your eyelashes. “Suit yourself,”
you say. “But if you’re too afraid to speak to him then please turn the phone off. The noise is
irritating.”

“Well you’ve changed your tune,” I snap. “It’s not that long ago you were going ballistic at the idea
of him calling.”

Your only response is a rather malevolent smile. Of course if I was alone you’d be much less
happy about it, but I suppose it’s easy to see how the deception of the current set-up would appeal
to you. This way you get to monitor the conversation while turning Jack’s intrusion on your
territory into an exploitable opportunity to humiliate him. After all, the fact I’d be speaking to him
while you’re right there (lolling around in our shared bed, no less) would undoubtedly feel like a
form of victory. But right now the thing I’m probably most aware of is how your earlier comment
was intended as a challenge – and despite how obvious the bait is, one thing I’ve always resisted is
the idea of looking like a coward in front of you.

“Okay, fine,” I say eventually. “But don’t you dare make any noise.” I pull a severe face to show
I’m not messing around. “I mean it. He’d recognise your voice in a second.”

You hold out both hands, palm-upwards, in a gesture that I suppose is meant to indicate innocence.
Like most of your attempts it’s incredibly unconvincing. “I will be completely silent,” you say.
“You have my word.”

“Yeah,” I reply darkly. “Whatever that’s worth.” Even so, I know you won’t risk pissing me off
that badly and as I get consumed by a sudden ‘oh, fuck it’ urge I find myself reaching out to
abruptly press the call button. I don’t even need to look at you to know you’ll be wearing your
favourite Cheshire Cat smirk.

“Will!” says Jack. He sounds genuinely happy to hear from me…God knows why. “How are you
doing?”

“Oh, you know…” I say vaguely. Jack, who clearly doesn’t know, hums in response and I realise
I’m going to have to make a bit more effort or else the whole conversation will descend into a
torturous attempt to out-vague each other. “How are you doing?” I add, rather accusingly.

“Oh, you know…” replies Jack: internally I feel myself sigh. “Still jet-lagged but I’m catching up a
bit – I feel much better than the last time I saw you.” I promptly forget my earlier advice and make
another, even vaguer noise, that’s supposed to indicate I’m pleased about this but just sounds more
like I’m yawning. “Sorry about that by the way,” adds Jack. “I feel like I was a bit unfriendly to
you.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “You weren’t that bad.” It’s not like I was all that effusive myself, but at least
that’s one of the benefits of being an unsociable bastard – people’s expectations for me are so
incredibly low that all I have to do is turn up and act halfway sane and they’ll assume I’m happy to
see them. “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” I add, hoping I sound sincere.

“Not as good as you I suspect,” says Jack heartily. “I know I said it before Will, but you’re looking
really well at the moment.”

“Thanks,” I say. “So people tell me.” And then, because I can’t help myself (and because your
general dickishness seems to be even more contagious than The Freak is): “I bumped into an old
friend recently. They said I looked abbastanza buono da mangiare. It’s kind of an Italian version of
‘good enough to eat’.”

As I watch you roll your eyes so hard you look like you’re trying find your brain. I imitate one of
your smirks in response then do my best to re-focus on the call, struggling the entire time with an
urge to convulse into goblin-like cackling at my own shit joke. You roll your eyes again then
silently mouth: ‘You are a horror.’

“I guess they were right,” says Jack kindly.

“Maybe not the best compliment I’ve ever had, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“Well, like I said, it’s good to see you doing so much better.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “I think it suits me being out here.” Although didn’t I use this same line on him
before? I honestly can’t remember…all my bullshit platitudes seem to be merging into one.
Unfortunately it also seems like you’ve discovered a sudden burst of energy in the meantime,
because you’ve now hauled yourself out of bed and have shifted round so you can start kissing the
back of my neck. I know you’re doing it on purpose for maximum discomfort so try (and fail) to
push you off.

“You okay?” asks Jack.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say desperately. I move the phone to the other ear then give you another, harder
push. “I’m just in the park again. I’ve…I’ve got a dog trying to lick me.”

Jack gives an awkward laugh. In fact he sounds outright confused by now, although I can’t say I
blame him. Me and you both Jack, I think, me and you both. I twist my neck round to give you a
filthy look, which you completely ignore. “It’s my own fault,” I add. “I shouldn’t have encouraged
it.”

“Isn’t the owner around?”

“No.” By now I’m getting quite tempted to punch you – only knowing you you’d just punch me
back, and then there’d be a fight that Jack would end up having to referee down the phone. I
eventually settle for giving you another look which, if possible, is even filthier than the last one.
“It’s incredibly old and decrepit. It looks like it might be a stray.”

“That means you’ll end up adopting it.”

“Not this one,” I say firmly. “Actually, there’s a shelter a few blocks away. I should go and check –
it might have escaped.”

“Maybe,” agrees Jack. “Can’t say I blame it. Those places always make me feel sad. They’re like
animal prisons.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” I move the phone away from my face bit then adopt a higher
pitch like I’m talking to animal. “Is that where you came from then? Did you escape from prison?”

“Look, shall I call you back?” asks Jack. By now he seems to have given up on this thrilling saga
of the prison-breaking dog (which, to be clear, I absolutely do not blame him for). “You sound
distracted.”

“No, it’s fine. Just…” I’m about to say just get it over with before realising that this is far too
unsociable even for me. I change it to “Just give me a minute,” instead and then mouth ‘Get lost!’
at you in a rather melodramatic way. Your version of obeying this instruction is to arrange your
features into your favourite Smug Bastard smile and then shift behind me to resume kissing my
neck again before sliding your hand down my shirt.

“Anyway…” says Jack. He sounds a bit exhausted. I think it’s safe to say he’s regretting this phone
call, although I refuse to feel sorry for him. It serves him right for being friendly – that’ll teach him
to keep all social contact to a strict and sensible minimum like a normal person. “Anyway, I was
talking about you today with some of the trainees.”

“Oh yeah?” I reply, ultra-casual. “I hope they’re being useful so far.”

“Pretty much. At least for trainees.”

“They’re high-skill ones though, surely? The one I met certainly seemed very capable.”

“She is,” replies Jack with unusual warmth. “In fact, she reminds me quite a bit of you.”

I now take a few seconds to send silent commiseration to Clarice at having the misfortune to
resemble me in any meaningful way (considering I’m currently on the phone to an FBI director
while the FBI’s Most Wanted makes out with my neck, which don’t seem like the kind of life
choices anyone should be aiming for).

“Good,” I say finally. “I’m glad you’ve got some decent back-up.”

“Yeah,” replies Jack. “Look Will…about that. I know you said you weren’t keen, and I do
understand why. But if you’d just think about coming down to the precinct – just for a couple of
hours – then the team would really appreciate it.”

You haven’t paused in kissing my neck but I know you’re listening to every word of this, which
makes any response increasingly awkward. Equally I don’t want to prolong the call by telling him
‘no’ – which he’d promptly start arguing with – so eventually settle for a rather anaemic: “I’ll
think about it.”

“Well if you would…” says Jack. “If you would, that’d be great.” He huffs, rather self-consciously.
“They’d be so excited. It’d be like meeting a celebrity for them.”

Behind me you make a faint sighing noise and it’s easy to guess that Jack’s ineptness is annoying
you. Being a master manipulator yourself you’re always irritated at other people’s clumsy attempts
and there’s no doubt you’re thinking how flattery is pretty much the worst strategy he could use to
lure me into doing what he wants. If you were in the same position then you’d be focussing on an
obligation to save lives and petitioning a sense of justice, picking away at all my various weak
spots until I’d be practically begging to book a date to come and torture myself with taking to
trainees. To be honest I’m half surprised you haven’t snatched the phone away to start giving him
instructions.

I now briefly get lost trying to imagine this (Excuse the interruption Jack. Only you are doing the
most abominable job of coercing Will that I’ve ever heard in my life. It is an offence to the fine art
of manipulation; kindly allow me to give you some tips…) and then end up staying silent so long
that Jack asks me if I’m still there. On the plus side it also seems like his endurance for this
undeniably weird conversation has expired, because after a few more overtures he finally admits
defeat and tells me he’ll call me later. I repeat the same vague pledge to think about it then
carefully hang up and return my phone to the nightstand. I already feel exhausted at the thought of
your reaction, only it seems you’re not in the mood for another FBI-themed debate either because
when I turn round again you’ve already returned to your side of the bed and are lying very still with
your eyes closed.

“Well, that was pretty much exactly as predicted,” you eventually say.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Pretty much.”

“Of course it was,” you say crisply. “I admit I was hoping you would be a little more direct with
him, but it appears I overestimated you.” I open my mouth to protest and you immediately hold up
your hand in a wordless request for silence. “Therefore please allow me to save us both a lot of
time by abbreviating the conversation we are about to have, which I expect to proceed as follows. I
am going to ask you not to go, and you will agree that you won’t while battling a secret urge to. I
will comment on this – as well as your continuing addiction to making a martyr of yourself to
Jack’s convenience – and you will grow extremely defensive and irritated while knowing that
everything I say is true. The discussion will then conclude with you delivering a self-righteous
speech about saving lives and doing good in the world…” You pronounce the word ‘good’ in the
same indifferent tone most people would reserve for ‘gonorrhoea’, ‘gangrene’ or ‘genital warts’
“…followed by an unconvincing commitment not to meet with Jack – after which you will attempt
to see him anyway while hoping I won’t find out about it.”

I blink a few times. You sound so incredibly sure of yourself; I hate it when you do this. “Okay,” I
say slowly. “Are you done?”

You stretch your arms above your head then lean a bit further back without bothering to open your
eyes. “More or less. I suppose I could furnish a few additional details, but the substance of the
narrative is all in place. What do you think: am I correct?”

“Maybe.” You abruptly snap your eyes open and I clear my throat a few times. “Possibly – yes.”

“Y-e-s,” you repeat, drawing out the word so far it almost seems ready to snap. “At least you have
the courage to admit it, I’ll give you that. Even if I strongly disagree with virtually everything
else.”

“So what?” I say impatiently. “Why wouldn’t I admit it? It doesn’t change anything.”

The defiance in my voice is obvious and you make a disdainful noise in response that’s deeply
annoying in how dismissive it is. Even so, I can see how pale and ill you look so force myself to
bite back the angry retort I want to make.

“You expect me to trust you?” I add in a softer tone. “So that means you have to start trusting me
too. And it means you need to realise you can’t control my every move.” This time your only
reaction is a rather beady stare. It’s a look that says: Actually, little murder apprentice, I think you’ll
find that I can. “Besides,” I add, deliberately ignoring the look. “If I help them out they might
catch him quicker – which means Jack disappears and things get back to normal.”

“There are much easier ways for Jack to disappear,” you snap. “Which you are perfectly well
aware of. The constant denial is getting tedious, Will. You think you’ve tamed your demons and
you haven’t. You are merely keeping them on a leash: snapping and snarling at the confinement,
then blaming them whenever they want to pull free. And while I know you won’t want to hear this
I am going to tell you it anyway – which is that I absolutely forbid you from seeing Jack again
unless I’m present too.”

It’s incredibly rare for you to be so blunt, although whether illness has dulled your usual subtlety or
you’ve simply grown bored of pretending to compromise is impossible to tell. But the last thing I
want is to start arguing in the same old circles, so rather than address it I just reach out and take
hold of your hand instead. Of course there’s a certain irony in how stubborn I’m being, because
deep down I know that if you’d encouraged me to go then I would have resisted that equally
fiercely. It’s honestly hard to tell anymore: how much of the instinct to help Jack catch Il Macellaio
is coming from my own inclination and how much is just a desire to carve out a separate identity to
you? It’s confusing, yet also frustrating – and is one of many examples of how we’ve melded
together so thoroughly that even my attempts at independence end up getting moulded to your
whims. Finally, I just sigh a bit then reach out to give your hand a squeeze.

“Get some sleep,” I say. I sound incredibly weary, like I’m the one who’s more in need of rest than
you are. “I’ll head out soon to pay the rent, but I’ll be back in no time.”

If I didn’t know any better I’d say you looked sad. Or maybe you don’t…it’s so hard to label you
with typical emotions that most of the time I don’t even bother to try. So in the end I just lean
down to press a kiss against your forehead and tell you I love you, despite feeling how incredibly
flimsy and futile it seems in the face of everything we need to deal with. I can’t help it though,
because no matter what I’ve done in my life there still seems to be a childish, naïve part of me who
wants to live in a world where things really are that simple – the sort of world where love alone is
enough. I know neither of us really believes it, yet it’s always been a trait we have in common.
Yours is based in a possessive arrogance whereas mine has a more wistful yearning quality, yet
we’ve both managed to draw on the same core belief to overcome inconceivable odds to stay
together. And it’s both a threat and a promise, because while it makes us hugely powerful against
outside influence it also means our single biggest weakness is each other. Because it’s true isn’t it?
I know that it is; I’ve known it for years. How if the time ever came then I would always prove to
be your downfall, just like you would always be mine: both murders and martyrs to the same
destructive devotion.
 Chapter 21

By the time I’ve showered and changed you’re already asleep again. You’re normally such a light
sleeper that the smallest noise can wake you, but this time you’re so out of it that the thud of my
footsteps doesn’t even make you stir. I lean over carefully to retrieve my phone from the nightstand
then move a few feet away to simply stand back and stare at you. You could be posing for a photo
shoot, destined to be splashed in glossy black and white across some expensive magazine: sheets
draped artistically around your hips, a hand curled up close to your face on the pillow and a tiny
frown, faint as gossamer, etched between your eyebrows. No one would ever guess how dangerous
you are when seeing you so peaceful. But the knowledge of what’s causing it steals the image of
any appeal it would otherwise have had, and instead I’m just struck all over again by how
unfamiliar it feels to see you this vulnerable. Finally, I force myself to turn away then walk towards
the window so I can stand there instead; gazing out across the city without really seeing it as my
fingers drum restlessly against the sill.

I’ve been ignoring Matteo for so long now in favour of Jack that the memory of that midnight
encounter has grown faint and indistinct, fading in my mind like an old photograph left to wane and
shrivel in the sun. The fact he’s made no contact since then really does suggest his comments were
meaningless and that the most logical thing to do would be to grab the cash and just head to his
office. And yet I don’t do that. Instead what I’m having is a fraught conversation with myself
about what might be about to happen; and which, like most of my internal conversations, appears
to be going round in circles as various arguments For and Against butt heads with each other and
battle for prominence of place. For a while ‘over-reacting’ joins forces with ‘paranoid’ and looks
like it might take over, but then ‘insurance policy’ and ‘better safe than sorry’ come dashing in for
the penalty shot and knocks the other arguments out of place. After everything else that’s happened
Matteo has shrunk so much that it feels like years since I last registered him as a possible source of
danger. Even so, examining it now confirms to me that my initial instinct towards him has never
really altered. I hope it was wrong. I hope I am over-reacting. And yet, and yet…

Now that I’m finally facing what could be a serious problem I find myself strangely calm. It often
happens like this: my own head can be the scariest place of all, which means the reality of
confronting a threat is almost never as bad as the mental anguish of imagining it. Plan confirmed I
now straighten up and move towards the bed to place a soft kiss on your forehead. You seem to
have woken up again, so I stroke your hair for a while before starting to frown when I notice the
cramped, ungainly way you’ve twisted your arms across your chest. You’ll sometimes do this
when you’re in physical pain – a clear bodily association from years confined in a straitjacket – and
the sight of it always touches something in me in a very raw, distressing way.

“Hey,” I say gently. “You’re okay. Come on, straighten up.” I’m doing my best to disguise how
upset I feel although I’m not sure how convincing it is; to hide it I lean over and ease you into a
more natural position then spend some time massaging your shoulders to get you comfortable.
“I’ve left some water on the nightstand,” I add in the same soft voice. “Try and have some later,
won’t you?”

You blink a few times then turn round to look at me. It seems to be a struggle to manage it and
your eyes, normally so piercing, are unusually cloudy and unfocussed. I reach up to smooth your
hair off your face then wait a little to let my hand linger against your cheekbone. “What is it?” I
ask. “Do you need something?”

For a while you just stare at me, clearly still battling with the ability to answer. “Don’t go to see
Jack,” you eventually say. “Please, Will. Don’t go back to him.”
I sigh again then give your hand a squeeze. “I won’t Hannibal, I promise. I’m just going to pay the
rent. Remember? We were just talking about it.”

“Oh yes…” you say after another pause. “The rent. I remember: to make sure we don’t get
evicted.”

Forcing your thoughts into some sort of coherent order seems to be causing you visible effort and
at the sight of it I can feel myself getting concerned again. “Are you sure you’re all right?” I ask
doubtfully. “I can stay if you want me to.”

“Of course,” you reply. You yawn so widely I get a glimpse of several rows of sharp white teeth
then frown to yourself before beginning to burrow back beneath the blanket. “I’m just a little
disorientated. I was very deeply asleep.”

“Well, okay, but just…call me won’t you? If you need anything? I’ll come straight back.”

By now you’re already half asleep so just nod rather hazily instead of replying. I smile at you, even
though your eyes are closed, then give your hair a farewell stroke. I’ll take care of you, I think.
Always. I promise I will. In fact there’s no doubt that the idea of protecting you is strengthening my
resolve, because even if all this really is nothing but insurance – and I sincerely hope it is – then
the risk of doing nothing is far too high in comparison. And so, speaking of which…time to go to
work.

By this point my mental countdown has thoroughly started ticking and the first thing I do is head to
Giulietta’s cleaning cupboard for a pair of latex gloves before rummaging in my attic room for an
ancient bucket hat left over from the fishing days so I can cram as much of my hair as possible
underneath it. A few strands are still sticking out the sides: I find your nail scissors in the bathroom
then neatly snip them off. Clothes aren’t a problem, fortunately – they’ll be easy to dispose of later
if needed. Then I just stand still again and spend a few seconds chewing my thumbnail as I try to
dredge up the specifics of trace evidence which I haven’t really had to think about since an entire
lifetime ago. It’s a bit like an assessment; all that’s missing is Jack stood there scowling at me with
his arms folded. Fingerprints, hair fibres…oh shit, yes, that’s one: soil. I’m not sure if the flakes of
mud on my boots came from the garden or not, but to be on the safe side I blast the soles beneath
the tap until every fragment is washed away. Then I go to the kitchen to collect the final and most
ominous item of all: a Swiss Army Knife, currently stashed in the cutlery drawer and looking
suitably discreet and innocent as something that can be legally carried in public.

Having retrieved the knife I now let it rest in my palm for a few seconds, focussing on the dull
weight of it as I begin to memorise where all its different implements are stored. I’m not even sure
where it came from, although the glossy wood radiates the right kind of expensive refinement to
suggest it must surely have been chosen by you. It’s almost elegant, really: just a slim little sliver
of a knife. My other items are more preparation than anything else, but of all the precautions I’ve
taken this is the one I’m really hoping I won’t need. Barring an absolute emergency, the chance of
discovery is much too high to even consider doing anything in his actual office. But if a later
ambush did become necessary at least I can ensure a convenient lack of evidence to show I was
ever there in the first place. Admittedly his secretary is an insoluble problem, but she also sees
countless clients every day and doesn’t know my real name. Either of our names, for that matter.
This, in fact, is a major source of reassurance because you haven’t been there for quite a while, and
it’s safe to assume the surfaces will have been thoroughly wiped down since then.

Reflecting on all this makes me briefly self-conscious again, cringing at myself like I’m some kind
of crazed conspiracy-monger who screams into a seething void of fixations about threats which
aren’t really there. But there’s only way to know for sure, so I stuff my hands into my pockets then
lower my head like a bull getting ready to charge as I exit the house and begin pounding down the
street, negotiating the usual tedium of buses and stoplights until the ancient walls and spires of the
old city are giving way to the brighter, more modern parts and I’m getting close to his building.
The hat makes me feel like a parody of an American tourist and I’m still slightly embarrassed at
how hyper-cautious I’m being, yet despite all of that I’m powerfully aware of an almost total lack
of fear. The contrast to my old self is a striking one, because it’s easy to imagine how tense I’d
once have felt doing this: the way my eyes would have been fixed to the sidewalk, my entire body
cramped into an anxious huddle as I did my best to make myself invisible. The newfound sense of
comfort and confidence in my own skin is liberating, and it’s impossible not to credit it at least
partly to you.

When I’ve finally arrived I pause for a few seconds to discreetly slide on the gloves, then flick up
my collar and saunter inside until I’ve reached the familiar doorway with its gleaming chrome
plaque and the spindly dracaena plants that always look like giant insects. Since I was last here
someone, presumably Matteo, had added a gallery wall of photos and I now can’t help pausing to
take a quick glance at them. Virtually all are of Matteo himself in sundry glamorous settings – the
deck of a yacht, a French-style château, even one on a red carpet – possibly posing next to
celebrities or politicians, although I don’t recognise any of their faces. I suppose I can acknowledge
that he’s physically attractive (in a deeply boring, conventional type of way) but this degree of
vanity is completely foreign to me and it’s impossible not to sneer at it. Admittedly your own
narcissism also reaches levels which are borderline epic, but it’s still infinitely more complex and
interesting compared to whatever the hell this is. In this respect the thought of you provides more
than enough energy to re-focus on the task at hand, so I smile very briefly at the image of it then
deliver a few sharp knocks on the door. I can hear a low hum of classical music playing from
inside: Berlioz, I think. You’ve always hated Berlioz, which means through slow exposure I’ve
begun to hate it too. There’s no sign of the secretary though, probably because it’s so late in the
day, and I take a quick moment to congratulate myself on this bit of good luck before pushing it
open and walking in.

Matteo is leaning on the desk with his back to me but turns round immediately when he hears the
door. The familiar oily smile slides across his face when he sees it’s me, yet as off-putting as this is
he still looks so eminently normal compared to the threatening vision I’d built up in my head that I
briefly catch myself wondering why the hell I wasted so much time worrying about him.

“Ah, signore,” he says. “Buon pomeriggio. A pleasure, as always.” He pauses slightly, his dark
eyes beetling down to the gloves then back up again. “I hope you are well?”

“Not great,” I say. I brandish my hands, almost apologetically. “Psoriasis.”

Matteo promptly looks confused and I congratulate myself for all over again, this time for a
sensible choice of cover-story. No one knows what psoriasis is, which makes it far less likely he’ll
call bullshit on the need for gloves.

“Psoriasis?” He stumbles slightly over the pronunciation; it’s clear he’s never heard of it. “I’m
afraid I…”

“It’s a bit like eczema,” I say, waving my hands again like I’m expecting them to chip into the
conversation and back me up themselves. “You know? Irritazione della pelle. Mine always gets
worse in the heat.”

“Oh yes!” he exclaims, sounding almost happy about it as the penny finally drops. “Eczema –
eczema I know of. My cousin has eczema. Very itchy. She adds apple cider vinegar to her baths.
Acupuncture, she tells me, is also very good.”
I feel like reminding him that I don’t actually have eczema (not even the pretend kind) then take a
few seconds to send silent commiserations to people with genuine ailments who must have to
endure shitty, unsolicited advice like this on a daily basis.

“Thanks,” is all I say. “I’ll give it a try.”

“Bene. I wish you a speedy recovery.” He smiles again then gestures towards an enormous coffee
machine by his desk that’s gleaming with so many dials and gauges it looks like it should be
sustaining life somewhere on an intensive care unit. “You would like a drink?” I shake my head,
struggling slightly to conceal my impatience. “You’re sure? You usually like my coffee.”

Briefly I consider appealing to the phantom psoriasis as a reason to avoid caffeine before deciding I
can’t be bothered. Instead I just shake my head again and he stares at me for a few seconds before
walking towards the machine.

“You don’t mind if I do?” he adds over his shoulder.

“Of course not,” I say. I can feel a bead of sweat snaking its way down my neck, which is
unexpected; I must be more uptight than I realised. Admittedly it’s not like he’s done anything to
indicate a problem, but I’ve come too far with my suspicions by now to let go of them so easily. “I
can’t stay,” I add. “I just came by to pay the rent. I’m sorry it’s late, by the way. It won’t happen
again”

“Oh yes. The rent.” There’s another pause as he flicks a lever on the machine, the gusts of steam
hissing up around him as if he’s been set alight. “I confess, I expected you to come sooner signore.
But I am not angry with you – I am happy to wait. In Italy we have a saying: Chi aspettar suole, ha
ciò che vuole.” He pauses then turns around, fixing me with another long gaze from over his
shoulder. “It means ‘He that can have patience can have whatever he likes.’”

I stare back at him through the hissing steam, aware of how my stomach has started to churn as I’m
gripped with a sudden dull certainty that he isn’t just talking about the money. Oh fuck, is this
really it then? Is it really about to happen? Despite all the precautions – the gloves and the hat and
the smiling little knife – I can see now that I didn’t truly expect them to be necessary. Not really.
Not deep down. Planning seemed like an indulgence, almost a game: something I had the luxury to
do because I could, rather than because I had to. The trickle of sweat has reached my shoulder
blades and I stand there and feel it run until at last he turns back round, vapour still billowing from
his cup in a way that feels vaguely infernal.

“You are sure you don’t want some coffee?” he adds. “No? Well, I have not heard a word from
you since we last spoke. That night I came to see you.” He pauses accusingly, as if I could have
possibly forgotten. “I expected you might have been more curious, but apparently not. You have…
what would you call it in English? Oh yes: a good poker-face.”

By now I think I’m almost certain what he’s going to say, yet ironically I can’t decide whether I
want to delay the inevitable or speed it up to get it over with. Rip the band aid off or peel it away in
pieces? Who knows; either way it still hurts. So in the end I don’t do anything except stare at him
in silence as he gives an odd little smile then raises his cup in my direction in a parody of a toast. I
can tell he’s studying me, searching for any traces of shock or fear, and in spite of everything
there’s still a perverse kind of pleasure in denying him the satisfaction of showing it.

“Your friend…” he says eventually.

There’s a pause as I drag in a painful breath. Hold it. Wait. Let it out. Here it comes…
“I know who he is.”

A long stretch of silence now follows and as I stand there I grow aware of the clock above his desk
and how it pounds and thuds like a heartbeat. Or maybe it’s my own pulse I can hear, absurdly
loud in the silent room as time both limps and flashes by? Even now I’m still just staring at him,
refusing to take the bait, and it’s then that I realise his confident expression is showing the first
signs of starting to falter. I suppose he was expecting me to show more of a reaction and the fact
I’m not is frustrating him: he wanted to feel the power of watching me panic. Perhaps he was
hoping I’d beg? What he doesn’t realise is that this is an area he’s met his match, because there’re
probably few people alive more experienced than I am in refusing observers an invitation to step
inside my head.

“It seems we have quite the celebrity in our midst, no?” says Matteo finally when it seems like the
silence has finally grown too much for him. “I suppose you know he came to see me? To re-
negotiate the rent?” He pauses expectedly but I still don’t reply, stillness and stony expression
combining together in a stubborn refusal to give anything away. “That was when I began to
suspect. I confess, I wasn’t sure at first – it seemed too fantastical to be possible. Him, I thought.
Here? But I did a little research of my own and yes, indeed, I see I am correct.”

As he’s speaking I have a sudden, pointless memory of Hunter’s crime fixation and how I was
probably right to keep you away from him…as if any of that matters at all. Then that flashback is
quickly followed by another one: namely my original suspicion that you might have tipped Matteo
off yourself just for the pleasure of causing havoc. The idea you’d put us at such risk simply to
amuse yourself is close to unbearable and I have to draw another sharp breath, desperate to banish
the thought as soon as it occurs to me. No, you wouldn’t, I think. Not even you. There’s no way. In
fact the way my mind is conjuring any of this at all is the first warning sign of how badly the stress
is starting to get to me, and I briefly screw my eyes shut in an urgent attempt to focus.

“You must understand that I am very interested in people like your friend,” adds Matteo. He’s still
gazing at me, still greedy and calculating. He thinks I’m paying attention to him; he thinks I care
what he finds interesting. “Perhaps you could even say I study them? And your friend, he is a true
master. But then I also understand that he may be admired from afar but not approached. He is very
dangerous, isn’t he?”

There’s another pause and for the first time I snap my head up and look him straight in the eye.
“Yes,” I say. “You know he is.”

Matteo nods approvingly, almost like he’s pleased that we’ve found something we can finally
agree on. “Yes – indeed yes. And so, I approach you instead signore. Just a little hint. Not enough
to endanger me, but enough to make you curious about how much I could know. And now…here
you are.”

“Yes,” I repeat. My voice is extremely blank and mechanical; nothing at all like my usual one.
“Here I am.”

Matteo dips in head again then takes a slow sip of his coffee, his dark eyes fixed on me the entire
time from over the top of the mug. A faint smile is flickering round his mouth as he does it and the
sight makes me want to flinch because there’s something uniquely repulsive about people whose
emotional responses contradict the context they find themselves in. Pleasure in response to fear or
tension is especially disturbing…although admittedly you seem to be an exception to this rule, just
as you are with so much else. Then it occurs to me that if he knows who you are it’s unlikely he
wouldn’t also know who I am – and how if that is the case then he’s stubbornly refusing to
mention it. Either way it’s clear he doesn’t consider me a comparable threat to you, although that’s
not exactly surprising. Depending on what he’s read I could have come across as irredeemably
unstable and dangerous or as a tragic victim of your machinations who was crushed just as
thoroughly as everyone else. The public version of me is a patchwork person, stitched together
from tatters and scraps of other people’s false perceptions. The only one who really knows the truth
is you.

It's possible that Matteo is thinking something similar because he now lowers his cup then gives
me a look that’s genuinely questioning. “Why do you stay?” he says. “You are still young. You
have a life ahead of you. Why are you living here like this?”

I suppose it’s beyond his power of imagination to believe I could be here by choice. He thinks I’m
in the same situation Bedelia must once have been in; helplessly and hopelessly ensnared, with no
choice except to either be your prey or be the one to kill you. Admittedly that was always a
perverse point of similarity between me and her. Although in the end it was the difference that
proved more important, because unlike Bedelia I snatched whatever shreds were left of my sanity
and self-awareness and realised I didn’t need to go looking for you anymore because you were still
there with me – and always had been. I suppose I could say any of that if I wanted to, but in the end
I don’t. I don’t say anything at all. It suits me so much better to be seen as a victim, because I know
extremely well what a huge advantage there is in being underestimated.

Matteo is still staring at me as if he thinks I’m going to reply; as if I owe him any sort of
explanation at all. It’s also the point I should probably be starting to panic, yet somehow I’m far
beyond that by now. Fear is of no use to me, not anymore: I used it all up in the past few weeks,
tormenting myself with the image of a moment exactly like this one. What’s needed instead is
action. A cool head and a steady hand, something to fight on behalf of the both of us.

“You must be thinking ‘why does he not go to the police?’” says Matteo finally when it’s clear I’m
not going to respond. “I will tell you why. I confess, I did consider it. And yet I am not a
judgemental man.” He raises his eyebrows rather piously as he says this, like he’s congratulating
himself on how open-minded and accepting he thinks he is. It’s also incredibly artificial: the type
of gesture I can imagine him practicing in a mirror, possibly after seeing something similar in a
movie and deciding to copy it. “We all have our little habits, don’t we?” he adds. “Your friend has
his, I have mine. È quello che è: who am I to judge? It makes no difference to me how another man
chooses to spend his time. Besides, I am superstitious. I say to myself: ‘if I overlook other people’s
indiscretions, then they are more likely to forgive me for mine.’ Give and take, yes?”

“Give and take,” I repeat in the same lifeless voice. “Yes.”

“Sì,” says Matteo crisply, as if he’s glad we’ve got that settled. “So, I have explained to you why I
do not yet go to the police, and now – now I will tell you what I would like in exchange for my
silence.”

A long pause follows this statement and I realise that my own silence has bothered him so much
that he’s not actually planning to tell me; he’s going to force me to ask. By now the knife feels like
it’s practically burning a hole in my pocket, yet I still don’t make any attempt to reach for it. The
scene is too uncontrolled, the risks too high. Plus his secretary could walk in any minute, and
killing an innocent witness is a line I still can’t find it in myself to cross. The task is to get him
somewhere private instead, but while I’m still not sure how to manage it I know there must be a
way. There has to be…I have to find one.

The entire time I’m thinking this Matteo is still just standing there: standing and staring and smiling
in a living embodiment of cruelly cunning patience. I suppose I could wait it out to force him to
speak first, but it seems like such a pointless game to play. And besides, I need data. I can’t
calculate my next best move without it.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “So what would you like?”

Matteo lets out a little sigh of satisfaction at making me give him what he wanted by breaking the
silence, then carefully replaces his mug on the desk and takes a few steps towards me. There’s
something intrinsically distasteful in the way he moves; so eerie and jerky it makes his long limbs
appear disjointed in the manner of a horrifically over-sized spider. Then just as quickly it appears
to change and grows creeping and shuffling instead, the same way a slug might do; as if he has no
bones at all.

“You, signore,” he says, clipped and precise like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “That is what
I want.” He smiles again, sharp little teeth gleaming wetly in what’s left of the light. “I would like
to add you to my collection.”
 Chapter 22
Chapter Notes

Hey my lovelies, hope your weekend’s been going well. Just to let you know that
there’s a mild content warning in this update for attempted exploitation and generally
gross, sleazy behaviour, so if that’s something you’re uncomfortable with you might
want to skip ahead to the chapter break (look for the ***** symbol). Feel free to
message me in the comments if so, and I can give you a plot summary to help you stay
up-to-date without needing to read the whole thing xox

It’s obvious by now that this is my cue to respond. I mean of course it is – if anything could be
called a prompt it would be this. Yet once again I find myself doing nothing but stare at him. It
seems all I’ve done in this meeting is stare. Stand and stare, like something turned to stone, while
my mind accelerates as if trying to compensate for my body’s lack of action. Really the main thing
I’m aware of is relief that he hasn’t gone to the police, closely followed by uncertainty over what
the hell he’s talking about. Then I have a few surreal seconds of wondering whether he means he
wants to add my photo to his stupid fucking wall, even though I know it could never be something
so simple as that. Ask him, I think. Ask him to explain. And yet I don’t want to; I don’t want to
know. I don’t care. The only thing I really want is to take him out with my grinning little knife…
and which also happens to be the one thing that’s currently impossible for me to do.

“You are very calm signore,” says Matteo finally.

He sounds resigned and I get the feeling that this meeting really isn’t working out the way he’d
hoped for. No doubt this is the point where I was supposed to be pleading and frantic and instead
I’m just fixed in place like a statue with my eyes bearing into him like I want him dead (which I
do). After all, he’s had weeks to imagine how this might go. How many times must he have played
it out beforehand in his mind, mentally choreographing his own movements and mine until they
were exactly to his liking? I could have told him such scripting was a waste of time. People are so
erratic and unpredictable, even normal people – people who aren’t like me. You never really know
what they’re going to do.

“I guess I am,” I now tell him. “So maybe be more specific?” Despite the stress of the situation it’s
ghoulishly comical how cranky I sound. I’m not even doing it on purpose. It’s like there’s just a
part of me who’s had it with his shit and can’t even pretend to keep humouring him.

“You should sit down,” is all he replies. “You have been standing a very long time. You must be
uncomfortable.”

I suppose I have been here for a long time. It’s weird to suddenly realise this: I wasn’t fully aware
until he mentioned it, but now I look I can see how the shadows have started to spill across the
room and that pounding clock on the wall is proof that several hours have passed since I kissed
you goodbye and walked away. I wonder if you’ve woken up yet? I hope you haven’t. I want you
to sleep through this; safe and secure and several miles away while I do whatever needs to be done
to protect us.

“No,” I tell him now. “I prefer to stand.”

This makes him smile again, his mouth quirking in the fond, exasperated way that yours always
does when I’m being particularly stubborn. It’s a gesture I associate almost entirely with you and
the sight of him doing it is enough to make every muscle in my body clench with resentment.

“As you wish,” he says. “If you want to make your legs ache I suppose it’s not my place to stop
you. Now I want to explain something and I hope you will listen, because then you will appreciate
better what I am wanting from you. Firstly, signore, I would like to know if you understand the
idea of pursuit?” He pauses and shoots me a grim little smile. “At the very least, I am sure your
friend does. Il brivido della caccia, yes? The thrill of the hunt.”

I nod impatiently and he nods straight back, delighted that I seem to get it, and him, so readily. Not
that I really do; I don’t care enough to try and get it. He hasn’t even spoken yet and I already know
there won’t be the slightest shred of commonality between his appreciation of hunting compared to
yours. Or, for that matter, mine.

“There is the emotional thrill, yes?” adds Matteo, who seems totally oblivious to my look of
contempt. “When there is something we desire then it is natural to want to own it. A satisfaction in
possessing it for ourselves. It is a double pleasure, I think, because not only do we have the
enjoyment of the object itself, but the pride in how we were able to obtain it. People hunt out all
sorts of things, don’t they signore? Cars, wine, art; so many different types of collections. I have
even tried a few of then in the past, but they do not truly satisfy me. My tastes are more…
personal.”

“Personal,” I repeat. “Right.”

Even as a non-native speaker the disdain in my voice must be obvious to him, but while in theory
I’m supposed to be keeping him happy it’s growing increasingly impossible to hide it. I’m just so
tired of these assholes. Always too arrogant to realise how absurd they are, waxing lyrical about
their fucking compulsions as if they’re the special one: the one with the motive that’s profoundly
poetic and interesting, when in reality they’re just the same wretched cluster of pathologies that
could be found in the pages of any undergrad textbook.

“As a collector I have certain standards,” continues Matteo (fuck me…he’s still not done). “It
means whatever I choose to add is selected with great care. Physical appearance matters, of course,
but it is not the most important thing. It is more a matter of personality: of attitude and
temperament. Those are the things I like the best. It’s what gives my collection its flavour. So that
is why I want you to listen to me, because I think we can come to an amicable arrangement.
Capisce? I have something you want, which is to keep your friend’s secret for him. And you have
something I want – which is to play a very special game with me.”

Despite myself I feel my eyes rolling. It’s such a serious situation I shouldn’t resort to these
gestures, but I really can’t stop myself. As a request it’s just so sordidly pathetic and predictable.
“You want me to have sex with you?” I ask with obvious disgust.

“No, no – you misunderstand me.” He actually sounds reproachful, like he can’t believe I’d be
such a heartless bastard as to assume the worst of him. “No, I do not intend to touch you at all. That
is not what I am interested in.” He leans a little further forward and in the dimness I see his tongue
dart across his lips to leave a damp gleam of saliva. “What I like to do is to watch.”

“Watch who?” I say sharply.

I can’t quite believe he’d go there, but I feel if he dares to bring you into this then it’ll be
impossible to stop myself ripping him apart where he’s standing and to hell with the consequences.
There’s also the fact that the ease with which he can objectify human beings into items for
collection is a major red flag, and seriously makes me wonder if his interests extend beyond
voyeurism into killing them too. But none of that alters what I know is about to happen, because if
anything he's doing me a favour: talking his way into making it even easier to kill him and
destroying any lingering shreds of conscience I might otherwise have had.

“Oh, there are several possibilities,” replies Matteo. His tone has shifted now: brisk and measured,
almost business-like. “People I know. All very attractive. Very nice. You would like them, I
guarantee it. And I would allow you to have a say in it too, of course. I would show you their
pictures beforehand and you could choose who you liked the best.”

The image of this – of scrolling through photos of prospective sex partners like browsing a
catalogue – is completely grotesque, and for the first time my stony silence is close to being
genuine rather than manufactured. It’s hard not to though; my aversion is so extreme that I honestly
don’t know what to say. Unfortunately he seems to take the silence as encouragement, because he
now leans even further forward as his eyes crawl across my face.

“After that you would meet with this person,” he adds, “and then the two of you would be intimate
together. That’s all you would have to do. I would be in the room as well, of course. Plus
something for my collection: a few photographs for myself…a little filming. You see, it is not so
bad is it? I think you would have a very nice time.” He nods firmly, like he’s inviting me to
imagine the niceness of the time I could have, before holding up two long fingers one after the
other. “I have only a couple of requirements. The first is that you would follow my exact directions
in what you do and how you do it. And no protection either: that is my second requirement. Again,
however, I would make sure you were taken care of. I provide all my friends with the tablets…you
know, the pre-exposure? What would you call it in English?”

“PrEP,” I reply in the same stony way as before. “I know what it is.”

“Well then, there you go – no concerns at all. And in exchange for meeting one of my friends, you
have my silence, guaranteed. Tutto è bene quel che finisce bene: all is well. A very good bargain,
no?”

Vaguely I find myself wondering who exactly these ‘friends’ might be. I’m hoping he means sex
workers, who would at least have a level of choice, although there’s a strong possibly he’s talking
about other blackmail victims. Not that it makes any difference: it’s never going to happen. Even
so, there’s still a certain irony in this determination because I know if it was only myself at risk I
might actually go ahead with it. I’ve done worse things in my life after all – and I’m very good at
separating my mind from my body. I could just zone out while it was happening then escape as
soon as it was over; I’d find somewhere I could hide myself so thoroughly that no one would ever
be able to find me. It would be repellent and distressing, yet still infinitely safer than a murder.
Only it’s not just me, it’s you as well: and which is why I know that I can’t let him leave alive. This
isn’t hard to justify to myself. What he’s proposing isn’t technically rape in the legal sense, but it’s
coercive and repulsive enough to confirm that the world won’t be any worse off without him in it.

In all this time I’ve still barely moved and yet my mind is racing at the same frantic speed as
before. Yet what I’m also aware of is a powerfully inconvenient truth, namely that he’s also doing
the immoral thing by not turning you in. Letting you go free would make him the villain in most
people’s eyes yet that’s the only thing I don’t want to punish him for – and this is the harder part
which I don’t want to rationalise, mainly because I can’t.

“Fine,” I say abruptly. “I’ll do it. Only it has to be tonight.” I fix him with another stare to show
that I mean it. “Now.”

“Now?” The surprise is obvious. He thinks my agreement is sincere; he has no idea I’m starting to
plan a crime scene. “What, you mean…right now?”

“Right. Now.”

“But don’t you wish to see…”

“No,” I say before he has a chance to finish. “I don’t care who it is; choose whoever you want. But
I’m not doing it here – and not in your house, either.”

“Well, yes, that it is a given,” he replies with a touch of pompousness. “I do not let my friends in
my home.”

“One more thing…” I take a sudden step forward and he flinches then draws himself back with a
quickness that’s almost amusing; I’ve been still so long it’s like he’s forgotten I can actually move.
“Before we leave, I want you to open your safe.”

For a few seconds he gazes at me, eyes blinking foolishly as he tries to process what I’m saying.
“My safe?” he says finally. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Your safe: cassetta di sicurezza. I know you have one and I want you to open it.”

“Scusi? I beg your pardon? What do you want with my safe?”

“Open it.”

This time he visibly bristles, clearly offended by my tone. “You appear to have misread the
situation signore,” he says sharply. “As you Americans say, I am afraid you do not get to call the
shots.”

“Open. It,” I repeat. “Or I walk out of here right now.”

Admittedly this is an enormous risk, but I’m still confident he’ll fall for it – and after a few seconds
of faltering, he actually does. It’s ironic, really. He commented himself on the quality of my poker-
face, then when it really mattered he didn’t have the sense to call my bluff. I stand close behind
him as he’s doing it, taking great care to memorise the sequence for the lock. You had a safe once,
didn’t you? In fact you had two: one in your house and one at your office. When I first began
suspecting you I planned to break into the office one using the same method I’m using now and
can still remember the confused mix of emotion when I realised you’d used the number of my FBI
badge as the combination. Even so, you’d still realised what I was up to because when I went back
again the entire thing had been emptied. Matteo, fortunately, is a far lower class of opponent: not
just a lower league, but a different sport entirely.

“There,” he says when he’s finished. He glances over his shoulder to give me a distinctly
venomous look. “You see? I do as you ask.”

I step forward myself to get a clearer view inside. “Any photographs?” I add. “CCTV footage? Of
me or…” Then I find myself hesitating; it’s stupid really, but I’m feeling so protective of you I
don’t even want to say your name in front of him.

“No, of course not,” he snaps. “When would I have had the chance to…”

“Show me,” I say.

I already know there won’t be any – namely because I checked for CCTV myself before I even
first stepped foot in the building. But the request is a useful form of misdirection and, if everything
goes to plan, will help establish my real goal without making him too suspicious. His sole response
is an irritated huffing noise but he still does it anyway and begins a grudging performance of
spreading the documents across the desk, clearly unaware that I’m able to read the Italian. Most are
obviously business-related, and I’m just on the verge of panicking that he really does have his stash
stored somewhere else when a bulging manila envelope finally catches my attention. A chi di
competenza; da aprire in caso di mio decesso: To whom it may concern; to be opened in the event
of my death. Bingo, I think grimly. There’s no way I can take it now without giving the game
away, but its existence confirms I’ll have to come back for it later. It’s satisfying to be proven right,
although not especially surprising. He knows who you are so was aware of the risk; he’s already
said as much. It’s impossible that he wouldn’t have taken any extra precautions.

“You don’t trust me,” he says now. “Didn’t I give you my word? You keep to our arrangement for
as long as I ask and your friend will have nothing to fear from me.” He pauses then gives me a
rather triumphant smile. “And I have nothing to fear from him. He should be aware that I have
much expensive security. And I know how to aim my gun.”

For an awful moment I feel I might actually laugh. As if a gun would ever be enough to stop you;
as if it would be anywhere near enough. For all his so-called research he’s disastrously
underestimated what he’s dealing with and I can’t help feeling thankful at how well this misplaced
arrogance is about to work in my favour. Even so, it’s impossible not to also spare a thought for all
those other unknown victims whose suffering my own success is being built on the back of. I’m
convinced there’s a time when he’d never have dared cross paths with someone like you; he’d have
gone to the police as soon as he realised, the same as any sane person would. Instead he’s decided
to leverage you to feed his own fucked-up fetishes, and it’s actively depressing to think how this
confidence must result from succeeding so long with his blackmailing that it’s given him a sense of
invulnerability.

“You see?” says Matteo, who’s now busy shovelling documents back into the gaping mouth of the
safe. “You are satisfied now? You are so mistrustful of me, but what I want is not very
complicated. I have certain pleasures in my life which I like to pursue, and I like to have interesting
people around me to pursue them with.” My look of disgust must briefly show on my face because
he shrugs in an exaggerated way then waves his hand towards me. “We are all the same. We all
wish to scratch the itch, yes?”

While I understand he’s using ‘we’ to refer to men generally, the effect of the plural still manages
to be faintly sinister – almost as if he believes his body is housing several different people. In fact
the whole encounter is making me feel contaminated and I have a sudden, urgent desire to leap into
a stingingly hot shower to sluice off the effect of his stare. It’s so incredibly invasive, it might as
well be leaving oily smears across my face and clothes.

“You do not need to look so disapproving,” he adds mockingly when he catches me glaring at him.
“You are not much better than me, I think. You live with him, you protect him – you do not turn
him in either. There must be something in it for you; why should there not also be something in it
for me? Besides, you will benefit from our arrangement yourself signore. I am a very wealthy man.
What do you say in America? I can ‘show you a good time’. And if you are angry, you should
blame your friend rather than me. It is his fault that you are in this situation.” He smiles and then
shrugs again. “Although I expect he will also be grateful to me for not going to the police. Anyone
else and he would be sitting in a cell by now.”

Briefly I feel my lip curling at the idea of what your ‘gratitude’ would look like. Really, it’s a
shame that you won’t get a chance to show it to him in person. But there’s no way I’m going to
waste my time explaining this, because every second he’s still standing there represents a risk of
discovery that I’m increasingly unable to tolerate. I’ve already stayed far too long, yet despite the
way it’s started getting dark neither of us have bothered to switch on the lights. The sole source of
illumination is a little reading lamp on his desk, and it makes his face looks faintly spectral when
painted in so much dimness: each plane and shaft of bone curiously emphasised like a Death’s
Head or a leering bit of sculpture. I suppose, in a perverse way, we were both right about him: me
in my original suspicions, and you with your belief of an ‘unknown variable’. Only technically
there wasn’t one variable at all, was there, but two: you and me. Then I draw in my breath with a
long sigh, because deep down I know I blame myself for this. In hindsight his readiness to
overlook our lack of ID was a huge warning sign he wasn’t trustworthy, but I was so happy to have
found somewhere to stay that I was more than willing to overlook it. Relief blinded me; and that
blindness came close to exerting a very heavy price. Almost…but not quite.

“It’s late,” I say, suddenly tiring of the whole thing. “Call who you need to call, then I want to get
out of here.”

“Patience, signore. It is not so late as all that. The night is still young.” He smirks a bit then takes
out his phone before pausing again. “Your last chance,” he says. “I have photographs. You are sure
you do not want to…”

“I told you,” I snap. “I don’t care.” In fact I’m barely even listening, because ‘getting out of here’
means finding somewhere suitable for what I have in mind and his vague promise of going to a
hotel isn’t good enough. A heaving tourist trap in the centre of town is no use to me: it has to be
somewhere remote. As I think back to the gallery wall a sudden surge of inspiration hits me and I
hold up my hand just as he’s about to hit the call button. “That picture outside your office,” I blurt
out. “The château. I want to go somewhere like that.”

“Santo cielo. More orders. You are very demanding aren’t you?” He doesn’t sound angry about it
though. On the contrary he seems pleased, just like I expected him to be: the stupid bastard wants a
chance to flaunt his wealth. “I am afraid you are out of luck,” he adds. “That photograph was taken
near Rome. You are a very nice friend for me, no doubt, but even for you I am not prepared to
drive so far.”

“Somewhere similar then. Somewhere in the countryside.” I grit my teeth then force myself to add:
“Please.”

“Please? Why please? Why would you care?”

“Because I’d like it. Why do you think? I never get a chance to get out of the city.”

“Listen to you,” he says merrily. “‘Getting out of the city’. I am not taking you on a sightseeing
trip, you know that don’t you?” The fondly indulgent tone has returned to his voice and it’s no less
grating than the last time he did it. “It will be a half hour journey, at least. I’m afraid I am not going
to drive you home again after that.” He darts me another look. “You will have to stay the night.”

I repeat the same impatient gesture as before. “I’ll get a cab.”

“You could stay the night,” he says thoughtfully. “You seem determined to get your money’s
worth from me and the hotel I have in mind is not cheap – you might as well enjoy it. Good food,
fine wine, the best suite in the entire place…” I stare back at him without speaking and he shrugs
again then retrieves his phone. “Well, we shall see where the evening takes us,” he says, then waits
a few seconds for the call to connect before breaking into a stream of rapid Italian with the person
on the other end. God knows who it is. The least I can hope for is that it’s someone who’s paid to
do this and therefore has a level of choice, although there’s really no way to be sure.

“Questo è quanto,” he says when he finally hangs up. “All arranged.”

“Good,” I say crisply. “Then let’s get going.” I wait until he’s looking away from me to retrieve
his keys then quickly lean forward to swipe a couple of paperclips from the desk. Admittedly there
are better devices available to pick a lock, but time isn’t on my side to find any. Not that it matters:
when the moment comes they’ll still get the job done.

“Good,” he repeats when he turns round. “Bene. Then…yes. We should go. After you.”

He waves his hand towards the exit, although not before I see a small sign of hesitancy flicker
across his face. It’s clear my calmness is ruining it for him; I suppose part of the kick he gets is
wielding a sense of power over his victims, and my continued refusal to beg or panic is taking the
edge off his enjoyment. Further proof of this comes while we’re waiting for the elevator and he
puts a hand on my shoulder then refuses to move it when I ask him. It’s clear he wants me to think
I have no choice about what happens to me, so rather than argue with him I just fold my arms then
gaze determinedly at the ceiling as if getting pawed by him is the most tedious thing in the world
(which it is). The seconds start to stretch out and the lack of a struggle seems to deflate any sense
of satisfaction he might have had because he ends up removing his hand anyway.

That’s been your problem all along, I grimly tell him in my head. You’ve absolutely no idea what
you’re dealing with. You only think you do. I suppose I don’t seem like a serious physical threat, at
least when compared to you. He’s taller than I am and clearly invests considerable time in the gym;
to him I look slim and small – wiry and well-muscled, perhaps, if he was feeling particularly
generous – but certainly nothing to feel any anxiety over. Despite the fact he’s uncovered your
identity a part of him still seems to think it’s just a game. His downfall is that he doesn’t realise
how incredibly willing I am to play; and that it’s been a long, long time since I followed the normal
rules.

Once we’re in his car I completely shut down again, eyes screwed tightly closed as I rehearse what
needs to happen and the quickest way in which to do it. My hands have started trembling slightly
with the adrenaline: I thrust them into my pockets to hide it. Then I finally open my eyes again and
press my forehead against the window to where the city is already dissolving into barren stretches
of fields and trees, their naked limbs straggling upwards like they want to claw the sky. Orion and
his dogs are just about visible through a veil of ragged clouds; it’s my favourite constellation and I
stare at them for a few seconds in silent solidarity. So much desolation should maybe feel
oppressive, but in this instance the isolated land is my friend and goes exactly in my favour. In fact,
we’ve probably gone far enough now. It’s the proverbial end of the road: remote enough to avoid
being disturbed, but not so far that I can’t make it back to his office in reasonable time on foot. This
is it, I think. Do it. Do it and get it over with .

As the blackened sky flies past the window I now slowly pull myself upright in my seat then turn
my head to face him. I adjust my voice very carefully: hesitant with just the right hint of
vulnerability, enough to make him think my previous courage has begun to break down.

“Look, Matteo, can you just pull over for a minute,” I say. “I’m sorry, it won’t take long. Only
there’s something I need to tell you…”

*****

By the time I get home it’s almost close to morning. I drop my keys on the table then for a few
seconds just slump against the wall, staring into the shadows with numb exhaustion until I finally
straighten up again and drag myself upstairs. Once there I strip my clothes off and dump them in a
trash bag before heading to the shower where I stand equally solemn and silent as I watch the
blood-black water swirl down the drain. After that I slide into the bedroom as quietly as possible:
you’re still exactly where I left you, looking so fragile and vulnerable that I’m overcome with a
sudden urge to touch you and be as close as I can. Carefully I climb onto the bed then hitch up
behind you so I can bury my face in the back of your neck.

“Will?” Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. It’s so parched and dry, almost like it’s having to
scrape its way out your throat.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’m right here.”

“Where have you been? You were gone so long.”

“I know I was. I’m sorry.”

“I missed you.” You sound more remote now – pensive and thoughtful in a way that’s extremely
out of character – and it makes me realise that you must still be half asleep. Either that or your
fever has gotten worse; it’s genuinely hard to tell. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” you add,
even quieter than before. “I thought you’d left me.”

I make a soothing sound then gently kiss the back of your neck. “No you didn’t. You know I’d
never leave you.”

You’re quiet for so long I start to think you must have fallen asleep until your voice suddenly
breaks out again into the silence: “You must never leave, Will,” you say. “Do you understand?”
There’s another pause: you sound so sad, it’s kind of unbearable. “I can’t lose you a second time.”

“You won’t.” I lean up far enough to nuzzle your hair with my forehead. “And even if I did get lost
I’d still make sure I found you again. Don’t you remember? It didn’t matter where you went, I was
always able to find you. Even when no one else could.”

“Yes…” you say slowly. “Yes. You were always very good at that.”

“I know,” I reply. “The best.” You seem so lost yourself right now; it’s like speaking to a different
person. I wonder how much you’ll be able to remember once you’re recovered? In a way I hope
you forget, because I know how much you’d hate me seeing you like this. I wrap my arm round
your chest then hold you a little tighter, silently staring into the darkness just beyond your shoulder
as I listen to the rise and fall of your breath.

“Would you do something for me?” you say suddenly.

“What?”

“I want you to open the drapes.”

“Why do you want the drapes open?”

“Because I think I would like to watch the stars with you.”

I repeat the same soothing sound then kiss the back of your neck again. “Not now, Hannibal. The
sun’s already rising. Try and get some sleep.”

“You asked me about that once,” you add. “Do you remember? You said you wondered if some of
our stars were the same.” There’s another pause. “Do you remember that, Will?”

“Of course I do. Always.”

You let out a long sigh; it’s almost like you don’t believe me. “Why is your hair wet?”
“I’ve just had a shower.” I tighten my grip on you and then let out a sigh of my own. “We might
have to leave for a while,” I add. My voice is very quiet now; even more than yours is. “I’ve done
something…”

Beneath my hand I feel you shift. “What?” you ask. “What have you done?”

I open my mouth to reply, only to find that it’s now my turn to fall quiet. In the end I just lean over
and press another soft kiss against your skin. “You know what?” I say, “It doesn’t matter – I’ll tell
you some other time.”

It’s a sign of how ill you are that you don’t demand to be told right now. Instead you just settle
down again in my arms, very soft and pliant as I pull you closer towards me. My hand is stroking
rhythmically across your chest, each touch a silent promise and earnest pledge. Just rest, the touch
says. Rest and recover, grow strong and healthy again. You’re safe as long as I’m here, I promise
you are. I’ll never let anyone harm you.
 Chapter 23

After everything’s that happened it would make sense for all my focus to be on Matteo, and yet it’s
not. Instead, my single greatest hope as I’m falling asleep is simply to wake up and discover you
feeling better. Not recovered exactly; I’m restrained enough in my optimism to know that this is
too much to expect. But just the smallest sign to suggest recovery is hovering in the wings would
be sufficient, despite knowing it’s the irrational fitful kind of wish that’s not really based on
anything beyond ‘I want it and therefore it should happen’. Only it doesn’t happen. It’s not even
close. Admittedly you don’t seem any worse, but even that’s not the consolation it should be
because I can’t get past the sense of wanting you happy, healthy, and fully restored and anything
less won’t satisfy me. So while your temperature hasn’t gone up I can’t forgive it for not going
down, and the fact your fever hasn’t made you incoherent is little comfort for the absence of your
usual glacial calmness. What makes it even worse is the inability to do anything practical to help
you, because I’ve long since reached and exceeded the frontier of my medical knowledge – and
beyond taking you to the ER there doesn’t seem much else left to try.

“Absolutely not,” you say when I suggest it for the second time. “Not while Jack’s in the city.
Besides, it’s not necessary. If I think I need medical assistance then I’ll tell you.”

I suppose you mean this to be reassuring but somehow it’s not. After all, by the time that moment
comes you might not be able to tell me. You might become delirious. You might fall unconscious.
I frown to myself, briefly bombarded with all the possible disasters that might befall you, before
forcibly pulling myself together and fetching you more water and paracetamol, all the while doing
my best to conceal any obvious signs of stress. I’m sure you can see past this calm façade for the
bullshit it is, but the last thing I want to do is burden you with the messiness of my emotions so do
the best I can to hold them tight and keep them to myself. When I return to the bedroom again
you’re still curled up with your knees to your chest, so I place the tray on the nightstand then
carefully climb onto the bed and arrange myself next to you. Your head promptly appears from
over the top of the blanket to give me a rather beady look.

“Do you need anything,” I ask. Your eyes start to narrow, clearly irritated by the disturbance, and I
can’t help smiling before reaching over to smooth your hair off your forehead. “That looks like a
no,” I add. “Well, just tell me if you do.”

You dip your head slightly to suggest that you will, so I stoke your hair for a bit longer before
continuing, in an overly-casual way: “Last night, when I came home. Do you remember anything?”
There’s no reply so I glance down at you: your eyes have already begun to narrow again with the
effort of trying to re-construct it. “It’s okay if you can’t,” I add quickly. “I was just curious.”

“You were away for a very long time,” you say after another pause. “I remember feeling rather
bereft at your absence, then concerned at whether anything could have happened to you.” Briefly
you fall silent before twisting your head round to look at me. “As such there is a high probability I
grew melodramatic and sentimental at seeing you again, in which case I apologise.”

I smile at this then gently run my finger down your cheek. “You were fine,” I say. “You don’t have
anything to apologise for.”

The fact you haven’t mentioned my cryptic reference to moving house confirms this is something
you don’t remember, although now hardly feels like the right moment to bring it up. Besides, once
the adrenaline’s worn off and I’ve had time to recalibrate it’s obvious that we can’t leave – at least
not immediately. Tenants vacating a property 24 hours after their landlord was murdered is more
than a little attention-grabbing and the exact kind of red flag I’d have noticed myself while still an
investigator. The desire to flee the scene of the crime…it’s such an intrinsic instinct, yet almost
always backfires when executed in the wrong way. Now isn’t the time to fold but the time to keep
my nerve, which means sitting here and waiting it out for as long as necessary. Less appealing, but
equally obvious, is the fact that you’re hardly in the right condition to go anywhere: I doubt I could
even get you as far as the front door in your current state. I sigh unhappily at the thought of it then
stretch back a bit further until I’m practically lying flat. My shirt, which is still unfastened, falls
open at the movement and I feel you stiffen next to me as you catch sight of it.

“Will?” you say. You reach out then gently trace your finger across the livid bruise on my
abdomen. Your skin feels very dry; almost papery. “What happened? Where did you get that?”

Your perceptiveness is poorly timed, but I still can’t help feeling grateful for it. Surely that’s a
good sign; for you to still be so aware of everything around you? “What, that?” I say, doing my best
to sound casual. “It’s nothing. A cyclist cut into me yesterday.”

You make a regretful noise then run your finger across it again. “Does it hurt?”

“No, not at all. It’s looks much worse than it is.”

“You should buy an anti-inflammatory,” you say. You’re frowning slightly as you’re speaking; it’s
like it’s physically painful for you to arrange your thoughts the way you want them. “Ask for
crema all’arnica at the pharmacy. Get the strong kind – at least 9mg of tincture.”

“I’ll do that,” I say. “Don’t worry about it, please.”

You open your mouth, close it again, then repeat the same version of the grimace as before. “So
how did your meeting with Matteo go?” you finally ask. “You haven’t mentioned him.”

“It went…kind of as expected.” I briefly pause myself then rest my hand over yours so I can lace
our fingers together. “Forget about it for now. Just get some rest – I’ll tell you some other time.”

Secretly I’m hoping you might ask for more details as proof you’re feeling better, but ultimately
you don’t. Instead you just reach out again, delicately flicking my shirt further open until both the
major scars on my abdomen are exposed. As you trace your finger across them my breath hitches
slightly: I don’t always like you touching me there, but you’re doing it in such a tender, deliberative
way that it can’t help but feel soothing. When you touch me like that it’s as if you’re sending a
message – that I’m safe, that I’m loved – and it’s one that I’ll always receive, regardless of how
angry or stressed I might otherwise feel.

“They’re rather striking,” you say finally. “Aren’t they? This palette of scars.”

“Not really.” I laugh again then give your hand another squeeze. “That’s not the word I’d choose.”

“But they are.” For a few seconds there’s a flash of your usual arrogance and the sound of it
immediately makes me smile. “They’re less like imperfections and more like embellishments.
Perhaps they’d be sad or unsightly on anyone else, yet your body lends them a certain distinction.
Like patina on stone, or craquelure on a particularly arresting portrait. Testimony and witness-
bearing to a lifetime of resilience.”

This time I just tighten my grip on your hand instead of replying, because I already know exactly
what you mean. To you, the damage was a way of forging character – akin to a battle scar or a
badge of honour – in which the benefits of being shattered are the ways in which the slivers and
fragments become both refining and defining and the breaks become the places that let the light in.
It’s like you once told me before: ‘luminous in all your damage.’ Blemished and broken yet
thriving despite it, because mental and physical scars don’t belong to the dead or the dying. The
message of scars is something else entirely. They say: I survived and endured.

You’ve now gone silent for so long that I assume you’ve fallen asleep again, but as I move to
rearrange my shirt your hand immediately darts out to stop me. “It’s strange to think that I am
responsible,” you say quietly. “Both times I had total faith in my reasons for inflicting them. And
yet…” Briefly your voice trails off as you get a strange, absent look in your eyes that’s about as
close as you ever get to showing genuine sadness. “And yet…I don’t think I could ever bring
myself to do it again.”

“It’s all right,” I tell you. I suppose it’s not – not really – but to be honest I don’t know what else to
say.

“Not even this second one,” you add. You still sound so lost; it’s as if you haven’t even heard me.
“It helped us gain our freedom together, do you remember? You even requested the injury
yourself.” There’s another pause, presumably while we both reflect on that wretched night on the
warehouse floor, before your head finally swivels round so you can look at me instead of the scars.
“We must never find ourselves in a similar situation, Will,” you say. “Because I would not be
capable of hurting you a second time.”

“It’s all right,” I say gently. “I know. And we won’t be in that situation – not ever again.”

It’s strange how our positions have suddenly reversed: you wary and contemplative, me offering
sweeping reassurances that I can’t possibly guarantee. It’s so different to how it usually is. I believe
you mean it when you say you couldn’t hurt me so badly a second time, but what I don’t tell you is
that if it came down to it I’d simply take that choice out of your hands and do it myself instead. It
no longer feels extreme or outlandish to admit that I’d allow myself to be harmed if it meant we
could stay together as opposed to a simple statement of fact. Or, even more to the point – that’s it’s
increasingly obvious how comfortable I am to hurt someone else.

*****

In the end it takes several days before you show any genuine signs of recovery and the realisation
of it happening is an unspeakable relief. It begins with your temperature starting to fall, continues
with you sitting up in bed, and then finally consolidates with you losing the pensive, dreamlike
quality of the fever and returning to your more briskly formidable self. A particular breakthrough
comes when you refer to me as an ‘obstinate boy’ in that fond, slightly sarcastic way you often do,
and the sound of it immediately makes me smile. Sometimes when you call me ‘boy’ it’ll annoy
the hell out of me, whereas other times it turns me on (and if I’m honest I still can’t reliably predict
which one it’s going to be). But right now – probably for the first time ever – it just makes me feel
happy in a pleasantly simple way, because it’s such a clear sign that you’re starting to feel like
yourself again.

The next positive development comes when you start bitching about having to drink instant coffee
instead of ground, but the best one of all is when you get out of bed entirely and spend the day
downstairs (where you proceed to drape yourself across various bits of furniture in a way that more
resembles an artist’s model than someone recovering from a serious illness). Of course this also
means the time has come to tell you about Matteo, but now that it’s possible I’ve realised I don’t
actually want to. Admittedly this is a bit perverse, although it’s not because I’m concerned what
your reaction will be but rather from a reluctance to confront the implications of what I’ve done.
Cocooning myself with you in an invalid bubble for the past few days has been like a vacation
from responsibilities where real-life never had a chance to intrude. But I know it can’t last
indefinitely, so finally brace myself to compose a mental script of events before going into the
living room (where you’re lounging around on the sofa like an enormous jungle cat) to recite it to
you as quickly and concisely as possible.

You recently discovered an article about yourself in the American Journal of Psychiatry and now
appear to be gleefully going through it, pausing at intervals to read some of the more florid
sections out loud. “His profile is unusual,” you say as I’m sitting down, “in that it deviates from
the classic characteristics of the prototypic psychopath in several important respects. This
includes, but is not limited to, high-level verbalization skills, social charm and competency, and
manifest emotional stability.” You glance at me with a single arched eyebrow and I let out a snort
of laughter. “Apparently I am extremely high in antagonistic traits, counterbalanced with excess
conscientiousness – and therein lies the secret of my success. Really, it is an extremely amateurish
analysis. It’s extraordinary what manages to slip through peer-review nowadays.”

Privately I think it sounds fairly accurate, although don’t want to come off as a smug smartass by
telling you so. Anyway, there’s no doubt I’d be equally defensive if reading a similar profile about
myself. Almost like you’ve read my mind you now add: “It mentions you in the conclusion.”

“Yeah, I bet it does,” I say wryly. “And don’t read it out, please. I don’t want to know.”

“On the contrary: the authors are very complimentary. As far as they are concerned you are a
regular folk hero.”

In fact, this is exactly what I expected and doesn’t make me feel any better. Admittedly it’s not like
I want realms of beard-stroking articles explaining why I’m almost as big a dick as you are, but in a
way the accolades feel just as bad. They nudge too close to my constant war of conscience where I
try to persuade myself that I have moral incentives to drive some very immoral instincts – and I’m
fairly sure you see it that way too. After all, portraying me as the hero to your villain emphasises
the gap between us in a way that stokes your deep-seated concern that one day I might just wake up
and decide the same thing myself.

You finally put the journal down and give me a rather thoughtful look which seems to go on and
on. “What?” I say finally. “What are you staring at?

“Are you going out today?”

“I wasn’t planning to. I can, though – if you need something?”

“I don’t. I only asked because you’re looking rather smart; more so than a day at home would
require.”

“Oh,” I say vaguely. “Do I?”

“Yes, you do.” You wait a few moments then add in a rather hopeful voice. “It suits you. You
should dress like that more often.”

This makes me smile, because I’m well aware that when you say ‘smart’ what you really mean is
‘tailored’; and that when you say ‘tailored’, what you really mean is something that puts my body
on better display. Slimline shirts which cling to my chest, or jeans cut well enough to emphasise
my hips and slip snugly around my thighs – basically anything that’s trim, close-fitting and retains
a quality of stylishness while still being ever-so-slightly provocative for anyone looking too closely
(in other words, you). You’re always delighted when I’ll put aside the scuffed denim and shapeless
sweaters to dress like this, and sometimes I will and sometimes I won’t. Today, however, it’s much
more for myself than for you. Elegant clothes help to instil a sense of control, and I feel like I’ll
need all the control I can possibly muster to ride out the inevitable storm of the next few days.
It’s at this point I realise I must have fallen into one of my abstracted silences – and that it’s lasted
so long you’ve essentially given up on me and returned to the article again. I sigh a bit to myself.
Everything feels so peaceful and I’m about to ruin it; it’s like we’re in a pristine pool of water and
I’m preparing to throw a great big dirty rock into it. It can’t be helped though, not really. What else
am I supposed to do?

“Hannibal?” I say cautiously. “Can you put that down for a minute. There’s something I need to
tell you…”

*****

Despite your longstanding love affair with the sound of your own voice you’ve always been a
skilled listener, so while most people would interrupt my narrative with a stream of questions you
manage to keep entirely silent for the whole thing. Instead you communicate non-verbally: a raised
eyebrow on discovering he’d recognised you, a Sphinxy smile at his blackmail aspirations, quickly
followed by a look of violent anger – fleeting yet still disturbing – at hearing what his expectations
for payment were. When I describe the stand-off in his car you lean forward slightly, listening very
intently then giving a satisfied nod when it reaches the inevitably lethal climax. You have the same
expression you used to wear in the old days when I’d describe my mental processes to you: rapt
fascination, tempered by a flash of fondness when I inevitably start to overthink what I’m saying.
One thing you don’t show is alarm about the consequences, but this is more or less what I
expected. In fact the main impressions I’m left with is that you’re absolutely fucking delighted I
killed someone for you, combined with a simmering sense of resentment that I’m only telling you
about it now.

“I’m sorry,” I conclude when I’ve finally finished. “I know I shouldn’t have left it this long.”

“No,” you say crisply, “you should not. Secrecy is destructive, my love, and it’s in our mutual self-
interest to cooperate in such matters. Our safety is compromised when you keep things from me.”

“I wasn’t…” You give an impatient sigh, the clear implication being that yes, of course I was. “I
wasn’t keeping it from you,” I repeat in a firmer voice. “You’re making it sound like a cover-up.
But you were so ill...” I hear the sigh again and shoot you an exasperated look. “You were.
Refusing to admit it doesn’t change that. Besides, by that point there was nothing you could have
done.”

Instead of replying you just stare back in silence as the obvious desire to insist on your own
infallibility does battle with an unwillingness to give me a harder time than necessary. After a
visible struggle the latter eventually seems to win out.

“I understand,” you say. “Mano meilė…” There’s another pause as the look of blissful adoration
briefly creeps back onto your face; anyone watching would think I’d just solved the Enigma Code
or found the cure for cancer. “You are perfect. I hope you know that? And at the very least, I’m
glad you told me now.”

“Yeah.” I close my eyes then tip my head back against my own chair. “And so now…we wait.”

“I won’t waste either of our time establishing whether you covered your tracks. I imagine anything
of that nature has been fully accounted for?”

“Of course.”

“And the files you removed from his office: what was in them?”
“Actually, a lot less than I expected.” I give a small frown, briefly reliving the painstaking process
of picking the lock – the way the first paperclip snapped halfway through; the stubborn way the
pawl refused to move – followed by the flare of panic when I thought I’d remembered the wrong
combination for the safe. “He had blackmail material on four other people as well as us. Of course
I took the whole lot.”

“Destroyed?” I make an impatient sound of my own and you immediately start to smile. “Don’t
look so furious, beloved: I’m not questioning your competence. It’s only that I would have been
curious to see it.”

“No, you wouldn’t. There was hardly anything. Just a statement of his suspicions about you and
this address.”

“Suspicions?”

I throw you a rather fond look – you’re so quick, no choice of word is ever enough to get past you.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Ironically, it seems like he wasn’t totally sure after all. My paranoia may have
gotten the better of me – I think if I’d called his bluff there’s a good chance I might’ve been able to
convince him he was wrong.”

“Which would have been a complete waste of time,” you say briskly. “Your refusal to try such a
scheme merely accelerated events to an inevitable conclusion.”

“I know. And it’s not like I regret it.”

This elicits another slow smile. “Yes I can see that. I wish I had been there to witness you in action,
Will; I shall always be disappointed that I wasn’t. You must have been magnificent.”

You sound (not to put too fine a point on it) incredibly turned on at the thought, although I’m still
feeling too preoccupied to really acknowledge this. “I haven’t heard from the police yet,” I add,
half to myself. “I’d assumed they’d do routine interviews with all his tenants, but maybe not.”

“Maybe. The polizia di stato does not have the same reputation for thoroughness as the FBI.”

“In any case, I think we should wait it out for a few more weeks. A sudden bolt would look
suspicious.”

“Agreed.”

“And then after that…” I leave a suggestive pause but this time there’s no sign you’re planning to
agree again: the implication, unspoken yet obvious, is that you’ve no intention of departing
Florence for as long as Jack’s here. “Well, I guess we can figure it out later,” I add. It’s tempting to
try and press you on this, but right now I know I don’t have the energy to argue about it.

“Indeed we can,” you reply. “In the meantime, however, I feel that I ought to apologise. I should
have taken your reservations about him more seriously.”

“It’s fine. Anyway, you didn’t not take them seriously. I guess it was misleading to hear it second-
hand – if you’d been there yourself then you’d have picked it up immediately.”

“Yes, but you did pick it up immediately. And I should have listened to you.”

“The ‘unknown variable’,” I add wryly. “Ironic that it turned out to be both of us.”

“Perhaps. Although still not completely unforeseen; after all, it’s hardly the first time you and I
have been forcibly joined together.”

I smile again then reach out to give your foot a prod. “Thank you,” I say.

“For what?”

“For, I don’t know…for not freaking out about it I guess.” You give a small twitch at being
assumed capable of anything so plebeian as ‘freaking out’ and I have to resist a sudden urge to
laugh out loud. “You know what I mean,” I add. “What I did was unbelievably risky. I’ve broken
one of my main rules.”

“It’s not as if you had much choice, Will. Any alternative was out of the question.”

“Oh yeah, absolutely. Even a suspicion he knew who you were…”

“Actually, I wasn’t referring to that. I meant that there was no question of you handing yourself
over to him…” For a few seconds you fall silent; it’s like you can’t even bring yourself to say it out
loud. “Are you sure you’re all right?” you finally add. “The whole proposition must have been
deeply disturbing.”

“It was. But yes, I’m all right.”

You stare at me for a few moments then hold out your hand in a silent request to come nearer. By
this time you’re lying down again so there’s not much room; I shuffle rather awkwardly in front of
your legs then finally manage to fold myself along the side of the sofa until I’m close enough for
you to tangle your fingers into my hair.

“Mano meilė,” you say gently. “I despise the idea of you being placed in such a situation; it’s
impossible to describe how much it angers me. If the memory of it starts to trouble you then I want
you to tell me immediately.”

“It won’t.”

“W-i-l-I,” you reply with a hint of firmness. “I mean it: I want you to tell me. Such things can often
have an unexpected impact and you’re not infallible, whatever you like to think to the contrary.
Neither is it the first time that someone has tried to coerce you this way. So if you do require
comfort – whenever that might occur – then I intend to be the one who provides it for you.”

You fall silent again and then narrow your eyes, clearly battling anger towards the absent Matteo
alongside concern with my potential mental strain. The fact you’re so rarely lost for words,
combined with your instinct for protecting me over yourself, makes me feel absurdly emotional
and for a few moments I fall silent myself as I simply sit there and gaze at you. In most respects
you seem almost back to normal. A little thinner perhaps, and slightly more faded, but still getting
closer all the time to your former self.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” I say softly. “I was so worried about you.”

I’m expecting you to start reminding me of all the times you insisted you’d be fine, but you don’t.
“Yes my love,” is all you say. “I know. Mylimasis. I know you were.”

I smile at you then gently smooth your hair off your forehead before trailing my hand downwards –
stroking your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose, your lower lip – until finally lowering my face to
kiss you. It starts off tender and slow; lazy, almost, in how relaxed it is, although gradually grows
more heated as I feel myself starting to get lost in sensation in a way I often do around you. It’s as
if the emotions I spent years concealing begin fighting their way to the surface in a single, brutal
surge and I always feel incredibly defenceless when it happens. It’s enraptured – agonized – and it
makes me glad you’re the only person who’s ever made me feel this much, this intensely, because
I honestly don’t think I could stand the vulnerability of it in front of anybody else but you. In
response you knot your fingers into my hair as your other hand grips my neck, and it feels so good;
so grounding. You instinctively seem to know when I’m getting overwhelmed and understand how
to help me feel steadied and settled again in a way which I can’t always manage on my own. Other
people would probably grow annoyed or unnerved if I acted like this, quickly followed with the
inevitable ‘what the hell is your problem?’ frown I’ve learnt to recognise so well across the years.
But not from you. Never, ever with you.

I now spend a few moments attempting to calm down before finally pulling away so I can gaze at
you. You’re smiling up at me in an easy affectionate way so I stroke your hair again as my free
hand starts to wander downwards, slowly exploring and caressing until I’ve reached your groin and
can check whether you’re hard or not. Oh…yes, fuck, you really are. Considering how exhausted
you look I wasn’t fully expecting that. Slowly I palm the length of your cock through the silk of the
robe, waiting until I hear your breath catch before reaching out to slowly start unfastening the belt.

“Are you sure you want this?” I ask. My voice is unusually tender; the kind of softly soothing tone
I’d normally feel ridiculous using with you. “You’re not too tired?”

This, of course, is a pointless question because even if you are you’ll never admit it. As such your
only response is to smile again then close your eyes as your back arches upwards towards my
hand. “I’m afraid I won’t apply myself very well,” you reply. “You are going to have to do most of
the work.”

“Of course.” I’m stroking your chest with my other hand now: there’s something unexpectedly
sensuous about the way your muscles feel beneath the silk. “Just wait one minute.”

I drop a farewell kiss on your forehead (followed by another one to apologise for leaving you) then
dash off to the bedroom to retrieve some lube before launching myself downstairs again two-at-a-
time, shrugging off my own clothes as I go. This enthusiasm is embarrassing but I can’t quite bring
myself to calm down, despite knowing I’ll almost certainly regret it later. After all, it seems like
ages since we last had sex – at the rate I’m going I probably won’t last five seconds.

When I get back you’re still stretched out across the sofa where I left you, so I allow myself a few
seconds to admire how sultry and glamourous you look before dumping my remaining clothes and
slowly climbing on top of you. This caution is deliberate because I’m worried about you getting
crushed – and which is admittedly pretty ridiculous, because there’s no way I’d manage it even if I
wanted to. But no matter how misguided it is my urge to protect you hasn’t faded enough to be
careless, and I still end up pressing down on both elbows as I do my best to arrange myself so
you’re not having to take my full weight. Our bodies are only lightly pressed together yet the sense
of my bare skin against your is almost electrifying. I don’t think I was expecting that. We’ve only
been apart a few days yet the jolt of sensation makes me realise how much I’d missed it.

As you let out a small gasp of your own I make a soothing noise then press my lips against your
forehead. “That’s it,” I say softly. “Ti amo, Hannibal. Let me take care of you.”

The angle’s definitely not ideal, but somehow I still manage to manoeuvre the lube one-handed
without pulling away (or falling off the sofa) until I’m finally sinking deep inside you and can
thrust down my hips to meet yours. You immediately spread your legs to improve the balance,
knees resting snugly close to my waist, then quiver slightly as I drag my tongue along your throat.
By now the urge to bury my mouth in yours again is overwhelming and so I do, imagining I can
taste the sounds you’re making like they’re there on the back of my tongue: sharp and pithy,
slightly acidic the way that citrus is.

The kiss seems to last for hours, but when we finally break apart to breathe I find myself catching
your eye then being completely unable to look away. It’s strange to think how the opposite used to
be the case. In the early days I’d sometimes ask you not to look at me at all while we were having
sex; it was just too intense, the intimacy too much to deal with. But now it’s impossible to get
enough as we continue gazing at each other, my fingers caressing your face while the other hand
glides downwards to take hold of your cock. It’s achingly hard, already flushed and wet around the
tip, and I give a small moan at the sense of feeling it growing thicker in my hand. Oh God, you
always look incredible like this. Head tipped back, lips parted, the sensual curve of your spine…
you’ll never willingly show signs of pain, but your expression of pleasure might be one of the most
gratifying things I’ve ever seen in my life. I can really feel the way you’re clenching round me,
your body perfectly adapting to every plunge and pivot of mine as I roll my hips against you. You
feel so tight and hot, the motion so smooth and seamless as you take each thrust of my cock, that
it’s like I just belong inside you; like I’m meant to be there.

For a few seconds I slide my other hand between us where our bodies are pressed together –
relishing the slow slide against your abdomen; how hard your muscles are compared to the softness
of your skin – then hook my arm beneath your back so I can cling to your shoulder and pull you as
close as possible. I want to make you feel good, I tell you with each kiss and caress. Whatever you
want. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. A slight dampness is starting to gather on my
eyelashes now, although it’s not because I’m sad. I’m relieved, exhausted, and more than a little
overwhelmed, but primarily I’m happy and this trace of tears is my way of showing you that I love
you and I’m glad you’re okay. You understand why though, I know you do. You don’t need it
explained.

By this point it seems we’re both fairly close to losing control of ourselves; your hand tangling into
my hair as the other one skims along my back, urging me on with a series sighs that are luscious in
how sensuous they are. I’m still doing my best to be gentle with a slow stroke of my hips – just
tenderly sliding in and out of you – but fuck, it’s an effort, because by this point I’m desperate.
You’re stunning, and you’re mine, and you’re enjoying it so much…all I’m aware of anymore is
how much I want to pin you down against the sofa then watch you gasping underneath me as I fill
your body with my come. At least I won’t need to wait much longer though, because it’s obvious
you’re not far off yourself. I know you so well that I can always tell when you’re getting close; it’s
something about the way your muscles grow taut as your breath begins to catch, and the sight and
sound of it never fails to send me spinning over the edge.

As predicted I don’t last very long – although in fairness, neither do you – and when it’s over I
retrieve the sofa throw so I can protectively swaddle you up in it. I suppose it would make more
sense to relocate to the bedroom by this point, although I can’t really be bothered to move. Besides,
there’s still something else I want to tell you and it feels like it might be easier this way with my
head tucked beneath your chin and no opportunity for eye contact. This realisation is quickly
followed by a pang of guilt, because you’re so soft and sleepy it seems like a shame to disturb you.
In fact I’m tempted to use this as an excuse to prevaricate, only I know that the longer I leave it the
worse it’ll be. I’ve already left it too long; further delay won’t achieve anything except make it
more awkward to explain. And besides, I know you’ll discover it for yourself very soon. If you’d
been checking the news as usual then you’d have known already.

“Hannibal?” I say cautiously.

“Taip, mano meilė,” you reply. Yes, my love…it never fails to be endearing when you’re so tired
and/or blissed out that you forget how to speak English. I suppose I might as well make the most of
it though, because once I’ve told you what’s on my mind I can’t help feeling that this good mood
might evaporate fairly quickly.

“Are you listening?” I add.

There’s a pause as your thumb brushes against my cheekbone. “I’m listening. What is it?”

“It’s about Matteo…” I reply, then promptly grind to a halt. The explanation I’m about to share
seems so eminently solid and sensible in my own head, yet there’s still a chance you’ll take it the
wrong way and now the moment’s come I feel like my nerve is failing me. “There’s something I
didn’t tell you,” I finally say. “About when I killed him.” You wait patiently and I take a deep
breath then let it all out in a rush: “I told you about the weapon. But-I-didn’t-tell-you-about-the-
inspiration.”

Up until this point your hand has been trailing up and down my shoulder and soon as I say this it
stops dead in its tracks. You’re so incredibly perceptive: it’s almost certain you’ve already worked
out what I’m about to tell you – and, more importantly, what its implications are – but you’re still
not going to let me off the hook so easily by filling in the blanks. You’re going to make me explain
it myself.

“There are so many killers inside my head,” I continue, almost more to myself than to you. “So
many different minds I could have used.”

“So many,” you repeat. Your voice sounds completely cold and dead. Oh Christ – you’re really
pissed off. “Yet you’ve been very specific in your selection, haven’t you? A true local influence.”

There’s a strained pause: it’s obvious you’re waiting to hear me say it. “Yes,” I finally reply. “It
was Il Macellaio.”

“Il Macellaio.” As I listen you draw in your own breath with a sigh so low it’s almost a hiss. “One
might ask, with such a very wide range of muses to choose from, you opted for the one with which
you knew I’d have the strongest objections.”

“Because it’s not just about you.” Concern is making me irritable; I’m doing my best to mask it,
although I’m not sure how successful it is. “It’s about both of us.”

“It is certainly about you,” you say sharply. “Congratulations Will. It appears you’ve managed to
get exactly what you wanted.”

“It’s not like that.” I take hold of your hand then feel the first genuine stab of alarm when you
refuse to return the pressure. “You know it isn’t. Come on Hannibal, you’re being completely
unreasonable.”

As far as I’m concerned this is true, and you are, yet as soon as I’ve said it I know I’ve made a
serious mistake. Immediately I can feel the way your muscles tense beneath me and know that this
is it – this is the moment your self-control has finally snapped. Right on cue you pull yourself
upright, forcing me to roll off you and shuffle away to the side of the sofa as you pull yourself to
the other side like you want me as far away from you as possible. You let me keep the throw but
pull your robe back on with the same steely determination of someone putting on a suit of armour,
and the quickest glimpse at your expression confirms just how badly I underestimated what your
reaction would be.

“Okay, let’s just both calm down,” I say, even though I’m already calm and you’re the one who
seems ready to ignite. “Look, I understand why you’re angry: you think I did it on purpose as an
excuse to work with Jack. And you’re right, I did – but it’s not for the reason you think.”
I now pause for a few seconds, fully expecting you to interrupt. Only you don’t, and somehow your
stillness manages to be far more menacing than your usual blast of words would be. “I know he’ll
be in touch,” I eventually add into the silence. “But inserting myself into the investigation is the
perfect way to throw it off course. Matteo will be included in the Macellaio series and the spotlight
never gets anywhere near us. I’ve given them a ready-made suspect – they won’t need to look
anywhere else. And if they think he if was killed at random they won’t spend much time looking
into his background, which means it’s even less likely they discover his link with you.” I wait
again; still nothing. It’s incredibly discouraging, and by this point it’s getting hard to keep the
frustration from leaking into my voice. “Don’t you see?” I add, even though I know that you can
and you’re simply choosing not to. “Jack is irrelevant. If he’d never come to Italy I’d still have
done the same thing.”

As I watch your eyes begin to narrow before you lean slightly forward. It’s been so long since I’ve
seen you this; such coldly furious contempt. I’d forgotten how unsettling it can be. “Permit me
some scepticism,” you say. “Only I find that rather hard to believe. Because Jack has come to Italy
– and you could have made that scene appear anyway you wanted to while still avoiding
suspicion.”

“No, I couldn’t. How could I? In the middle of the night: no tools, no equipment? No time to
plan?”

You immediately hold up a hand for silence: another forgotten gesture whose impact makes me
flinch without fully meaning to. “I think you’ve forgotten who you’re speaking to,” you say
crisply, “so please don’t waste anymore of our time. Because I know you, Will. I know how
resourceful you are – which means I know if you’d really wanted to you could have done it.” You
wait a few more moments then give me a look so scorching it’s as if I can feel the white-hot heat of
your anger and resentment scattering on my skin like acid. “Just as I know you wanted a reason to
run with Jack Crawford’s pack again, and now Matteo has provided the perfect opportunity.”

“You’re wrong,” I say quietly. Because surely you are? Your certainty seems so powerful
compared to my own confusion, yet I still can’t accept I was aiming for an outcome like this the
entire time without even realising it. It makes me think of a similar conflict I used to have in the old
days back in America: that endless, gnawing sense that there were no clear lines anymore between
where the deceptions I spun to Jack finished and the ones I was selling you began. Morality and
service vs. desire and darkness. Head vs. heart. But I like the way it sounds so I say it again
anyway.

“You’re wrong,” I now repeat, much more firmly than before. “Nothing matters as much to me as
you. Nothing. And this was the best thing I could think of to keep us safe. Look, I’m sorry – okay?
Is that what you want to hear? I understand you feel let down. But the only reason I want to be
involved in the investigation is to misdirect it. That’s it. That’s all.”

As I’m speaking I reach out for your hand again. I do this very cautiously, mostly because I’m not
sure how I’ll cope with the depth of rejection I’ll feel if you shake me off. Ultimately you don’t,
although you don’t return the pressure either. Instead you just continue staring at me, your
expression completely cold and dead in the way I remember you sometimes looking in the past
before we learnt to fully understand each other. Although maybe that’s irrelevant; maybe we still
don’t? Or at the very least I don’t seem to understand you. How can I, when your reaction is proof
of just how badly I’ve misjudged this?

“Talk to me,” I say finally. “Tell me how mad you are if you want to. But please don’t just sit there
in silence.”
You give no signs of responding, and I’m just about to give up and say something else myself
when you suddenly dart forward with one of those unnervingly fast movements you have and take
hold of my chin in your hand, slowly twisting my face round until I’m forced to look you directly
in the eye. The grip isn’t hard enough to hurt, yet the power of the gesture is unmistakable and my
breath audibly hitches at the unexpectedness of it. But even then you still don’t speak and so I just
sit there, listening to my heart pounding in my ears as I realise that for the first time in God knows
how long, I suddenly feel afraid of you.

“Don’t,” I say sharply. My voice is taut with strain and it’s an enormous effort to keep calm enough
to prevent the situation spiralling even further. There’s no response at all; it’s like you haven’t even
heard me. “Let go of me,” I add.

Your only response is to tighten your hold, which sends up a huge red flag at how angry you
actually are. “Do you want to know what I think?” you ask.

I don’t reply. A part of me want to say no, but instinctively it feels like anything overly rude or
confrontational is just going to make things worse. Not that it matters, because you’re going to tell
me anyway. You don’t care whether I want to know or not.

By this point it feels like your eyes are practically bearing into me. They’re very intense, your eyes.
So deep and fathomless as they are: bright-edged flints, the colour of dark amber. “I think you’ve
been waiting for an opportunity precisely like this one,” you say. “I can almost see you gathering
up the shreds of all your moral outrage. All your virtue. Our closeness has become an
inconvenience for you by now, hasn’t it Will? Working with Jack permits you a level of separation,
because you’ve never been prepared to reconcile how compatible we truly are. How we possess
such very…” You pause, almost mockingly, and when you speak again the voltage in your voice
makes it seem as if it's smouldering. “Such very proportionate depravities. You can exalt yourself
and punish me, all in one simple gesture. Your solution is an elegant one, I’ll at least give you
that.”

“Punish you? What? No, that’s…”

“You’re seriously suggesting it never occurred to you?” you snap back. “Because I think you’ve
been wishing to punish me for a long time. I think the need for retribution runs extremely deep in
you.”

“No,” I say. “That’s not what this was about.” It barely occurs to me how I’m only denying the
specific allegation rather than the general one, although there’s no way you’ll have failed to notice
it yourself. “I didn’t plan to work with Jack as a way to get revenge on you. How…how could you
even think that?”

“No? But how could you ever have thought I’d be happy with it?”

“Because you’re not that easy to predict in advance,” I say. Then I give a half-laugh that’s utterly
dry and humourless because you’re not, are you? You never have been. Not even for me…the
person famous for their empathy and so-called insight. “I knew you wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t
expect you’d react like this.” There’s a pause as I repeat the same laugh again; if possible it sounds
even more unhinged than the first time. “I thought you’d appreciate the pragmatics of it.”

“I see. So I’m supposed to watch you hand yourself over to Jack and then console myself with how
pragmatic your betrayal is?” There’s something in your voice that’s close to contempt, and the
intensity of it makes me flinch because I’ve heard you speak that way to so many people in the
past, but never to me. Not once to me.
“Not necessarily,” I say. Now I don’t sound angry anymore. I just sound weary instead…almost
defeated. “But why would I punish you now? When you’ve done so much that’s unforgivable and
I’m still here anyway? Jesus, everything you’ve done…” I pause for a few seconds, struggling with
a sudden, devastating wave of emotion that I know would absolutely overwhelm me if I let it. “No
punishment exists that could make up for it, so what would be the point? There was nothing left
except to forgive you.”

Briefly I now find my eyes falling closed as I remember it: choking on the darkness in the bowels
of the earth, my own voice calling out into the shadows: I forgive you Hannibal. In that moment,
absolution felt like the ultimate form of revenge. Nothing that required fists, feet, or harsh words
but simply snatching away the satisfaction from what you’d done – because where’s the pleasure in
depravity and destruction if you were just going to be forgiven at the end of it? It had made me
think of your mocking adversarial stance towards God in some of our early conversations and how
much sense it suddenly made that you’d want to believe in a vengeful Almighty. Challenging and
confronting God is the Devil’s ultimate amusement after all. And the Devil, likewise, would feel
cheated by forgiveness.

I draw a steadying breath then finally open my eyes again so I can stare straight back at you. “So
there you have it,” I say, very low and intense. “Why would I bother now?”

Your expression has arranged itself into something I can’t quite interpret (sadness, anger – it could
be anything) and I’m struck all over again by what a radical role reversal this has become. Me,
battling to be the calming voice of reason while you’re the one whose emotion has overtaken you.

“Even if I were to accept that,” you finally reply, “it wouldn’t change how incredibly willing you
remain to martyr yourself to Jack Crawford every time he asks you. It’s your passion, isn’t it Will.
But did you know what the term ‘passion’ meant originally? It meant suffering. That’s why
scholars refer to the Passion of Christ and of the saints: transcendence and revelation through the
power of one’s own suffering.” You pause again then briefly tighten your grip on my face, inhaling
deeply at the same time as if you’re trying to breathe me in. “Would you like to hear what my
passion is? Shall I tell you?”

I don’t reply; I don’t need to. I already know what you’re going to say.

“You,” you add. Your tone is vaguely frightening in how intense it is, less like a declaration of love
and more like an accusation. “And so now I have to suffer for it. Until the day our paths crossed I
never had any cause to feel afraid. Imagine that, Will – the whole of my adult life, entirely free of
fear. Yet now I do. That’s the legacy you’ve left me with, because I fear the loss of you. You claim
there’s no punishment for me that would be severe enough, but I think you understand as well as I
do that that’s not entirely true.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” I say quietly. “But you can’t control me either – and you need to
understand that.” Then I take another, deeper breath and look you straight in the eye as my voice
begins to harden. “So let. Go. Of. Me. Right now. I’m not going to ask you again.”

The implication is that I’m prepared to fight you off if necessary, yet you still don’t move your
hand – and I don’t try any attempts to make you. Unstoppable force meets immovable object, I
think wildly. I’ve no idea what’s going to happen. Every reflex I possess screams at me to retaliate,
even if I’m doomed to defeat, simply because the thought of passive surrender contradicts every
belief I’ve ever had about myself. Although maybe that’s part of the problem. Fighting you is
essentially fighting me, and even after all these years of flipping the coin I feel like I’m still not
entirely sure which side it’s going to land on.

From the corner of my eye I can see the way your fingers have begun flickering impatiently against
your knee. It’s the sort of restless, fidgety gesture that’s extremely unusual for you and I have a
powerful sense that you maybe want to reach out to put your arms around me but are holding
yourself back. I wish you would; I wish you would end this. I don’t know how to finish it myself.
Except in the end it doesn’t even matter, because I’ve suddenly grown aware of the dull wail of my
phone: conveniently unleashed from where I dropped my jeans onto the floor and lying only a few
feet away from the bottom of the sofa. Neither of us even needs to move our heads to see that the
call is from Jack – just the briefest slide of the eyes is enough – and at the sight of it I hear myself
audibly sigh. The fact it’s him has an irony that’s especially perverse, yet it’s really the symbolism
of it that matters more than anything else. You normally love symbols. Irony, metaphor…in other
circumstances it’s the type of situation you’d actively enjoy.

I know, of course, that it makes sense for me to answer. It would be the right thing do; a powerful
sign of independence, and proof that when I told you I wouldn’t give you my autonomy I meant
what I said. Yet it would also mean rejecting you, and I don’t know how to do that either. I never
have, I never learnt how…I never even knew how to try. Even a death plunge into the Atlantic
couldn’t shake the sense we’d have to ascend or sink together, because by that point I could no
longer imagine a version of my life that didn’t have you as part of it. When the moment came I
couldn’t even destroy you unless it meant destroying myself as well. So ultimately it’s yet one
more version of the same anguished grinding choice it’s always been, which even after everything
I’ve done has never felt fully resolved: time to choose a side.
 Chapter 24

Across the table Zeller peers fixedly at his menu then leans across to consult with Price before
moving back to the menu again. This process (peer-lean-confer) proceeds to repeat itself several
more times and so I just sit there and watch them, eyes swivelling idly from one to the other like
someone at a tennis match. It feels slightly symbolic that they’re seated together while I’m alone
with a solid stretch of space between us, even though I didn’t consciously arrange it that way.
Mostly I’m just struck by how similar they both look to the last time I saw them. It’s surprising,
really; whatever malevolent force of aging laid its hand on Jack has clearly left them unscathed. In
fact, I wish they did look more different. It might help to increase the sense of mental separation,
given that the physical one isn’t working quite the way it should. Ideally I’d like to feel calmly
detached – present yet absent – but instead their pleasure in seeing me, combined with their total
obliviousness, is becoming a serious strain. It’s as if I’m some sort of rogue contaminant that’s
come to pollute the atmosphere with its negative energy. Something infected with you.

Zeller now turns the page and resumes the whole peering-conferring routine even more vigorously
than before, so I take advantage of the distraction to quickly check my phone. I’ve been doing this
at regular intervals all morning, despite knowing it’s utterly pointless because the phone’s right
there and I’d hear it if it rang. I still do it anyway though, even though there’s nothing new to see,
before giving into temptation and firing out a short message to tell you everything’s fine. Then I
start to worry that it sounds too terse, so add another one telling you I love you and will see you
soon.

“What’s polpette?” asks Zeller.

Price takes a sip of wine then leans over to inspect the menu himself. “Testicles,” he says briskly.

Zeller’s mouth falls open in dismay and I hit ‘send’ then casually replace my phone on the bench.
“No, it’s not,” I say. “It’s just regular meatballs.”

“Well, whatever it is, just kindly hurry up and order,” adds Price. “Because life is a short and
precious thing, and it probably took Michelangelo less time to carve the David that it’s taking you
to choose your lunch. We saw the David yesterday, Will. I have to say it was bit of let-down.”

“Actually…” begins Zeller.

“And speaking of Michelangelo,” continues Price, who’s clearly warming to his theme, “did either
of you cultureless lads know that he scandalised countless art historians by painting secret genitals
into the Sistine chapel? No of course you didn’t,” he adds before me or Zeller can confirm or deny.
“But I can assure you he did, because I read all about it at the Galleria dell'Accademia. And when
one of the local cardinals annoyed him, then Michelangelo painted him in too, complete with a
serpent eating his genitals. There you go Brian – how’s that for a topical reference? It’s as if the
Universe is dropping you a hint to put Will and I out of our misery and order your spaghetti and
testicles, pronto.”

“Pronto is Spanish,” says Zeller sulkily. “Will, do you know what you’re having?”

“Of course he does!” replies Price in something close to a shriek. “He’s probably known for
hours.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “Take your time.” Zeller throws me a grateful look and I take another quick
glance at my phone: still nothing.
“So I hear you met the glamorous Ms Starling,” continues Price, beginning to shovel butter onto a
thick slice of ciambella. “A tête-à-tête in a local restaurant, apparently? Very nice.”

“Where did you hear that?” I say warily.

Just as I’m asking Price takes an enormous bite of the bread, which means I then have to sit and
wait until he’s completed the necessary chewing and swallowing before getting an answer. His
eyebrows are waggling the entire time, although whether as an aid to digestion or as a request for
patience isn’t entirely clear. “Jack,” he eventually replies.

“Oh right,” I say, “okay.” This makes more sense; it’s impossible to imagine Clarice describing it
in such intimate terms, but having the story filtered through Jack explains the narrative
embellishment. No doubt by the time Price has passed it on to a few more people it’ll have ended
up as a full-fledged date.

“You should have invited her today,” adds Price, ultra-casual.

I shrug then take another sip of water. “I did,” I say. “She didn’t want to come.”

Privately, in fact, I was pretty relieved by this – although asking her still felt like the right thing to
do at the time. My own feeling is that the refusal was also tactical, in terms of not wanting to
antagonise the other trainees with possible signs of favouritism when the only reward would be an
inconsequential lunch. On the other hand, if it had been a work meeting then I’m convinced she
would have gone. The awareness of when to push the barriers and when to hold back shows a good
grasp of office politics that should set her up well for a long-term career. It’s not a skill I ever
bothered to learn myself, but I can still respect the discipline of it in other people.

“That’s a shame,” says Price cosily. “Never mind, though. I’m sure there’ll be lots of other
opportunities.”

“Other opportunities for what? You sound like you’re trying to set us up.”

“And what would be wrong with that?” demands Price. “I would have thought she’d be right up
your alley.”

“Hardly,” I snap. “She’s not my type at all.” As soon as I say this I feel vaguely guilty, as if
implying she’s defective in some way when the opposite is clearly the case. “I’m far too old for her
for starters,” I add in a calmer voice. “It’d be like she was dating her dad.”

“I think that’s rather over-stating it. At the most you could be a big brother.”

“Yeah, because that’s so much better.”

“Well, by all accounts her father died when she was young,” muses Price. “I gather people in that
situation are often drawn to a substitute father figure, so perhaps she wouldn’t even mind?” He
pauses then gives me a rather beady look. “I noticed you did a pretty good job of dispatching that
admirer of hers this morning. Like a regular guard-dog.”

“Actually, she dispatched him herself,” I say crossly. “And he was being completely inappropriate
with her, what else was I supposed to do? Stand there cheering him on?”

Price opens his mouth like he wants to object, then catches sight of my expression and scowls
slightly. “Fine,” he says. “Suit yourself. But just because your interests don’t lie in that direction
doesn’t mean you shouldn’t still put some effort in. You need to get yourself a nice senorita.”
“That’s Spanish.”

“A signore, then.”

“That’s a man.”

“Then get yourself one of those,” says Price briskly. “Anything which could help put a smile on
that gloomy little bearded face.”

I sigh rather irritably and Zeller promptly swoops in to help me out. “Give him a break,” he says to
Price. “This isn’t junior prom.”

“How terribly astute you are Brian,” replies Price with excessive dignity. “Thank you for apprising
me of that fact. But it is the city of love...”

“No, that’s Paris.”

“…and when one is in the city of love,” continues Price, taking another slug of wine, “then one
should be making merry with a partner of choice.”

“And how do you know that he isn’t?”

“Because he looks only marginally less tragic than the last time I saw him.”

Zeller gives a hint of an eye-roll. “No he doesn’t, he looks really well. Even Jack thinks so. In fact,
everyone thinks so – except you.”

“Just be quiet Brian,” says Price bossily. “And eat your testicles.”

“They’re not testicles,” replies Zeller in a tragic voice.

“Of course they are,” says Price. “No shame in admitting it. I mean – look at them.”

Everyone pauses obediently then stares down at Zeller’s plate. “No, they’re really not,” I say after
a pause.

“And how would you know?” demands Price. “Where’s your medical degree?”

“I hate to break it to you, but most men don’t need a medical degree to identify testicles. Plus the
menu would have said frattaglie or palle, and it didn’t. It’s more a Spanish thing anyway, they
don’t really do that in Italy.”

“Cojones,” says Price, apropos of nothing.

I suppose the charitable thing to do would be to call the waiter over to confirm it, but loudly
enquiring in my shitty Italian as to whether the meatballs are masquerading as testicles feels like a
step beyond where I’m willing to go. Instead I check my phone again then give another small sigh
at how the screen is still stubbornly blank.

“I bet you weren’t expecting this Will,” says Price, who seems to have finally lost interest in the
provenance of Zeller’s pasta and has returned to discussing the case. “But an all-expenses trip to
Europe? We were hardly likely to turn it down. I must say, it’s really an ideal type of job. It’s not
like we’re even responsible for catching him. All we have to do is turn up, dazzle the locals with
our expertise, then go straight home again.”

“Well, it’s a bit more than that,” says Zeller.

“Speak for yourself,” replies Price. “I excel at dazzling. If I were so inclined I could put it on my
resume under ‘Hobbies and Interests’.”

“So what about you Will?” asks Zeller. “How much input do you expect to have?”

“Not that much,” I say cautiously. “I’m more here as a favour to Jack. And, you know…to catch up
with people again.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve missed us dreadfully,” replies Price in a cheerful voice. “Especially in this
city, of all places. I have to say Will, I admire your nerve. Was it only the one time that Hannibal
tried to kill you here, or was it two?”

There’s a slightly awkward pause. “How’s your fish, Will?” says Zeller. “It looks really good.”

“Yeah it is, thanks,” I reply, even though I’ve hardly touched it. “How’s the spaghetti?”

Zeller frowns then slowly pushes a forkful from one side of his plate to other. “Actually, it’s kind
of gross.”

“Although if you will insist on eating testicles then what do you expect?” says Price matter-of-
factly. “Male genitals are hardly the most lovable of things after all, regardless of the species.”

“I guess,” replies Zeller, who seems to have given up trying to argue about it.

“It’s not a matter of guessing,” replies Price. “They are not remotely lovable; and I speak from
experience, because I’ve had to observe far more than my fair share of them in the course of my
career. In fact they’re terrible things when you really think about it. Like a weasel clutching two
bulging sacks of garbage.” He pauses when he sees that Zeller and I are staring at him with our
mouths slightly open. “It’s true,” says Price with a hint of triumph. “Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed
your mind.”

“That has never crossed my mind,” protests Zeller.

“It will now,” replies Price smugly. “You’re welcome by the way.”

“Look, um, it’s been really good to see you,” I say, “but I’m going to have to head off soon, I’ve
got an appointment.”

“Ciao,” replies Price, beginning to demolish another slice of ciambella.

“That’s hello.”

“Arrivederci, then.”

“Spero di rivedervi presto,” I say, not entirely sincerely. “Are you heading to the office after this?”

“Yes, I expect we’ll go for a few more hours. There’s a still a lot of paperwork to finish and Jack’s
back in again tomorrow.”

“Okay, well…I might see you then.”

“I hope so,” replies Price, abandoning the ciambella in favour of a noisy bite of fried chicken. “I
must say Agent Graham, it’s really been an unexpected bonus to have your input on this. Like
winning the murder lottery without even knowing we’d bought a ticket.”

“Price is right,” says Zeller. “It’s great to have you involved.”

“The Price is always right,” replies Price smugly.

“Not about everything,” adds Zeller. “You’re wrong about Will being run-down.” He turns to me
and smiles encouragingly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so well as you do now.”

Price opens his mouth, obviously prepared to start arguing about it, when his whole face suddenly
twitches then goes rigid with shock. He swallows audibly, darts his tongue across his lips, then
finally sees the way Zeller and I are staring at him and appears to come back to himself with a
slightly self-conscious laugh.

“Good Lord,” he says. “I know how ridiculous this is going to sound, but for a second there, I…I
honestly thought I saw Hannibal.”

Zeller mutters something sharp under his breath. “Where?” I snap before I can stop myself.

My voice in my own ears sounds fraught with tension: taut and panicky, like someone pushed to
their last nerve. I suppose from Price and Zeller’s point of view it’ll be easy to assume it’s from
fear – and in fact it is, only not for the reason they think. After all, I know better than anyone how
capable you are of putting yourself at risk of getting caught just to prove a point. To them it seems
like I’m afraid for my own safety, but the truth is that all I really care about anymore is yours.

“It’s alright Will,” says Price in an unusually gentle way. “It wasn’t him.” He gestures at the
window while he’s speaking as a clear invitation to inspect the street for myself. “I guess my eyes
are playing tricks on me. Ghosts of the past, as they say. Jack was talking about him yesterday and
it must have planted a seed.”

“You okay Will?” asks Zeller. “You look a bit…” He pauses slightly, obviously trying to be tactful
about it. “A bit freaked out.”

“I’m fine.” I pause myself then give a small shrug. “It’s just the thought of him being here.
Y’know?”

“He’s not here,” says Zeller firmly. “Price has just lost it, is all. Anyone who knows anything
thinks Hannibal must be dead by now.”

“Well, not officially,” muses Price.

Zeller throws him an irritated look. “So what? Even if he isn’t, he may be crazy but he’s not stupid.
What could be important enough for him to take the risk? Coming to a city with half the BSU in it
– he’d have to be out of his mind.”

I smile rather thinly then toss down some bills to cover the tab before getting to my feet. “Yeah,” is
all I say. “I guess he’d have to be.”

****

I find myself opening the door in a very wary, cautious way when I finally get home; less like I
live there, and more like a visitor who’s creeping in without permission. It’s guilty and furtive –
and, let’s face it, isn’t at all how people are supposed to behave when they’ve done the right thing.
Instead I ought to be striding around, shoulders straight and head back, filled to the brim with
virtuous satisfaction. Only I’m not (far from it) because it’s hard to find any real satisfaction from
what I’ve done when it’s right for me, and right for our safety, yet totally wrong for you.

In this respect there’s no sign of you anywhere, and after exhausting all your usual spots I’m about
to give up before I have an impulse to check an unlikely one instead; namely my top-floor room.
Admittedly this feels more of a last resort than because I genuinely think you’ll be there, yet sure
enough, when I push the door open – there you are. You’re gazing out of the window, supremely
still and watchful, which is something you seem to have been doing a lot of lately. If it were
anyone else I’d say you seemed depressed, yet you don’t really do low mood the same way as
other people. It’s more like you’re…resigned. The problem is that I know what’s underlying it isn’t
so much sadness as anger, but you refuse to elaborate whenever I ask and there’s no way I can
force you to confide in me unless you want to. Equally unspoken, yet equally obvious, is that if
you’d kept your word and agreed to leave when I first asked then none of this would ever have
happened, but needless to say you never seem to want to acknowledge this.

Normally you wouldn’t come in here without permission, but I can’t bring myself to call you out
on it right now so just walk up behind you instead until I’m close enough to wrap an arm around
your shoulder and press my forehead against yours. “Hey,” I say gently. “How are you doing?”
You don’t reply and the silence feels like a massive rebuke, despite how deceptively calm and
tranquil your expression appears. I wait a little longer then give you another nudge with my
forehead. “Do you want to hear how it went today?”

For a few agonised moments it seems you’re going to ignore me, and I’m just trying to decide a
way of responding which won’t cause an argument when you dip your head very slightly to signal
you’re listening. “If you want to tell me,” you reply, “then I don’t have any objections to hearing
it.”

“Yes,” I say cautiously, “but do you want to know? There’s no point boring you with it if you’re
not interested.”

“You won’t bore me.”

“I might,” I say. “I didn’t even see Jack; he was in a meeting all day with the local police chief. I
spent most of the time with his taskforce, then had lunch with Price and Zeller.”

“And how was that?”

“The lunch or the meeting?”

“Either.”

“The meeting was productive – I’m confident I can get them to accept Matteo as one of Il
Macellaio’s. And the lunch was a strain.”

“How so?”

“It felt uncomfortable seeing them after so long. Like I was playing a part.”

“But you were,” you reply. This is usually the type of thing that’s guaranteed to rouse your interest:
duplicity and subterfuge, particularly when relating to me. This time, however, your voice sounds
dull and toneless. “Your whole purpose there is to play a part.”

“I know,” I say wearily. “I know it is. I just didn’t like it.”

In theory this reply should please you, given your obsession about my potential to switch sides, but
all you do is give a small shrug as if to say ‘What did you expect?’ It occurs to me that you might
be wondering whether I’m playing a part right now: that in fact I found it exhilarating to be back on
The Good Team again and am just pretending I hated it because it’s what I think you want to hear.
It’s hard to know what to say anymore to convince you; I feel like I’ve run out of words for it.
From my point of view the decision is a purely practical one and there’s only so many ways I can
say ‘I want to stop us getting caught’ before it starts sounding insincere simply by force of
repetition. I suppose I could try apologising again, but then I don’t really want to do that either.
Partly because I’ve already apologised – a lot – but mostly because I don’t feel like I’ve done
anything wrong and the displays of forced repentance are starting to wear me down.

“It won’t be for much longer,” I finally add. “I’ve already achieved more than I expected. Once
I’m certain about Matteo I’ll drop out. I’ll tell Jack I’m sick.”

You dip your head again in response but still don’t reply. I suppose you don’t need to; I’ve
informed you of a version of this plan twice already and you didn’t look particularly convinced
those times either. I sigh to myself then give you another gentle nudge with my forehead.

“Just one other thing,” I add. I’m doing my best to sound casual but I’m not sure how convincing it
sounds. “You didn’t come by today…did you?”

You turn round abruptly, eyes fixed on me while slow-blinking like a cat. You’ve been still for so
long that I wasn’t fully prepared for you to move, and there’s something about the way you do it
that feels distinctly unnerving. Without even meaning to I find myself pulling slightly away from
you.

“And where am I supposed to have gone?” you say.

I swallow audibly. “Price thought he saw you in the street,” I reply. “Then he said he didn’t.
Only…”

“Only what?”

“Only I did wonder.”

“You mean am I spying on you?” you say. “Is that what you’re asking?”

It’s obvious you’re choosing not to answer the question, but this is a common strategy with you
and doesn’t imply one thing or the other. Maybe you did or maybe you didn’t – it’s impossible to
know for sure, and unless you feel like telling me there’ll be no way to prise it out of you.
Ultimately I decide to opt for a similar non-answer.

“You can do whatever you want,” I say. “As long as you keep yourself safe. Please, Hannibal..
Don’t do anything…” I’m about to say ‘reckless’ then deliberately bite it back because this has
never been the right word to apply to you. “Don’t do anything put yourself at risk.”

“Why?” you ask with a hint of irritation. “Because Jack is such a great threat to me?”

A part of me wants to snap that Jack’s one of the only people to ever fight you and survive (and has
done it twice), only I know you’d take such huge offence over it and there’s nothing to be gained
by provoking you more than necessary. “Yes,” I say simply. “You know he is. When he has half
the city’s police force behind him – yes, he’s a threat.”

For a while you remain silent and I have a moment of genuine concern that you’re about to lose
your temper when you suddenly respond with something so disconnected that it makes me think
you’re doing it on purpose to catch me off balance. “I suppose I ought to apologise,” you say. “I
am in your room without permission.”

I let out my breath through my teeth, abrasive and slightly impatient. “It’s fine,” I say. “You know I
don’t mind.”
“No? But perhaps you should. I am intruding on your private space.”

“If I cared that much I’d lock it.”

“Would you?” you say. “And how would you rate your success – do you think it would be that
easy to keep me away from you?”

I frown again, unwilling to be drawn into a conversation that’s clearly operating on two levels, and
you finally reach out to cup my face in both hands, smoothing your thumbs beneath my eyes as if
trying to stroke the shadows away. “I suppose it goes without saying that you’ve been on my mind
today,” you add. “I’ve spent quite some time imagining what they must have thought when they
saw you. So alone. So accessible…so willing to join with them again.”

There’s something loaded about the way you say ‘accessible’ which makes me think it’s a
reference to how they’ll all believe I’m single – therefore obscuring your relationship with me
while also managing to highlight the suggestion of marriage that I still haven’t accepted. But I
know whatever I say you’ll wilfully misinterpret, so in the end I don’t say anything at all. When
you’re in a mood like this then silence is by far the best strategy; it denies you ammunition and is
nearly always the quickest way to bring a conflict to an end. The downside, on the other hand, is
that it also takes a huge amount of self-control because the urge to argue back at you can
sometimes be overwhelming.

There’s another pause as you continue to stare at me. You must know my silence is deliberate,
which means you’re soon going to bring this is to a close (whatever this actually is). “It’s a strange
thing Will,” you finally add. “Your ability to torment me is unparalleled – and always has been –
but I can’t bring myself to resent you for it.”

“Good,” I say quietly. “Because I’m not trying to torment you. That’s the last thing I want to do.”

You don’t reply and in the resulting silence I listen to the sound of your breath and wonder, not for
the first time, how much longer it’s going to be before it happens – the moment that your patience
finally snaps. Because surely it will? After all, nothing’s been resolved yet. Not really. You’ve
accepted my insistence on following my plan, but only because you didn’t have a choice, and while
I know you respect my fierceness and independence you won’t even pretend to like it. Right now
feels like the calm before the storm, where I just get a sense of you constantly holding back. In a
way, I think you’re concerned about what might happen if we had a really serious argument so
instead you’re doing your best to subdue it. It’s as if my presence is compelling you to repress a
layer of ferocity that’s lying just below the surface.

“You know Will, the first time I discovered something I could truly yearn for was the day I
discovered you,” you finally add. “And yet my need to possess you is fraught with inconsistencies.
At various times and in various ways it’s been contrary to comprehension, to judgement, to peace
of mind or freedom of choice, to hopefulness, happiness, or contentment…contrary even to my own
sense of myself.”

There’s something in your voice that makes me wince as it briefly stirs a memory of a conversation
from several years ago: a different version of you speaking to a different version of me. My
compassion for you is inconvenient…I stare back without speaking and you tighten your grip then
lean further forward until your eyes are bearing straight into mine; ardent and hypnotic like burning
flints.

“I’ve never been drawn to someone so fiercely as I am to you,” you add softly, “yet while parts of
me resist it and try to maintain an independence there is no doubt that the loss of you is
unimaginable, and I would rather be haunted by your image and driven mad by the memory of you
than to not have you at all. I am both murderer and martyr to my own devotion. You…my love of a
lifetime, for a lifetime, and for whatever lives come after.” There’s another pause in which we
seem to be inhaling each other’s air before you finally lean even further forward and add in a voice
of incredible intensity: “Never try to leave me Will.”

There’s something about your tone which strikes me as deeply ominous, although it’s hard to say
exactly why. It doesn’t sound like a threat. It’s more the gravity of it, perhaps. The severity – as if
something mortal is at stake – and for a fleeting moment I’m reminded of a childhood preacher in
my hometown, intoning away from the Old Testament while I squirmed next to my father in the
pew: ‘For the Lord your God, who is among you, is a jealous God and his anger will burn against
you…’

“Why would I do that?” is all I finally ask.

“Why indeed?” you say drily. “And yet you might decide you have your reasons.”

“No,” I reply, firm as I possibly can. You don’t respond, yet it’s almost as if I can see your words
hovering in the air like small phantoms: Just like you did the last time. Remember, Will? That time
you betrayed me and broke my heart. I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it… “I wouldn’t,” I
add, equally firmly. ”I couldn’t. There’s nothing would make me.”

There’s a pause, and then: “Nothing,” you repeat in the same rhythmic voice. “Nothing is merely
the absence of something. It doesn’t negate that the thing still exists. We shall have to see, won’t
we?”

Perhaps it’s wishful thinking, yet even now I can’t quite believe you’re being serious. I’ve forgiven
you for so many betrayals after all; it seems unfeasible that you could still be so fixated with my
single one. Everything that’s happened and everything we’ve done…how can this display of doubt
be truly sincere? You can’t really believe it. Can you? In that moment it’s as if I’ve forgotten how
my conflict about our future is genuine – and that you know this too – or how becoming the next
version of myself didn’t mean I entirely lost the person that I once was. In fact, this might be the
most relevant part of all. I spent so much time lodged between you and Jack, yet somehow never
really learned how obligation and infatuation can merge together, or even how to try and choose
between the two.

This idea of choice seems relevant, and I now find myself frowning as I begin to turn the concept
over in my head. It seemed like I made the definitive choice that night on the cliff side, yet you’ve
always been even more aware than I have of how haunted I remain by the ghost of my previous
self; so distant yet somehow always so close. Your choice, on the other hand, was even clearer: to
take my abilities and inclinations then remake them into a version of me who’d be willing to share
his life with you. You’ve made a good job of it too – I’ll give you that. My Self was always so
shifting and unstable, never capable of withstanding your urge to impose a new identity that would
better match your whims and preferences. It’s like you’ve dissected me, with all your customary
capriciousness and precision, and it’s meant you’ve done your best to destroy so many things I used
to think about myself: my passiveness, my detachment, my tenderness towards anyone who’s not
you…even my sexuality. But one thing you’ve never acknowledged is my need to wrestle my own
Becoming back from you and take charge of it myself; simply because I know if I don’t, then
every change I’ve ever made stops being a transformation and becomes a violent obliteration
instead. In fact, it won’t be a change at all but a takeover – something entirely owned and
orchestrated by you. It’s also one of several ironies of our current situation, because if that ever
happened then it really would be impossible not to leave. You’re so angry with me for resisting
your wishes on Jack, yet one of the main reasons I’m doing it is because the only way I can stay
with you is if I also stay true to myself.
At the thought of this I can feel myself frown even harder, suddenly more conscious of where your
resentment is coming from. But it’s impossible to explain something to you that you refuse to hear;
and it’s only then, when you’ve already walked away, that I realise when you mentioned Jack
being a threat you didn’t mean to you. What was it Zeller said? What could be important enough
for him to take the risk? You let me think staying here was about your pride and an unsatisfied
vendetta, yet I now know that it’s not. I suspected it, I suppose, but your reaction to Matteo’s death
proves it beyond any doubt. Your feud with Jack is almost incidental; what matters is what Jack
represents. Because it’s not his threat to your freedom you want to destroy, but rather his threat to
your happiness. Or, more to the point, what matters is the threat Jack poses to me – and of being
the one remaining person who might be capable of making me change my mind about who I am
and leave you.
 Chapter 25
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Clarice smiles at me over the top of her cup, nodding as she does it in a way that shows she’s really
paying attention to what I’m saying. The Academy courses used to call this type of thing Active
Listening, although it’s hard to tell whether it’s deliberate or not since the gestures always seem so
natural when they come from her. She actually smiles at me a lot now, which feels encouraging
considering that (apart from you) she’s pretty much the only person who does. Although, if I’m
honest, it’s not like even you’re smiling that much anymore. Sometimes you will, but whereas
before the smiles were ready to be dispensed at a moment’s noticed it now feels like you’re
withholding them on purpose. Hoarding them up then doling them out – and then more to achieve a
certain effect than because you genuinely think I deserve them. Unfortunately my own response to
all this has been depressingly predictable, in that instead of addressing it in a calm mature way I’ve
just withdrawn myself in direct proportion to you until it’s reached the point we’re hardly speaking
to each other. Even our physical contact seems to have grown restricted to the accidental kind –
brushing against each other in the hallway or clashing hands when reaching for the same item
simultaneously. At times it almost feels like two strangers in the house, uneasily competing
together for the same limited space.

Of course it’s clear this Cold War isn’t remotely sustainable, yet while I know what I need to do to
call a ceasefire I can’t quite bring myself to comply. After all, I’ve spent most of my life giving
into you. I want (need) something for myself, and now hardly seems like a good time to indulge my
submission habit when our freedom might be on the line. The problem is that you’re also one of
the worst possible people to play a waiting game with, although admittedly you haven’t shown any
signs of wanting to pursue Jack on your own. My idealised explanation for this is because you’ve
realised how incredibly and pointlessly risky it is so have decided to let things be, but deep down I
know it’s not true. Much more likely is that you’re just biding your time for the perfect moment.
This, in turn, means I’m having to work extra hard to keep one step ahead of you – and which,
while not impossible, is really fucking hard.

“Mr Crawford mentioned him again yesterday,” Clarice is now telling me.

I raise my eyebrows in response: a perfect display of politely informal interest. Naturally, it goes
without saying that the ‘he’ in this scenario isn’t Il Macellaio but you, mostly because Jack’s
gloomy preoccupation has shown no signs of letting up and Clarice’s pre-existing fascination has
made her a perfect partner for him to entertain it with. She then tends to pass these snippets onto
me, which has placed me in a rather odd position of second-hand confidante; a kind of Cannibal
Whisperer, whose unique insights are supposed to help decode their own fixation (despite the fact
I’m secretly just as obsessed with you as everybody else).

“Oh right?” I now reply, ultra-casual. “What did he say?”

Clarice shrugs back at me then smiles again. “Pretty much the usual.”

Outwardly my expression doesn’t change but inside I’m sighing with relief. In this context ‘the
usual’ means a combination of reminiscing about what a Prize Bastard you were, typically
followed by a generous dose of speculation about the forthcoming acts of Prize Bastardry you
might be capable of committing in the future if you really are still alive. What it doesn’t mean is
that Jack’s had a Price-like suspected sighting of you, and the confirmation that you’re not
attempting to bedevil him behind my back is a constant source of comfort for as long as it lasts.
Clarice now starts describing the substance of her conversation with Jack, which seems to have run
along the lines of him hypothesizing what impact you’d have on the Macellaio investigation if you
ever did decide to turn up. In this respect Jack has adopted a tendency to talk about you the same
way conservatives often talk about communism: as a kind of malevolent, omnipresent threat that
has the potential to sneak into anything it wants to behind the scenes just to fuck everything up. I
now repeat a version of this observation to Clarice who immediately starts to laugh, even though I
know she doesn’t really consider Jack’s concerns about you a laughing matter.

“Although from what I’ve heard it was a little like that,” she adds. “He knew how to blend himself
in, didn’t he? By all accounts he was exceptional at it.”

“He was,” I say simply. “It was one of his greatest strengths.”

“Yes, I can imagine. A kind of mask to hide behind.”

“Exactly. The intelligence, the sophistication…it was powerful camouflage.”

“His physical appearance, too,” adds Clarice blithely. “I’ve seen photographs. He was very
striking.”

I politely raise my eyebrows (what an interesting suggestion; this thought has never once occurred
to me). “Hmm, I suppose so,” I say. “I guess.”

“It’s a potent combination.”

“Y-e-s,” I say. “Yes, it was, but in a way it was also his downfall. It made him think he was
infallible.” The thought of this is making me anxious and for a few moments it takes a huge
amount of self-control not to show it. In fact there’s a definite trace of unhappiness in my voice,
which is something that happens increasingly often now when discussing you. “His arrogance was
probably his ultimate weakness.”

Clarice takes another sip of her drink then replaces her glass and gives me a rather thoughtful stare.
“If you don’t mind me saying so Will,” she replies, “it sounds like his greatest weakness was you.”

Of all the responses I was expecting this one was pretty low on the list and for a few seconds I’m
genuinely unsure how to take it. Not even Jack has ever gone so far as to say this much out loud.
Even so, while a part of me resents the intrusion it’s hard not to silently applaud her judgement at
being able to work it out.

“Yes,” I say finally. “I understand what you mean. But in a way, that’s my point. He didn’t realise
his relationship with me was a threat to him until it was too late.”

“Because of his arrogance?” says Clarice with interest. “Or something else?”

Very briefly my eyes meet hers. Because he was in love with me, I think. Because he saw a
younger version of himself that he could inspire to their full potential. Because you did, didn’t you?
You were like Narcissus, gazing lovingly for years at your own reflection until one day you
encountered the mirror-image as a living, breathing adaptation that was so similar to yourself you
almost had no choice except to try and seduce it. And although you saw my deception coming
weeks in advance, it didn’t make it any less devastating when it finally happened. It still broke your
heart. Is that arrogance, or is it something else?

“Maybe I’m not the right person to ask,” is all I say. “The only one who’d know for sure is him.”

“But would he know?” persists Clarice. “You said yourself that his narcissism was his blind-spot.
How honest could he have been with himself about his motivations?”

Internally I feel myself sigh. I’m used to Clarice’s insightfulness, yet even now I sometimes find
myself forgetting that I’m not talking with Jack or Price but someone who operates on a wholly
different level of sharpness and sensitivity. She’s also got more comfortable with me by now,
which means she pushes back more often and is far less likely to tolerate my deliberately vague
non-answers.

“I think his version of his motives was honest,” I say eventually. “But I think he overestimated
their effectiveness. And I think he underestimated me.”

Clarice nods then takes a thoughtful sip of her coffee, silently mulling this over. “There was
another profile of him recently,” she says. “In the American Journal of Psychiatry. Did you see it?”

Briefly I repeat the same silent stare as before. I might be getting more tolerant of it, but even now
the incongruence of the situation still has the power to take my breath away. Yeah I saw it, I think.
Or, more to the point, I sat next to him while he read it out loud and ripped it to shreds. And then
we had sex on the sofa.

“Yes,” is all I say.

“And?”

“And I thought it was accurate in its broader statements, but that the final analysis was too
simplistic.”

“Yeah, I figured you might think that. They tried to classify him the same way as a normal offender
and he defies that type of understanding.” She smiles then shrugs, innocent in her fascination with
you in a way I could almost envy. “It’s what makes him so interesting. At least – it’s why I find
him so interesting. He was in a league of his own.”

I say “Yeah, he is” without thinking, then promptly feel like punching myself. As an error this is
unforgivably stupid, and while I’m not worried she’ll take it literally I know I have to be smarter
than that. I suppose I could amend it to ‘At least, he was’, but it feels like the correction would
draw too much attention. Besides, it’s not like Jack doesn’t constantly refer to you in the present
tense; in the past few days even Price and Zeller have started picking up on the habit.

I guess we’ve all been around Mr Crawford too long,” adds Clarice as if she’s read my mind.
“Talking about him like he’s still here.”

“Yeah,” I say casually. “I guess we have.”

Clarice smiles again and I smile back while deciding that I quite like this teasing of Jack. It’s clear
how much she respects him, but these occasional gentle jabs show how she’s already shaking free
of the rigid FBI hierarchy and learning to relate to her superiors on a more personable level. It
suggests an independent streak that I can sympathise with and, combined with her general charm
and intelligence, confirms my hunch that if we’d met in different circumstances we might well
have become friends. I could have taken her fishing; invited her to see the dogs (which I no longer
have)…basically any of my ever-shrinking circle of interests that don’t include you. In a parallel
universe I could even have let the two of you meet. In fact this one might be the saddest of all,
because I know how much I’d love to show you off to people and it’s almost never going to be
safe to do so. It’s so easy to imagine it too…the way I’d have put my hand on your arm, intensely
proud and slightly anxious like it always is when introducing new partners to people. Of course,
the other things might also be a parallel universe for how likely they are to happen, but in the
meantime I suppose our increasingly frequent meetings have become something of a proxy for it; a
simulation of what a friendship could have been. But then there’s also the way she reminds me of
Abigail, and this is something I need to make a constant effort not to examine too closely. Abigail
is one of several things I’ve never fully forgiven you for, and by now I’m almost afraid of what
would happen if that particular can of worms got prised open. It’s a deep reserve of anger, so
steaming and fetid that I feel I’ve no choice except to bury it – despite a growing awareness that all
I ever really did was bury it alive.

“Hey,” says Clarice gently. “You okay? You look like you were miles away.”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I reply. “Just, I don’t know…tired, I guess.” Ugh, that sounds shit: surely I can
think of something better than that. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this kind of work,” I add,
only slightly less lamely.

“No one would ever guess that, Will. Mr Crawford was saying so just yesterday. You always seem
ten paces ahead of the rest of us.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. Then I’m about to add that it’s not especially complex before stopping myself
in case I sound like I’m belittling everyone else for struggling with a relatively straightforward
case. I’d also like to compliment her on how exceptional her own input’s been, but the
conversation’s moved on by now and it’s too late to reference it. Oh God, why am I so bad at this?

“…it’s the difference between Il Macellaio and Dr Lecter,” Clarice is now saying. “The first fits
into the regular classifications, whereas the second – the second was one of a kind. It’s why the
Journal article failed. They acted like he had typical reasons to do what he did.”

“Yeah you’re right,” I say; simple and clear, because of course she is. If you were here yourself
(God forbid) then you’d agree with it too and I know if I closed my eyes then I’d be able to picture
the scene. The way your mouth curled with disdain at the clumsy attempt to dissect you with such
dull psychological tools: ‘Nothing happened to me, Will. I happened.’ When Il Macellaio is finally
caught then articles will be written about his dysfunctional upbringing and his neglectful parents;
entire chapters of entire books dedicated to his misogyny, his psychosexual hang-ups, his
disorganised social life. No one will ever write what could be said about you: that search for
intensely unbearable beauty where life becomes performance and death is configured as art.

“…and so they think they can understand him that way,” concludes Clarice. “To be honest Will,
it’s one of the reasons we all admire you so much. You saw what no one else did: that a regular
analysis would never be enough. You knew you had to empathise with him and get what normal
profiling couldn’t possibly capture. That’s why you were the only one who ever had a chance of
catching him.” She pauses then meets my eye again. “You knew you had to get your hands dirty.”

*****

By the time I get home you’ve finished making dinner and are already beginning to lay the plates
on the table. The fact you didn’t wait for me feels like a silent form of reproach, and I find myself
hovering in the doorway for a few awkward seconds before walking up behind you to put a
tentative hand on your shoulder. I see your own hand flicker slightly as I do it; it’s like you’re
about to reach out to me the way you normally would, but in the end you don’t.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” I say. “I would have called but I couldn’t find anywhere private. Then by
the time I did I was already on my way back, so…”

My voice in my own ears is so gratingly cheerful that I find myself getting self-conscious at how
fake I sound and abruptly trail off into silence. Really, I’m half surprised you haven’t told me to
shut up yourself – at the very least, you must surely be thinking it? To save you the trouble I shut
myself up then sling my jacket across the nearest chair so I can sit down in anticipation of the meal.
A gleaming array of serving dishes is already spread in front of me and I now begin to silently
inspect them without making any comment as to what they might contain. At some point this has
become a gruesome form of compromise – a kind of don’t ask, don’t tell Devil’s bargain – in which
I turn a wilful blind eye to an aspect of your life I’ve never been able to fully accept, yet also never
condemned enough to make me turn my back on you. Until recently there was a period where you
seemed to care more about my unease than indulging your own preferences and you’d prepare the
food in front of me so I’d see the packaging and know the exact provenance of what I was
consuming. All of this was done without ever exchanging a single word about it, and it feels
slightly ominous that tonight you’ve chosen to break the tradition. God knows what’s actually in
the dishes – it could have come straight from the grocery store for all I know, but the fact you
didn’t wait to show me feels like some kind of test.

Across from me you replace your wineglass on the table; it’s not a loud noise, yet somehow it’s
still enough to startle me. I’ve honestly no idea how long I’ve been sitting here staring at the plate.
Seconds? Minutes? I can’t even tell. Then I glance up again to catch your eye and for a few
moments find myself unable to look away. Your gaze feels very intense – far more so than usual –
with an eerie combination of heat and cold that makes your eyes seem as if they’re gleaming.

“Is there a problem with the food?” you ask.

By now I’m convinced you’ve done this on purpose and my own eyes begin to slide back down to
the plate without fully meaning to. The meal could be something from a glossy magazine, just like
with all your creations: tenderloins seared to perfection, anointed in celeriac purée with a sprinkling
of onions fried in garlic and nutmeg, then all finished off with a sumptuous bed of cavolo nero
leaves swimming in a wine sauce the same colour as blood. I know I could say that there is, or at
least demand some sort of clarification. Yet doing so feels like a form of rejection and after
everything that’s happened I can’t quite bring myself to push you away again. So I ignore my
stomach’s queasy protests and instead take a forkful then place it in my mouth, deliberately
maintaining eye contact the entire time.

“No,” I say when I’ve swallowed it. “Not at all.”

You continue to stare, very cool and appraising, and it suddenly hits me how unnerved I’m starting
to feel by your silence. That air of quiet menace…it’s been so long since I’ve seen you like this. A
part of me is already whispering that I should feel afraid, yet no matter how urgent it grows I still
can’t bring myself to listen to it. Perhaps I should; perhaps this would be the sane, sensible thing to
do. Nevertheless, I just can’t. After everything we’ve been through…to admit to myself that I don’t
feel safe with you now feels like it would be something close to heartbreak.

“Why were you so late?” you say suddenly.

As you’re speaking you pick up your knife and I find my gaze darting to it before forcing myself to
look away. Surely you’re not doing it on purpose? No…no, you wouldn’t.

“I told you,” I reply, my tone intentionally calm and even. “I was working. The commissario came
in the office and wanted an update. Then I had a meeting with one of the trainees.”

You slide your knife into the meat almost tenderly and I watch with an awful kind of fascination as
the blood-red sauce trickles across the plate. “Which trainee?” you say.

At the very least I’m sure you must have smelled her perfume again, so while you ask this very
casually it still feels like a trap; mostly because I can’t shake the feeling you already know and are
checking on purpose to see if I’ll tell you the truth. “One of the more talented ones,” I reply, just as
casual as you. “Her…”

I’m about to say ‘Her name is Clarice’ when it occurs to me that knowing her name would make
her easy for you to identify – and that this is almost certainly a bad idea. After all, I might be
ignoring my personal risk assessment when it comes to you but there’s no way I can reasonably do
the same for her.

“Her theory on Il Macellaio was quite interesting,” I say instead.

The pause to make my substitution was almost imperceptible but you still glance up straight away.
You know, I think bleakly. You know I don’t want you to find out who she is.

“You’re mentoring her?” is all you reply.

I shrug in the same fake-casual way then take a sip of my wine. “Matteo could put them on the
wrong course. I need to make sure they get back on the right one.”

You take a slow sip from your own the wineglass then wait a few seconds so you can stare at me
from over the top of it. Your eyes look so dark I can barely see your pupils; just two black holes,
gleaming like flares in the centre of your face.

“Is that so?” you ask. “And why do you need to do that?”

Your emphasis is very subtle – barely-there, in fact – yet I still feel myself tensing at the sound of
it. It’s so unfair, but also so frustrating, because I’ve made one compromise after another for the
past 18 months and now it’s your turn to do the same and you won’t. How long are you going to
keep punishing me simply for trying to do the right thing?

“You know why,” I say. “So let’s not waste our time with another post-mortem about my saviour
complex and your obvious dislike of it.” Your eyes immediately start to gleam again; oh Christ,
you look furious. “Besides, she was asking about you,” I add quickly. My tone has changed now;
less aggressive and more conciliatory, like I’m trying to charm you into calming down. “She was
interested – and I enjoy talking about you with other people.”

I suppose my intentions are good, but even as I’m saying this I feel like wincing at what a huge
miscalculation it is. It’s my nerves that have caused it: they’re making my mouth run away with me
in a way that’s untypical. But none of that matters, because regardless of my reason it’s the type of
clumsy attempt at appeasement that you’ll see through in an instant – and then instantly scorn for
being so inelegant and obvious. Sure enough you quickly replace your knife on the plate with a
sharp little click. It’s such a quiet sound, yet there’s still something about the way you do it which
manages to feel nearly as ominous as when you picked it up in the first place.

“Do you?” you say, and your voice almost sounds like it’s smouldering. “Why is that, Will? Why
do you enjoy talking about me with other people?”

As soon as you ask that it’s as if a switch has been flicked as my nerves dissolve and get replaced
with a flare of resentment instead. Because I love you, I think. Because my mind is full of you.
Because nothing else fascinates me the way you can and nothing ever will . But of course you know
this already and are pretending not to, and it’s that which is driving me closer and closer to losing
my temper. These fucking pointless mind games; how many more of them can you possibly expect
me to play?

“Isn’t it obvious” I say. By now my tone has shifted: from appeasing right back to aggressive
again, like I can’t believe you would dare to ask me something so painfully self-evident. “Why do
you think?”

“I already know what I think,” you say crisply. “Which is why I’m more interested in your opinion.
How have you managed it, Will? What do you do to console yourself when surrounded by all these
new colleagues? Describing what it is you see in me which fascinates you so much?” I open my
mouth to respond but you sweep straight on without giving me a chance; clearly you’re not
interested in my opinion – not at all. “You’ve run that ingenious mind of yours ragged over the
years trying to justify it to yourself,” you add. “Haven’t you? Explaining that thing in me which
strikes such an answering echo in you.”

The bitterness in your voice is obvious, yet it’s not as if you’re telling me anything new. Far from
it. It’s just another version of the same sermon you’ve delivered a hundred times before: differently
packaged, perhaps, with slightly altered wrapping, yet with contents that are fundamentally
unchanged and unaltered. So that’s why it’s not the words themselves which end up upsetting me
so badly, but rather the context in which you’re saying them. Partly it’s because of how perverse
you’re being: that you’ve taken a simple, affectionate statement and twisted it into something to
attack me with because I’m refusing to do what you want. But really, I know it’s far deeper than
that. It’s because the conversation that triggered all this was with Clarice – someone who, without
me even realising it, has slowly become a symbol for so much of what I’ve been struggling with in
my relationship with you.

For a few seconds I continue to stare at you without speaking. You seem so impeccably poised and
graceful in the candlelight; you could almost be a ghost of yourself from our former life. The
glinting glass and the gleaming silverware…exerting that terrible power you always had to be the
sanest person in the room. You’re doing it now, just like you did then: to make yourself sound so
irreproachable that no one, not even me, could ever question my version of reality over yours. And
thinking about it is causing my breath to catch painfully at the back of my throat, because while
such pitiless exploitation would have been bad enough on its own, even that wasn’t too far for you.
Instead you went on to manipulate everyone I cared about – seduced them, if you had to – just so
you could turn them against me later with utterly ruthless efficiency. Only I could never get too
close to any of them, could I, because if I did then your response would be swift and devastating. It
seems that you care about this relationship? was your message. Well, now I’m going to have to
destroy it right in front of you. Are you happy now? Just look at what you’ve made me do. One of
the main points of your entire scheme was to keep me as isolated as possible, because you knew
destructiveness and anger could only sustain me so far before I’d have to admit defeat and
acknowledge how much I needed you. And now it’s years later, and the situation remains exactly
the same. I can’t tell you about my fledging friendship with Clarice. I can’t tell you about the
meaningless coffees with Hunter. I can’t even take on a job to try and keep us safe. All because of
the same inability you’ve always had to accept me wanting anything in my life that’s not you.

Straight across from me is a large gilt mirror and as my eyes slide across your shoulder to stare at it
I find myself remembering the earlier conversation with Clarice. Narcissus and his reflection. You
and me – and your chronic unwillingness to let me be my own person rather than an extension of
your influence. Something moulded in your image. And because I’m strained and stressed, and sick
and tired, and because I’ve had enough of being punished simply for wanting to live my own life
on my own terms, I hear a voice grating out that’s harshly mechanical and doesn’t even sound like
mine: “Actually, you’re wrong. That’s not the reason.”

As soon as I say that your head snaps straight up. I don’t think you were expecting this. In fact you
almost certainly weren’t: I’ve been going to a lot of trouble recently to appease you and this
rebellion probably wasn’t on your radar, at least not so soon. Despite everything it gives me a grim
satisfaction to know I haven’t lost my ability to surprise you. Even so, I still know it isn’t too late to
 change my mind. I could still back out of this; I could invent another lie to keep the peace then just
bury this conflict along with all the others. But it feels like this tension has been festering for weeks
now – ever since that impromptu proposal of marriage – and in this moment a wild, exhausted part
of me no longer feels like denying it.

“I enjoy talking to her generally,” I say. “Not just about you.” I wait a few seconds, deliberately
stretching it out, then look you dead in the eye. “Because she’s interesting. Because I like her. And
because she reminds me of Abigail. She reminds me of what you took away from me – and that
I’ve now got a very small chance to rebuild.”

You draw in your breath then. I actually hear you do it; a quick, sharp inhale across your teeth. If it
were anyone else I’d say guilt or sadness was causing it, but because it’s you I know that it’s not.
It’s anger. You can’t believe I’ve actually gone there, and in that fleeting moment you probably
despise me for it. It also doesn’t matter that everything I’m saying is justified, because the normal
scales of justice don’t apply here. You’re not concerned about justice; you never have been. Justice
means nothing to you. You’d slice it apart then string it up, use its brain and blood to weight its
own scales in your favour. All you care about is that I’ve just committed one of the most
unforgivable of all crimes – the mortal sin of rejecting you.

I now watch, almost trance-like, as you get to your feet then slowly walk around the table until
you’re stood just inches away. “How much more of this Will?” you say, and your voice sounds so
soft and dangerous. “How much further do you intend on pushing me?”

I stare up at your face without flinching. “I’m not pushing you,” I reply. “I’m just telling you how I
feel. It’s not my fault that you don’t want to hear it.”

Every instinct I possess is screaming at me that this is the point I should back down: my common
sense, my self-preservation…all those usual types of things. Yet somehow I don’t feel afraid.
Maybe I should, but I don’t. Besides, it’s not like those survival skills were ever much use around
you in the past so it hardly seems worth relying on them now. Mostly I’m just aware of a sense of
exhaustion: of how much I resent you resenting me, and of all the unspoken stress and denial of the
last few weeks as they come simmering up to the surface. Not that it’s really just from the last few
weeks. If anything we’ve both got years’ worth, and it seems so typical of us to carry it for so long
in silent stoicism only to end up igniting it all in an explosion that could have been avoided if we’d
just unburdened ourselves piece by piece along the way. But it seems like it’s going to happen
now, whether we want it to or not, and all I can really feel is a weary sense of resignation that
finally – finally – we might be about to break the silence of all the gaps between the words.

Chapter End Notes

So sorry for the angst my lovelies! I know not everyone enjoys reading the heavier
stuff, but I promise it’s got a broader purpose in terms of the character arcs and won’t
last indefinitely <3

Also, just to say that using the Narcissus myth as a metaphor for Hannibal’s obsession
with Will isn’t my own idea but was inspired by (of all things) a comment on a
YouTube video. I’m still trying to find it again so I can give the user proper credit by
name, but in the meantime I wanted to be clear that this wasn’t my original thought :-)
 Chapter 26
Chapter Notes

Huge thanks to Caia2468 and sailfin, who both had wonderful thoughts on last week’s
Narcissus metaphor and inspired the paragraph towards the end of the chapter <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

In the end we stay in the kitchen. It seems to be by mutual agreement, although still feels like a
contradiction in the sense of being an incredibly anti-climactic space for a showdown while also
managing to be the most appropriate room there is. At least, it’s appropriate for us. It certainly is
for you. Cooking. Killing. From your perspective they’re both a way to make an art out of
necessity. Both are deserving of equal dedication, creativity, and passion, and you’ll work with
either of them the same way a painter works with oils and palette: labouring away in the service of
beauty to take the deplorably dull and transform it into something that can innovate, or provocate,
but ultimately render meaning from the banal and mundane. Would you include me in that too? I
suppose you possibly would. Another passionate project; another thing to transform. In fact, put in
those terms, it’s hardly surprising you’re so angry. You’re not used to your creations rebelling
against you.

It’s getting so late by now, and since neither of us have turned the lights on the only source of
brightness comes from the flickering row of candles. The intensity of the darkness is disorientating
and makes me feel like I’m getting swarmed by crooked silhouettes whenever a rogue slice of
moonlight manages to spill across the floor. It’s only been a few minutes, yet already my
imagination is going into over-drive to conjure them into a series of half-formed human figures:
spectres or ghosts that would wither away once the light was on them. They have an eerie choking
quality, covered in charcoal where their colour used to be, and with nothing at all beyond them
except a stretch of shade and shadow where the room disappears and my eyes no longer grasp
reality. The only constant is you, flesh and blood amid all the phantoms. You’re easily close
enough to touch, yet somehow I don’t want to – and so I don’t.

Even now you still haven’t spoken, although I know you’re going to soon. More to the point,
you’re also going to move – and this is the part I’m far more wary of. It’s also a paradox (another
one) because while I still don’t believe you’d hurt me, all the belief in the world doesn’t change the
fact you’d be capable. What is it really worth, after all: my belief versus your capacity for cruelty?
You could explode into violence right now and I wouldn’t see it coming, the same way I never saw
it in the past. You could strike at me like a cobra, your movement so terribly dominant yet always
so carefully precise. It would be the same characteristic grace and composure you apply to
everything, from your dress to your dinner parties. Cooking…Killing…

It’s at this point I realise that my thoughts have gone full circle and that the entire time (how long
has it been?) neither of us have done anything to break this strained, ugly, heart-pounding silence.
Perhaps you’re thinking the same, because you finally move your hand away from your side and
begin raising it up towards me. From the way you do it I can sense that the gesture is tender in
intent, yet I’m so tense and angry I still find myself jerking my face away before backing out of
touching distance. I don’t even really mean to. It’s like survival instincts automatically kicking in –
like muscle memory taking over – but even though it wasn’t deliberate I can already tell it’s about
the worst possible thing I could have done. Because it’s clear you’ve interpreted it as another sign
of rejection, and a visible change now comes over you as your face flickers slightly before
completely closing down. It’s genuinely unnerving to witness: all the features folding into
themselves one by one like a mask until your expression eventually settles into blank
impenetrability. For a few moments you don’t do anything except lean backwards on your heels,
regarding me very intensely without speaking. And then, finally – you start moving forward.

My breath promptly hitches, the sound harsh and panicked in the otherwise silent room. I wasn’t
intending to show my wariness so obviously, yet now the moment’s come I really can’t help it;
there’s just something profoundly terrifying about the sight of you coming towards me with that
cold, dead look on your face. The memory it triggers is so powerful I even find my eyes darting
downwards to see if you’re carrying a knife, only by then it’s already too late and you’ve loomed
so far into my space that I’ve ended up backed against the wall. At some point your hand has
curled itself around my face, yet regardless of how disturbing it all feels I still can’t bring myself to
fight you off. I know I could, of course. You haven’t secured my arms; there’s nothing to stop me
punching you if I wanted. It’s stupid and self-defeating, and I almost hate myself for my own
weakness. But despite all of that I know that even now, even pinned against the wall like one of
your victims, the thought of harming you still feels like a step beyond where I’m able to go. Finally
I opt for the opposite direction instead, letting my body go limp and passive then glancing up at
you rather piteously from beneath my hair.

“Please,” I say. I deliberately work a tremor into my voice, exaggerating the existing unease until it
sounds like I’m genuinely terrified. “Hannibal, please…you’re hurting me.”

When you hear this your face flickers slightly. It’s as if reality has reasserted itself enough to make
you realise what you’re doing and you immediately let go before taking a few steps backwards. I
quickly twist out the way, my expression hardening as I do it, and I can see you take one look at me
and realise that the earlier fearfulness was just an act. It’s clear how angry you are – you’ve always
hated the idea of me manipulating you – but when you start to move towards me again I hold up
my hand to stop you.

“Don’t,” I say. “Please. Don’t make me fight you off.” I’m still holding my hands in front of me as
a kind of shield and I now slowly force myself to lower them in an effort to seem less hostile.
You’re still staring at me so I hesitate a few more seconds then attempt to catch your eye. “Please,”
I repeat.

The unspoken message is that I can’t bear the thought of attacking you and as our eyes meet for a
second time I can tell you understand. Admittedly you don’t move further away, but you also show
no signs of coming forward, and I now take another deep breath then run my hand through my hair.
Logically I know I should find something contemptible about the way you’re behaving. So
vindictive, so vengeful…I should despise you for it. Yet I don’t. Even malice and pettiness have an
inexplicable sense of depth and dignity when they come from you.

“We need to try and fix this,” I say when it seems like you’re just going to continue the silent
staring indefinitely. “I want you to talk to me.” I’m about to add ‘yell at me if you want to,’ but it’s
so impossible to imagine you yelling that even as a rhetorical flourish the offer seems pointless.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

When I say that your head tilts slightly to one side. It’s such a small gesture yet somehow still
deeply unsettling; predatory, almost, like you’re sizing me up before planning the best way to
pounce. “I should tell you what I’m thinking?” you say. “No, Will – I’m afraid those are not the
rules of the game. You already know what I think.”

“I don’t,” I say quietly. “Right now I feel as if I don’t know anything at all.”
“No,” you reply with unusual sharpness. “On the contrary – you’ve known it for years. You’ve
been stripping layers away from me since the first day I met you. If there was still a part of me that
was unknown to you by now then I would have sliced out that part and placed it in your hands.”

I open my mouth then immediately close it again, because this is such a startling admission I’m
genuinely unsure how to take it. I’m not sure I even agree with it…it seems so implausible to think
I’d be viewed as the secretive, inscrutable one whereas you were the open book. But I know you’ll
expect me to decipher your meaning, so I force myself to stand there anyway; pulling it apart with
silent dedication until I’ve finally formed a clearer idea of what you’re trying to say. With anyone
else it would be simple, but I’ve never been able to interpret you the same way I can with other
people. I never have. How much different would my life had been if I’d proved capable? Yet for
your sake I’m still determined to try, and after turning it over in my mind a few more times I decide
that the problem you’re expressing isn’t so much that you’re unable to read me, but that I won’t
allow myself to be read. In fact, I’m certain this is it – it’s been a defining contrast between us for
as long as we’ve known each other. You’ve always had more comfort and confidence in expressing
your emotions than I have, from the dramatic to the trivial and everything in between. I was so cold
and guarded in comparison, always taking refuge in denial or deflection, and of course it took me
years longer than you did to admit how much I needed you. More to the point, you’ve also never
been able to fully predict me and have even admitted as much yourself. I suppose it’s still as true
now as it was back then: you can feed the caterpillar and whisper though the chrysalis, but what
hatches follows its own nature and is beyond you. So while I know that when you told me all
those months ago that you saw me as an equal you were telling the truth; just like I know you
meant it when you said you wanted me the way I was, not as another version of yourself. But what
you couldn’t account for was the reappearance of Jack – nor the resulting stress test that would
make us confront how equality and independence forge a whole new type of Becoming.

You’ve been watching me in silence the entire time, and it seems you can tell from my expression
the exact moment I get it because of the way you lower your head in a quick, confirmatory nod.
“So no,” you add. “I will not tell you what I think, because I want to hear from you.”

I draw in another breath. “Okay then. Fine. Tell me what you want to know.”

“Several things,” you say crisply. There’s another pause as your eyes lock onto my face, the gaze
more fathomless and intense than I’ve seen for a very long time. How calmly lethal you seem:
tranquil and composed in the line of fire, waiting to see what I’m going to do. “To begin with, I
want to hear what provoked you into mentioning Abigail.”

At least this one I’m better prepared for as it was obvious you’d expect an explanation. “Because I
feel suffocated at times,” I say. “And lonely. I feel like you don’t want me to have anything else in
my life beyond you.”

In fact, I don’t just feel this as opposed to knowing it to be true – just like I know what your
response is going to be, because it’s a version of what you’ve said in the past when challenged in a
similar way. Sure enough, you just stare at me for a few seconds then reply: “The only thing I want
is what’s best for you.”

A part of me yearns to snap ‘And you think you’re the only thing that’s best for me? ’ except I don’t
trust myself to do it in a way that won’t come off as needlessly hostile. Besides, it’s hardly like it
needs an answer because of course you think that. You see yourself as the best goddamn thing that
ever happened to me, and the focus of your entire strategy has simply been to sit around and wait
until I realised this for myself.

“Okay then,” I reply, forcing myself to sound as calm as possible. “I believe you mean that. And
clearly I believe it myself, because why would I be here otherwise? But then why can’t you accept
I’m not going to leave? Why keep resenting me for wanting to make my own choices?”

Expressed like this I can’t help feeling it sounds rather whiney and self-pitying, but I’ve always
been more economical with speech than you are. I don’t have the patience for intricate metaphors
and analogies which are artfully-phrased yet beautifully misleading. My language, like so much
else about me, tends towards the plain and precise; and in this context I can’t help feeling that’s a
good thing, because surely one of us needs to be direct about what they mean? Although maybe
that’s also just another part of the problem. Me, concise yet concealing so much; you, elaborate yet
fundamentally revealing.

For a while you continue to stare at me then finally take another step backwards. You’ve made
sure both your hands are visible, just like I have, and I can’t help feeling you’re doing it on purpose
to reassure me you haven’t got a weapon. “I felt so betrayed by you,” you say finally. “For a while
betrayal was the only thing that felt real to me.”

“I know,” I say wearily. “I know you did.”

“I cared for her too, Will. Not as much as you did, although perhaps such affection might have
come in time. But quid pro quo…surely you understand that much about me by now?”

I sigh and run my hand across my face again, because I know what you’re really saying is that by
hurting you I’d made myself fair game to be hurt right back. You wanted me to bear the same
intolerable pain you were feeling and make us even…Even, Steven, just like I once told you
myself. But all this seems so obvious that it’s hardly worth remarking on, and I’m certain it’ll turn
out to be nothing more than a set-up for whatever point you really want to make. Sure enough you
now deliver one of your more piercing stares then add: “I also knew you hadn’t forgiven me for
what I’d done to her. More to the point, I didn’t intend you to.”

This disclosure makes me visibly wince because I immediately understand what you mean. You’re
saying that my loathing for you worked in your favour: that by stoking it and nurturing it the way
you did merely served your long-term goal for tempting me to embrace my violent urges more
fully. It’s not as if I wasn’t aware of this, but somehow hearing you admit it so frankly still feels
jarring. How far would you have gone with it if you’d had to – if I really had taken you at your
word? It’s impossible not to wonder. Would you truly have been content to sacrifice yourself? A
willing martyr to my revenge, simply for the satisfaction of turning me into the cold-blooded killer
you’d always aspired me to be?

“So no, your forgiveness wasn’t entirely necessary,” you now say. You’re still watching me, eyes
tracking up and down my face as you catalogue each variation in expression. “At least not at first.
All that mattered was that you were beginning to accept your true nature. Betrayal and forgiveness,
Will. They’re best seen as something akin to falling in love…when time reverses and teacups come
together.” You pause then give a rather eloquent shrug. “Perhaps I underestimated you. After all, to
chasten one’s opponent is the most righteous form of vengeance.”

You don’t add anything else, and as stare back at you I suddenly find myself remembering your
words while you were ill: that no matter how dire the circumstances, you didn’t feel you’d ever be
able to harm me again. It was obvious how much you believed it at the time, and the words now
feel like something of a Rosetta Stone to help me translate all your current anger and resentment
since I first began working with Jack. Because what’s now becoming increasingly clear is that you
think I’ve been biding my time to take my revenge – waiting to strike until your affection for me
has got the better of you and essentially left you de-fanged and unable to retaliate.

On one level it’s hard to understand how you could seriously believe this, but I suspect it’s because
your intrinsic lack of empathy is blinding you. My refusal to run away together was so minor
compared to what you’ve done to me, yet you saw it as a betrayal of such epic proportions you
came close to delivering a death sentence over it. You couldn’t forgive me for it at the time – it’s
possible you never fully have – and you’re now incapable of putting yourself in my position and
imagining how I could show you any leniency in return: me, who carries the mental and physical
scars of your many abuses every single day. No wonder the mention of Abigail got so deeply under
your skin. When force didn’t work you tried to seduce me onto your side instead, and now I
suspect you’re growing defensive at the idea that your strategy might have failed. In other words,
you feel as if you’re at my mercy and that I’m going to treat you the same way you’d treat me if
our situations were reversed.

For a while I’ve been staring silently at the floor and I finally raise my head to look at you directly.
“I don’t understand you,” I say, my voice threaded through with strain and disbelief. “How can you
think I’d leave you now? How can you? After everything I’ve given up for you…?”

“Everything you’ve given up?” Your own voice comes lashing out of the darkness like a whip and
the impact of it is so intense I find myself flinching then falling silent. “Yes, your sacrifices have
been considerable, haven’t they Will? Perhaps you’re right to pay no attention to mine.”

How could I have once believed you didn’t have real emotions? I think numbly. Right now you
seem iridescent with them: like something inflammable about to ignite, as if your skin would be
white-hot to the touch from burning up with a ferocious, flaring force of feeling. You don’t need to
raise your voice or make elaborate gestures – the kind of demonstrative props that normal people
might use; the kind that I might resort to myself – but it’s there all the same. It’s there in the
intensity of your expression and the tension of the muscles around your jaw and shoulders, but
more than anything else it’s in your eyes. They’re powerful even in your more casual moments, but
right now they look as if they’re glittering: as if there’s an inferno raging behind them that’s been
stoked by dark longing and vengeful passions, like a fiery avenging angel from some Renaissance
painting with sword in hand and baleful blazing face.

“No,” I manage to stammer out, “I didn’t mean…”

“How I had a life and career several decades in the making,” you say in something close to a snarl,
“all of which I was ready to give up for you. Later I sacrificed my entire freedom. I was even
prepared to tell you that you’d won. I’ve never conceded that much to another living person, either
before or since. Yet even that wasn’t enough to satisfy you.”

This time I just shake my head. I don’t even know what you’re talking about with the last part,
although the words have still triggered something for me and when I force myself to focus a vague
memory eventually starts to resurface itself. What I’m remembering is you, sat in a chair,
scribbling equations to turn back time and watching over me as I slept. Then I remember myself,
and how angry I was when I woke up. I was so bitter and exhausted, and I told you I never wanted
to see you again – my most serious attempt to reject you, although it wouldn’t be the last. And then
I remember the look of genuine sadness on your face that came straight after. It was subtle and
fleeting, but it was definitely there. ‘Your memory palace is building,’ you’d said. ‘It’s full of new
things; it shares some rooms with my own. I’ve discovered you there. Victorious.’ Was that
supposed to be your version of admitting you’d lost? That I was the victor, and you were despairing
in defeat? I guess it must have been – although it didn’t feel that way at the time. ‘So you’ll always
know where to find me…’ you said later, although that too seemed less like surrender and more like
just another way of staying in control. After all, at that point it would have been so much easier if
you had conceded the loss then disappeared. Remaining accessible simply made it more
impossible to forget about you, like you preferred the confines of capture to the mercy of letting
me go free. As I realise what I’m thinking my willingness to assume the worst of you instantly
makes me feel ashamed, yet I spent so many years attributing the darkest possible motives for
everything you did that even now the habit can still be a hard one to break.

“But yes, by all means, let us focus on what you gave up,” you say. You’ve taken a step forward
and your hands have disappeared again. Are they behind your back? Oh God, I don’t know – I
have no idea what you’re going to do. “Which was what, exactly?” you add. “A life you hated? A
system that failed and suffocated you? Or perhaps it was that readymade family of yours?” At the
mention of this your voice acquires an extra layer of venom; you might as well be flinging acid at
me with every single word. “Remind me again why you chose them, Will? I’m sure you could
provide a deeply sentimental narrative. It would be solely concerned with love and devotion – and
have nothing to with the way you knew better than to breed and pass all those terrible traits of
yours onto a biological child. What an incredible cost: to give up something you never truly
wanted. Something you only took in the first place because the alternative repelled you.”

Even for you this is incredibly vicious and for a few moments I’m genuinely paralysed by it, no
longer aware of anything except the sound of my heart pounding in my ears and a stinging
combination of grief and anger that’s enough to steal my breath away. Then almost as quickly I
come back to life again as my control finally snaps and I spring myself forward to lunge at you.
Even now my intent isn’t to harm you, yet I need to do something – anything – to find a way to
stop you saying these things that I can’t bear to hear and stoking memories that I can’t stand to
remember. I land on you with sufficient force to make you stagger backwards, your own breath
catching loudly as I slam against your chest.

“You ruined my life,” I hear myself saying. “You took everything from me. Why did you do that?
Why? It belonged to me. It was mine.”

By now I’m really grappling with you and you clamp down a hand on the back of my neck to try to
keep me still. You’re not having much success, but while I can tell you’re holding back on purpose
to avoid hurting me I’ve grown too angry and frantic to care. Instead I just pounce at you for a
second time; at which point you finally lose patience and spin me round, using your forearm to
grasp my neck while your other one crushes around my chest. It’s tight enough to make me gasp in
pain, but although you loosen the grip slightly you refuse to let go. At one point I actually hear you
snarl at me; I snarl straight back, my breath catching in an angry gasp as I wait for long enough to
make you think I’m about to submit before summoning all my strength to push back behind me. It
makes your hold slacken enough to let me break free and my success surprises me because I wasn’t
expecting us to be so evenly matched. After all, you have more technique and training than I have,
as well as greater physical strength, whereas all I’ve got is the kind of graceless, scrappy
belligerence that’s been honed from decades of street scuffles and bar fights. But then I also have
one advantage you don’t have, which is that you’re only fighting from a place of anger while I feel
like I’m fighting for my life. Logically l know this isn’t true, but it’s as if I’ve been overtaken by a
primal fear response that’s almost animal-like in its intensity. It’s only been less than 18 months
since we called a truce – nowhere near enough time to fully dissolve my hard-wired wariness of
what you’re capable of. My body has gone into a mode of both attack and defence, and it means
the whole thing has an awful, hopeless quality to it which makes it seem far more aggressive than it
actually is.

Briefly we now pull apart and as I stand there panting I can tell that my face has started to bleed. It
happened when my temple scraped against one of your cufflinks, but even though it’s a tiny wound
you still flinch when you notice the trickle of blood. You always hate to see me injured and in
those few moments it’s as if I’m watching your internal conflict flickering across your face. It’s
like Gods and Monsters, the humanity versus the inhumane. The part of you who would tear me
into tatters – literally consume me, if it could – as it clashes against the part that loves me in a
simple, pure uncomplicated way, and only wants to see me happy, protected, safe, and sane. I take
advantage of the pause to brace myself for another onslaught, but this time you just wrap an arm
around my shoulders to hold me in place then twist your hand into my hair, forcing my head
forwards until my face is close enough to be crushed against yours.

I can hear myself now and the noises I’m making: a series of small, stifled moans which sound like
distress but are more about the strength of an unbearable emotion as your tongue stabs in and out of
my mouth. Even so, I’ve stopped trying to resist you and my movements are gradually becoming
more subdued until I’m barely struggling at all. Instead my entire focus seems to be shrinking until
the only thing I can think about is your mouth as it savages mine: thinking about the stunning
scenes of violence I know it’s inflicted and what I’ve seen it do. The image should horrify me, but
instead I find myself remembering that moment on the cliffside when I finally, finally, accepted I
loved you – your mouth in the moonlight, the gleam of teeth, the spray of hot black blood – as
suddenly I’m starting to kiss you back. It’s the first sign of me responding to you and makes you
let out a growling noise before roughly tugging me forwards, never once breaking the kiss. For a
few moments we continue struggling to get ourselves out of our clothes, my breath harsh and fast
as every nerve seems to spark from a cocktail of desire, fear, and adrenaline. Your arm around me
is so tight it’s like a cage, the grip firm enough to see your knuckles gleaming white in the dimness,
although you refuse to let go of me for even an instant as your other hand darts out to sweep the
entire assortment of plates and dishes onto the floor. They land with a series of splintering smashes
that sound far louder than they should in the otherwise silent room as you swing back round again,
taking me with you with an arm wrapped around my waist until you can hoist me onto the table. I
can hear myself gasping now; I’m trying to catch my breath but I can’t seem to manage it and my
lips are still stinging from the intensity of the kiss. For a few seconds you stare down at me, your
eyes very dark and forceful, then curl a hand round my throat to hold me in place before leaning
over so you can bury your face in my hair.

“Why are you like this?” you say, and your voice sounds so lost and sad. “You keep fighting me.
Ever since I met you, you’re always fighting. Why can’t you just let me have you? Why won’t you
do that?”

This time I don’t reply. I can’t. How can I? I don’t know what to say: there are so many reasons,
and even to myself they’re inconsistent. So in the end I just hook my legs around your waist
instead, tugging you forwards in silent encouragement that ‘yes I want this, I want you’ while my
fingers scrabble uselessly across the slippery sheen of the table, trying and failing to find
something to cling on to. By now I can hear your breath in the darkness: how rough and heavy it
sounds, laboured with the weight of unexpressed emotions that must have been building for several
weeks. I think you’re still waiting to see if I’m really going to cooperate, but the moment I whisper
your name your self-control finally snaps and you make a sound halfway between a sigh and a
growl, leaning forward to scrape your teeth down my throat before ripping my jeans off one-
handed and roughly knocking my legs apart.

I hitch in a scratchy breath of my own then briefly screw my eyes closed. I’m already preparing for
the stab of pain at being taken dry, so it’s a relief to realise you’ve retrieved a nearby bottle of olive
oil and intend to drench us both with that. Even so, with no preparation the stretch is still a lot to
take and as the swollen head of your cock begins pushing inside me I give a hiss of discomfort then
catch my lip between my teeth. Oh God, you feel fucking huge; it’s like I’m being pierced wide
open. I raise my hips, trying to force myself to ease into it, but even then it seems I’m going to be
too tight for you to fit. You make a frustrated noise then move forwards to try again, firmly feeding
your cock into my body one stretched, stiff inch at a time. Your other hand is holding my hip, the
touch surprisingly tender as you massage the small curve of bone with your thumb. I can tell you’re
trying not to hurt me, only that’s not right either because it’s not what I want in this moment. I
don’t want gentle and considerate. I want something wild and aching and unrestrained. God help
me, I need it. I tighten my grip around your waist, draw a shaky breath, then impulsively jerk you
forward until your hips slam into me so hard that the thrust shoves me across the table. It means I
end up taking your entire length in one go, but even though the pain makes me sweat I just grit my
teeth and take it. Fuck, it’s like I’m being impaled; I can actually feel your cock getting fuller and
heavier inside me. I choke out a breath, my hand gripping round your neck to pull your face against
mine as my other one claws frantically against your back.

“I need this, Hannibal,” I murmur into your skin. “I need you. Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you
dare…”

Each drag of your hips brings little pulses of pain but I’m still eagerly grinding against you, my
earlier whimpers gradually softening into sighs as the initial burn begins to fade. You’re watching
me do it, I can see you; your eyes are gleaming slightly in the darkness. It’s intensely erotic and
somehow the awareness of your gaze turns me on even more: the image of how shameless and
wanton I must look, oiled-up then spread out naked in front of you while I fuck myself on your
cock. And apparently you seem to feel the same, because you now give a final hard thrust then
abruptly scoop me up in your arms, lifting me up off the table until you’re stood upright and I’m
urgently clinging onto you with all four limbs. The unexpectedness startles me and makes me gasp,
yet while it’s unnerving to be suspended mid-air like this I instinctively feel you won’t drop me.
Instead your hands are gripped around both my thighs, fingernails digging into my skin as you hold
me steady and help me gain the right momentum to thrust myself up and down your cock. It feels
so hot and thick inside me, and the position makes the whole thing unbelievably intense: forcing
me to take it deeper each time your hips ram upwards while pressing us so tightly together I think I
can feel your heartbeat pulsing against mine. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced – not only
from the way it feels, but also because a part of me can’t even process how you’re physically able
to manage it.

“Oh fuck,” I say faintly. Your mouth is so warm and damp against my throat; I wrap my arms
tighter around you then tip forwards until my face is resting on your shoulder. “Fuck, Hannibal.
You’re so strong.”

It’s the first positive thing I’ve said to you, and although it’s not much you still respond
ecstatically: cradling my skull with your hand to protect it from the impact then swinging round to
slam me up against the wall as you savage my mouth with another bruising series of kisses. The
surface provides much better leverage to move your hips, so even though we’ve barely started I can
already tell how close we both are. Instinctively I draw my legs up then hook them together; partly
to get a firmer grip, but also because it tilts my hips downwards and helps each tight thrust of your
cock drive about as hard and deep as you can possibly go. Then I run my tongue along your jaw,
grazing it with my teeth as my fingers tangle into your hair and tug. You’ve begun to make the type
of sounds I can’t remember hearing from you before; almost animal-like in how wild and
dominating they are, the degree to which you’ve lost control of yourself frightening even while it’s
thrilling.

As you bury your face in my hair I moan again then pivot for some extra friction, my own cock
jammed against the rock-hard muscles of your abdomen as it slides up and down in a slippery trail
of pre-come. By now I’m managing to find something close to a rhythm, helplessly aware of how
my ass is clenching and tightening around your cock as I get closer and closer to coming. From the
reverent way you murmur my name I know you can feel it too. Making me come always drives
you wild and you’re showing how happy you are with the frantic way you kiss my hair, my face,
my neck; any part of me you can reach.

“Do it,” I hear you saying. “Right now – I want to see it.”

As your thumb strokes the slippery, oily skin that’s stretched so tightly round your cock I make a
raw yelping sound, rocking myself in your arms to get the pressure where I need it as you slam into
me over and over again. The first sharp stabs of pleasure are already building up in my stomach,
punching outwards and upwards until my cock spasms violently and soaks you in a flood of pre-
come. I cry out again then let my head fall backwards, vaguely aware of the hot swipe of your
tongue as it drags along my throat.

“Oh God,” I can hear myself saying. “Oh fuck. Hannibal, I’m going to…I’m…”

The rest gets lost in a desperate wail as suddenly I’m shooting all over your chest in pulses so
blindingly intense they’re close to being painful. You hold me through for as long as it lasts,
fingers threading through my damp hair as your hips continue thrusting to match each tremor and
quiver of mine. I’ve totally lost it by now. I keep calling out your name in a kind of chant, lips
crushed against yours until you’re gasping into my mouth and I feel the familiar hot flood of you
coming inside me. Your hips continue to thrust like you’re trying to push it deeper and there’s so
much that some of it starts leaking out and trickles down my thigh. Each pulse seems to last for
ages, and from the urgent way your nails rake my skin I can tell the sensation is equally brutal for
you as it was for me.

When it’s eventually over we slump down together with our backs against the wall, silent and
slightly stricken amidst the wreckage of glass and porcelain. At least I feel stricken. With you it’s
always difficult to say for sure: your earlier emotion was such an explosive combination of anger,
sadness, and resentment, and it’s impossible to tell which of these has endured the most. Or
perhaps none of them have – perhaps they’ve been replaced with something else entirely? It’s hard
to say…my empathy has so often failed around you when I’ve needed it the most. Eventually I just
reach my hand out then hover rather tentatively before letting it rest against your knee. I suppose it
would make most sense to go to bed, only I’m not sure either of us has the energy to move so I
spend a few more moments forcing my panting breaths under control and waiting for the swell of
sensation to subside before staggering off to retrieve the tablecloth and making a clumsy attempt to
wrap us both up in it. Then I return my hand to your knee again, slowly smoothing my thumb
across your skin in a wordless gesture of solidarity.

“I don’t even know what to say to you,” I eventually announce into the silence. “I’m sorry, I just…I
just don’t know what to say.”

There’s another long pause; evidently I’m not the only one who prefers to take refuge in silence.
“No,” you finally reply. “It appears neither of us have anything to say – and yet for such very
different causes. Myself, because I’ve concealed nothing from you and have nothing left to reveal.
You, because you confide nothing, and have nothing more you’re willing to share.”

“No,” I protest, “that’s not fair. I’ve tried…I…”

The reply trails off, like even my own words are contradicting me, and you wait a few moments
before turning round to give me one of your more inscrutable stares. “Have you?” is all you say.

I sigh heavily then drag my free hand through my hair. “I said I’ve tried. I didn’t claim I’d been
successful.”

There’s another pause and this time I just sit through it as I listen to the sound of you breathing,
wondering if this is it – if this is the moment you simply stand up and walk away from me.

“You never ask me about Bedelia,” you say suddenly. Considering this is pretty much the last
thing I expected to hear I turn round myself to look at you, but you don’t return the gaze and just
continue staring straight ahead, eyes fixed aimlessly on nothing. “I’ve often wondered why,” you
add. “I was here with her before I was with you, yet you always refuse to mention it.”
“I guess I do,” I say slowly. “Probably because I don’t want to know.”

“Why don’t you?”

Now it’s my turn to pause. There’s an obvious answer of course, yet somehow the moment feels
too sombre and serious to mention such a petty motive as jealousy. “Because she’s not relevant,” I
say instead. “Besides, it was a different version of you back then – and a different version of me.”

You seem satisfied with this reply. I was hoping you would; at the very least, I suppose it was
enigmatic enough to appeal to you. “She once made a very interesting observation,” you say after
another pause. “She told me that I was going to get caught – that it had already been set into
motion. But she also told me something else. She said, ‘You’re drawing them to you, aren’t you?
All of them.’ Who do you think she was referring to, Will? I don’t suppose it would tax your
ingenuity to guess.”

The fact that it’s me is too obvious to need confirming, so instead I just sigh again then increase the
pressure of my thumb against your knee. “I know,” I say. “And I’m glad that you did.”

“Bedelia felt I’d grown reckless,” you add. “She thought I was sabotaging myself. And with that,
as with so much else, she wasn’t entirely wrong. She could be very astute that way. I know you
disliked her Will, but you must concede how insightful she was. It’s one of the reasons I grew so
close to her: she was one of the few people who was capable of understanding things from my
perspective. She could feel the same pain I did, just as you can. Which is why she could appreciate
the dual demands of clinging on and letting go – and how, when it came to you, I could never
reconcile myself with doing either.”

There are already numerous questions I’d like to ask about this, but instinctively it feels that the
best response is silence. It’s true you’re not revealing any new information, yet the rawness of how
you’re expressing yourself isn’t something I’ve heard before and I don’t want to disrupt it. Instead I
just continue to stroke your leg in a silent encouragement to continue.

“At times I grew to loathe it,” you finally say. “That part of me which never had the chance to stop
missing you because it didn’t have the strength to stop wanting you. The part which said ‘I need
him. He should be here. I no longer understand what my life is like without him in it.” You pause
then let out another sigh; just the faintest rustling of breath in the otherwise silent air. “Sometimes I
would even dream about you. I’d dream that you were there and were speaking to me, that your
eyes had met mine…right up until the moment I’d wake and be forced to resolve with losing and
letting go of you all over again. In those moments I felt that I was destined to watch you walking
away from me every morning of every day for the rest of my life. Loss and longing, Will…we
never get one without the other. Being parted from you meant I had to acknowledge that you
weren’t just a muse, or a realisation, or a passing thought. You were everything…and that no
would ever be able to take your place.”

I let out a long breath of my own then increase the pressure against your knee. “I know,” I say
quietly. “I felt exactly the same.”

My voice is low yet the sincerity is strong, because it’s true and I did. Perhaps not at the same time
as you – and not in the same way – but certainly in the long, limping months after the cliff jump
where I thought you might be gone for good. That was the period where it felt like you were
haunting me and I was never able to lose the sense that I’d turned into the wrong person and was
living the wrong life. Jack, Alana, even the neighbors in my building…all those nice, normal
people who sensed my despair and tried to comfort me, yet none of them mattering anymore
because me and you were always supposed to be more important. Us above others, that’s how it
was supposed to be. Us against the world. Losing you made me realise how long I’d been
surrounded by people who rewarded me for pretending to be something I wasn’t and how blindly
I’d always done what they’d asked of me. I’d spent my entire life as the property of others: I’d
always been someone else’s expectation, or their problem, or their project. I’d never just been
myself, and the only time I thought it might truly be possible was when I was with you. Because
the worlds we lived in were different but somehow never all that far apart. We saw the same sky
after all. Didn’t we? Some of our stars were the same.

At other times I’d just remember the small stupid things, like how I sometimes used to snap at you;
the way I’d tell you how annoying you could be. At the time I meant it. That voice of yours, the
relentless insights…they were like elegant instruments of torture. It was only after you’d gone that
I finally realized how nothing ever sounded so compelling as the way you spoke to me – and that
nothing was so desolate as the sound of the silence you left behind you when you were no longer
there. It hurt so much to miss you. It felt ridiculous to say I was broken-hearted, because we
weren’t lovers at that time and weren’t officially in love. And yet it really did feel as if my heart
had been smashed; a hopeless, helpless sense of yearning that something irreplaceable had been
taken away.

Briefly I increase the pressure on your leg. We’re still not looking at each other; just staring
blankly straight ahead of us, backs against the wall. “Do you want to know something?” I say
suddenly. My voice is still so quiet. It’s almost as if I’m afraid to have my words overheard. “When
you were in prison. I used to imagine what you’d say to me if I told you my heart was broken.”

“Did you?” you reply, equally quietly. “That’s an interesting hypothetical.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

“And what did you imagine I’d have said?”

For a few moments I fall silent again as I try to reconstruct the memory – the person I was back
then and the person I thought you were. “I imagined you asking me if it was in pieces,” I say
eventually. “And that I’d tell you it was. I thought you’d have looked intrigued if I’d said that:
other people’s pain always interests you.”

“Yes,” you say simply. “It does.”

“And then I imagined you responding with something abstract: ‘In that case create art with it,
Will. Make a mosaic or a tableau – sculpt something striking from the fragments.’” I huff out a
sound that’s meant to be a laugh but ends up more like a sigh. “Or maybe you wouldn’t have said
that? Maybe you wouldn’t have said anything at all.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t. Such an admission from you – it would have surely been sufficient to shock
me into silence.”

I repeat the same laugh-sigh hybrid then scrub my hand across my face. “You know, at first I was
glad. I was glad when they sentenced you. I wanted you in a cage: I wanted something to break
you. Then I finally saw you, and I was glad all over again when I realised it hadn’t.”

“That was your impression?”

“Yes. You seemed almost unaffected by it.”

“Really, Will? You think it had no effect on me?”

“Not measurably,” I say. I know this reply makes me sound tactless but if feels like the best thing
now is the truth. “At least, not like most people. Virtually nothing affects you that way.”
“Some things do,” you reply in the same quiet voice. “Perhaps I did seem unmoved by the setting,
but I was far less indifferent to your own presence – I can promise you that. Or perhaps not so
much your presence as opposed to the absence of it once you’d left again. Understand that much,
Will. It was as if you’d turned your back and then walked away with the essence of me in the palm
of your hands. Mind, heart, spirit, and soul, all dripping and gore-stained: and yet I didn’t care, and
I didn’t want them back. You could have flayed me if you’d wanted to. You could have stripped
me to the bone and then disappeared clutching sheaves of my skin and I still would not have
cared.”

You sound so sad and it’s sufficiently out-of-character to seem like something close to devastating.
I can’t bear seeing you like this. I swallow audibly then finally just take hold of your hand. “I
know,” I say. “But I’m here now.”

“Yes…you are,” you reply. I can already tell that you’re choosing your words very carefully,
although whether it’s to protect yourself or me is impossible to say. Perhaps it’s for both of us?
Perhaps, as always, we’ll have to sink or swim together. “At the very least, a version of you is. You
referred earlier to the different versions of ourselves, didn’t you? Yet I’m not convinced the version
of me has altered so dramatically as you seem to think. And, more to the point, neither have you.
Because I have still made you my prerogative Will, just as I always have, while you remain
determined to only ever keep me as your alternative.”

When you say that I hear my breath catch. It’s so simple yet so hurtful; I almost feel as if you’ve
slapped me in the face. That you could really believe I see you that way – as something disposable
that I could carelessly discard at any moment once I feel your usefulness has expired. The fact
we’ve been reduced to this could almost be heart-breaking in and of itself, despite how quiet and
ordinary the moment seems. It’s not about dramatic gestures in dark rooms or the sound of
shattered teacups, more like a quiet sense of despair at how deeply we’ve managed to
misunderstand one another.

“No,” I tell you. I’m shaking my head now, trying to get you to realise. “Maybe I felt that way in
the past but not now. How can you possibly think that? You must know it’s not true.”

“It is true,” you say simply. “Why else would you have fallen so easily into the habits of your old
life?”

“Because I had to. Because I wanted to keep us safe.”

For a few moments you glance at me then swivel your eyes forward again as if I haven’t even
spoken. “Perhaps it’s also true that some of the fault is mine,” is all you say. “It may be the case
that my desires are unrealistic and can only be satisfied with more of you than you are able to give
me. But either way, you have shown time and time again that all you are prepared to accept in
return is one piece of several that form a far larger whole.” You give another low sigh then finally
turn round so you can cradle my face with your hand. “Dearest Will, you were such a beautiful bit
of chaos…I can’t ever bring myself to regret you.”

I shake my head again. “I don’t know what that means,” I say numbly. “What are you trying to
say?”

This time there’s an even longer pause as your eyes flicker across my face. “I mean that your mere
existence reminds me what it’s like to feel loss,” you finally reply. “Loss, and the pain it brings.
Feelings which I haven’t experienced since childhood…feelings which I didn’t think I could ever
experience again. Yet I don’t regret any of the wounds you’ve inflicted, and if I had the same time
again I know I’d still want you: you, and all the pain you cause. Always. No matter how many
lives, or lifetimes, or different versions of ourselves. No matter how much my better judgement
 warned me away or how many times I told myself ‘no’. It still wouldn’t matter. Because at the end
of it all – at the end of everything – I’d still always find you, and I’d still always want you.”

We’re both staring at each other now. My eyes are slightly damp; I think yours are too. And in that
moment, all I can think of is how you might be Narcissus gazing in the mirror, yet I’ve also got a
mirror of my own that I’m staring at just as intensely. Like you, I’d been withering away from
loneliness until discovering that one reflection; that one perfect soulmate and its distant yet
familiar love. And now I’m looking at my own likeness, helplessly and hopelessly obsessed with
it, then urging it do to the right thing because anything else would smash the glass and fracture
everything I believe myself to be. I want my reflection to not hurt Jack and allow the investigation
to succeed; I want it to prioritize safety over spectacle then escape quickly and cleanly with
minimal risk. And you’re staring back at your own image, hurt and angry because it won’t obey
your preferences, yet filled with an equal conviction that to let Jack live then run away would
betray who you are at your very core. Two imagos. Two different concepts of two separate ideals,
with both of us retreating to our corners to take refuge in our beliefs about ourselves while unable
to tolerate the protests from the other side of the mirror. I knew this was your strategy because it
always has been, yet somehow I never really wanted to admit that I was doing the same.

What happened to Narcissus in the story? I think he died; he couldn’t tear his eyes from his
reflection and over time the fascination destroyed him. It wasn’t that long ago that I wanted us both
to die too. Yet now we have to live instead, and the pain is in trying to work out how.

As my hand continues to cling to yours you return the pressure, our breath softly matched in the
silence: in and out. “It’s so difficult, Hannibal,” I say quietly. “I didn’t want to admit to myself just
how difficult it was going to be.”

You give a low sigh as in the darkness I feel a brief tightening on my hand. “I know,” you reply. “I
didn’t want to admit to myself how difficult you would find it.”

My eyelashes are definitely wet now; I mechanically lift up my hand to wipe the moisture away.
“I’m sorry I’ve hurt you,” I add. There’s another pause, and when I speak again my voice is so low
you need to lean in to hear me. “But you hurt me too.”

This time there’s no response, although I didn’t really expect one. It doesn’t matter though, because
as I continue to sit there the shared silence is more than enough. Just sat there with my back against
the wall and my hand clasped in yours – warm and solid and somehow, just like you always have
been, the only thing that feels real to me amid a sea of darkness.

Chapter End Notes

I KNOW. Omg, I’m so sorry! Don’t worry though – this is all part of the plan and will
not go unresolved for long xox
 Chapter 27
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

I suppose, in some ways, our fight could be seen as a positive thing. The catharsis. The honesty.
The airing of grievances and exchange of perspective…isn’t all that supposed to be positive? It
could be seen as a step towards fixing what was broken and replacing it with something better. And
maybe it is, and maybe we can, but it still doesn’t save me from waking up the next day feeling
utterly wretched. I hate arguing with you. It’s left me with a restless aching feeling – a sort of grief
hangover – and after a few moments brooding about it I finally settle on likening the sensation to a
wake that follows a funeral. It wouldn’t be the riotous Irish kind though, the kind with the whiskey
and bodhráns, but rather the sombre black-clad variety; the kind where ashes are scattered and
losses memorialised, and the mourners stand around, dry-eyed and desolate, to reminisce over what
once was there. Or maybe it’s not that at all. Maybe it’s earlier in the process? Perhaps it’s more
like the post-mortem: that moment where people realise something’s pined and withered away, and
now the time has come to review the evidence and understand what killed it. Oh Christ, me and my
fucking awful analogies…what am I even doing? Shut up, I think to myself. Please, just shut the
hell up.

Eventually I go into the bathroom so I can stare at myself in the mirror, silently berating my terrible
points of comparison while commiserating with myself at how equally bad my appearance is. In
fact, not to put too fine a point on it, I look like total shit. There’s a bruise on my cheekbone, my top
lip is swollen from how hard you were kissing me, and the oozing cut from your cufflink has
crusted into a livid red gash that even my hair can’t successfully hide. Although I guess it at least
solves the problem of going to the office, because I couldn’t possibly let Jack see me this way. I
resemble exactly what I am – like someone who’s been in a fight – and the awareness it was a fight
with you fills me with a sense of unhappiness so crushing it briefly takes my breath away. All of
this is bad enough on its own, of course, but layered on top of the sadness is also a deep sense of
guilt – and which is a little more complicated than the rest, because while I don’t regret the things I
said I do regret the way I said them. Your loss and resentment were so acute…if I closed my eyes I
think I could still imagine that look on your face.

Although I spent last night in our bed you weren’t there when I woke up and it’s not clear where
you stayed yourself. Possibly, knowing you, you just didn’t sleep at all. Eventually I decide to go
downstairs to check and find you by the kitchen window, very still and watchful with an undrunk
cup of coffee in your hand and gazing intently into space. I make a mumbled attempt at a greeting
then hover uneasily for a few seconds before limping across to the counter to pour out the remains
of the French press. The limping is awkward, and I’m doing my best to disguise it, but last night’s
sex was so rough I’m pretty much incapable of walking normally. In fact most of my body’s still
throbbing: I’ve even got a friction burn on my shoulder from being thrust along the length of the
table. Unfortunately it’s also clear that I’m not doing as good a job of hiding it as I think I am,
because you now take one look at me then promptly come striding over.

I shift from one foot to the other then stare at you from beneath my hair, by this point almost
cringing with miserable discomfort as your eyes flicker up and down to catalogue the various
injuries. I think it’s mostly a sense of my own powerlessness that’s causing it; I want to find the
words that will make things okay and undo the pain of last night, yet I know that I can’t. No one
can because they don’t exist within just a few words – not even for you.

For a few moments you just stare at me then briefly raise your hand to run a finger along the edge
of my cheekbone. “You’re hurt,” you say finally.

I blink a few times, aware of how absurdly moved I feel by the obvious concern in your voice.
“No,” I reply. “I’m not. I…”

“I apologise,” you add before I can get any further. “I should never have allowed myself to lose
control the way I did.”

“I lost control first,” I say gruffly. “If anything, I should be apologising to you.”

You shake your head rather impatiently. “You’re limping,” you say. “You’re clearly in pain.”

“I’m not. I’m fine.”

“You’re certain you’re not injured?”

“I’m certain.”

As I watch your eyes begin to narrow; it’s clear you’re not buying it. “I was far too rough with
you.” you say. “There may have been some internal tearing. If that’s the case then stitches might
be required.”

“No, it’s fine, I…”

“Have you experienced any bleeding?”

“What? No, of course not.”

For a few seconds you just stand there as your face closes down into the blank inscrutable mask
that I’ve learned to know so well; it’s as if I can literally see your barriers coming up. “There could
be a risk of infection,” you say eventually. “I understand you may prefer that I don’t examine you
myself at the moment, but you need to take care of your body. If you have any concerns you
should see a doctor immediately.”

Normally you couldn’t stand to suggest anyone touching me except you, and the fact you’re
putting my wellbeing above your own preferences is yet another mournful sign of the distance
that’s sprung up between us. Before you’ve even finished talking I’ve already begun shaking my
head.

“No,” I say firmly. “I’d far rather it was you than some doctor I didn’t know. And I’m fine – I’m
just a bit aching, is all. Why don’t you ever listen when I tell you things?”

Perversely, the fact I’m being rude to you ends up acting as a bit of an icebreaker and makes you
give the faintest hint of a smile. In fact it’s extremely rare for you to labour a point like this, but I
know it’s because even the hint of sexual violence disgusts you. In all areas of your life you favour
persuasion: outright coercion is too ugly for your tastes while sex, in turn, is something too
expressive and intricate to ever want to use as a weapon. In this respect one of the few times I’ve
ever seen you close to genuine anger was an article speculating about your ‘latent psychosexual
disorders’, because to you death creates beauty from unbearable ugliness whereas sexual assault is
just blunt force aggression without any greater purpose at all. It’s one of many examples of your
singular moral code, and explains why you can encourage me to kill people and see nothing wrong
with it yet physically recoil at the thought of forcing me into sex that’s unwanted or harmful.

“Why don’t we go somewhere today?” I hear myself blurt out. I’m not even really sure what
compelled me to say this, only that by now my need to be close with you feels overwhelming and
I’m not sure how to do it in the confines of the same four walls we were just fighting in. “We
talked about it a while ago, remember? You said we should get a car.”

“Yes,” you say after a small pause. “I remember.”

“Well? How about it?” I sound faintly eager now, pitching the idea to you like some terrible
amateur salesman. “You’ve been indoors for so long; you must want some fresh air? And we could
talk, and…”

Abruptly I find myself trailing off as I realise I’m not entirely sure what else we could do. Not that
it matters I suppose; it’s not like talking wouldn’t be enough. It’s more than enough. There’s so
much to talk about that I don’t even know where to start. As I watch your features begin arranging
themselves into the same mask-like blankness as before; I can tell you like the idea of it but are
deliberately holding back from committing yourself. The awareness of this makes it tempting to try
persuading you again, only I know it won’t work so instead fall silent as well; watching and
waiting to see what you’re going to do.

“It would have to be somewhere secluded,” you say finally. “It would be extremely inconvenient to
run into Jack in the middle of the street.”

For a few moments I catch your eye. Privately, I’m still not convinced you haven’t been openly
stalking Jack (in the middle of the street), but this is the absolute last thing I want to start dredging
up again.

“Of course,” is all I say. “I know just the place.”

In actual fact I don’t, although I’m fairly confident that by the time I’ve gone out, tricked someone
into lending me a car, then managed to drive it back again that I’ll have had enough time to think
of one. I’m sure I remember Hunter saying how stunning the scenery in the Chianti region is, so
maybe that would be as good a place as any to start? Anyway, fuck it – it’s not like this is vacation
time. I’ll sit in a field if I have to.

Now that it’s obvious you’re into the idea I can feel my own enthusiasm for it building, despite it
meaning I’ll now be faced with the not-insignificant issue of having to pull a car out of my ass with
zero notice. The fact that the names on my license and passport don’t match also means a rental
company is out of the question, but after considering it for a few more seconds I decide I might as
well put on my best Tragic Face and go to Giulietta’s house to try to borrow hers instead.
Inevitably I end up over-doing the tragic part, but this has always been an ongoing weakness of
mine. If it’s someone I dislike I can cheerfully bullshit them until the proverbial cows come home,
but when it’s someone nice then my sense of guilt kicks in and I wind up feeling like the biggest
bastard going. Really it would be better if I just told her the truth, but somehow I don’t want to drag
you into it so end up spinning an unnecessarily forlorn story about a sick friend in Pienza that I
want to go and visit. In fact my forlornness gets so extreme that I start to feel faintly embarrassed
by it, imagining how pathetic it would seem if anyone else could see me. Like a charity appeal
photograph perhaps, or even an illustration for an article about socially incompetent liars (caption:
Sad bastard trying to steal a car). It’s clearly worked though, because by the time I’m done
Giulietta is thrusting the keys at me and practically begging me to take the goddamn car off her
hands, flatly refusing any money for the loan and then standing at her kitchen door to wave me off
and wish me a buon viaggio. Mission accomplished I head back to the house then brandish the
keys rather triumphantly before pushing them across the table in your direction. Secretly I’d love a
chance to drive, but I know you’d like it too – and right now providing something to make you
happy again, no matter how trivial it might be, seems to take priority over anything else.

Admittedly you don’t say very much, but I can still tell you’re pleased about this plan; mainly
because you don’t start complaining about the indignity of having to drive an ancient Renault Clio
as opposed to just settling in then thoughtfully running your hand across the wheel (although not
before pushing the seat back as far as it’ll go to account for the fact your legs are about four times
longer than Giulietta’s are). You always drive the same way you do so much else: coolly
controlled, smoothly efficient, and with a certain dash of fearlessness that might seem reckless in
anyone else but in your case feels more like confidence owing to your imperishable sense of self-
discipline. As a result, the journey passes quickly (which I partly expected) but also in a
companionable silence (which I didn’t) and as the minutes stretch past there’s nothing to stop me
resting my face against the window and watching the thickets of trees, dense and tangled like
something from a fairy tale forest, as they slowly melt away into bleached blonde fields the same
pale gold as Labrador puppies. Normally I’d lay my hand across your knee, only it doesn’t feel like
we’ve quite reached that stage of intimacy yet, so content myself with basking in the sunlight
instead while trying to avoid indulging any of my usual habits when driving in the countryside –
which include, but are not limited to, extravagant swearing at the slowness of farm vehicles, loudly
announcing “Oh look, cows” (whenever passing cows), or devising endless new ways to complain
about how narrow the roads are.

Judging from the traffic signs you’ve taken my advice about heading to the mountain region and
the landscape is almost breathtakingly beautiful. The warmth of the sun and the soothing motion of
the car also makes me doze at intervals, drifting in and out of sleep in a comfortably lazy sort of
way until I finally jolt awake and blurt out my ‘Oh look, cows’ comment before I can stop myself
(at which point you politely agree that, yes, indeed – cows) before suggesting we pull over by a
sprawling, sun-baked crop of woodland beyond one of the little Medieval-looking towns. When I
climb out the car a combination of cramped muscles and tiredness makes me stumble slightly and
you quickly catch hold of my elbow to steady me. I take hold of your hand in response, then
promptly realise how much I like it and stubbornly refuse to let go again. It means we end up
meandering across the countryside that way, but while it’s the kind of clingy, sentimental gesture
that would normally make me cringe the need to feel close to you again is so acute that I can’t
bring myself to care.

While there’s a clear, unspoken agreement to avoid anywhere with people, the scenery is
sufficiently stunning to mean my supremely uninspired plan to sit in a field turns out to be
reasonably inspiring after all. Really, the whole thing is just one luscious sensory palette: the sound
of birdsong and the scent of cypress, sunlight for the skin, and a rolling quilt of vineyards and olive
groves as a feast for the eyes. The manicured farmyard and glossy fields remind me of my last trip
to California, yet while in some ways it might be reminiscent of home there’s no doubt that the
gothic architecture in the distance is pure European. In this respect it’s also infernally hot, and after
around 20 minutes of wandering I end up lodging myself beneath a large elm tree: partly because
my back aches and I want something to rest against, but also because my skin is too pale and feeble
to tolerate the heat for long and I forgot to bring any sunscreen. You smile slightly when you see
me do then settle down next to me a few inches away.

“Under the Tuscan shade,” you say. “Most people are drawn here for the sunlight.”

“Maybe they are. The sun probably treats them better.” I reach out and give you a gentle prod.
“Like you. You’re practically tanning in front of me.”

“Am I?” you say, thoughtfully inspecting your forearm. “I have been inside for so long. I am
hardly tanned at all.”

“You are compared to me.”

“That is hardly to the purpose,” you say idly. “Dearest Will; I have seen corpses with more
vigorous complexions than you have.”

I start to smile, and you smile back in companionable silence until I find myself overcome with
another urge to close the gap and hear myself blurting out: “Come and sit next to me.”

This is the same impetuous impulse that made me grab your hand, and which inevitably seems to
happen when my feelings grow too complex and burdensome to start unpacking and simply get
channelled into action instead. For a few seconds you hesitate, and I’m gripped with a terrible
sense you’re not going to before you dip your head slightly then obediently move yourself nearer.

“So,” you announce after yet another pause. “I believe you said the purpose of this outing was to
talk to one another. And yet you have barely spoken a word since we left.”

“I know,” I say slowly. “I know I haven’t. And yes, of course I want to talk about what happened
last night. We need to talk about it.”

“But…?”

Briefly I pull my eyebrows together, trying to find the right way to describe it. “But now we’re here
and it’s…it’s just so peaceful. It’s beautiful. I’ve missed both of those things, Hannibal. It makes
me feel like I want some time to share them with you and forget about everything else. Maybe just
for an hour? And then we can talk.”

On one level this reply feels incredibly spineless (not to mention pointless, considering I’ve
achieved nothing except delay the inevitable). But it seems you understand and appreciate it
anyway, because you now give another faint smile in acknowledgement of what I’m trying to
express.

“It is, indeed, very beautiful,” is all you reply. “A charming interlude from city life. I should also
congratulate you on your choice of resting place. That lavender is so fragrant one could almost
grow drunk on it.”

“Oh dear,” I say wryly. “I hope not.”

This makes you smile again. “Yes, indeed – let us hope not. At least in your case.”

“And why in my case?”

“Because,” you reply, “you are, without a doubt, the worst drunk I have ever seen.”

I start smiling too then stretch my foot out far enough to give you a gentle prod. “Talk to me
anyway,” I add after another pause. “I want to hear your voice.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know, really. Anything.” I wave my hand around for a few seconds, trying to summon
inspiration. “Tell me about that town nearby? There must be some interesting history.”

You politely turn your head round to see where I’m gesturing. “I believe the Franciscans
established a monastery close to here,” you say. “Probably in the 15th Century. And the Romans
would have had a settlement at some point; most likely the Etruscans too. That, I’m afraid, is the
extent of my knowledge. Anymore and I would be required to do some research.”

“So research. You can get a signal out here can’t you?” I hesitate then flush slightly, suddenly
aware of how demanding I must sound. “At least…as long as you don’t mind.”
Your faint smile immediately reappears. “I don’t mind,” is all you say. “Do you want Italian or
English?”

“Hmm…try Italian. I’ll tell you when I need something translating.”

You obediently retrieve your phone from your pocket then settle against the trunk while I perch
myself next to you and gradually grow aware of feeling forlorn again (while also beset by the
image of Sad bastard sat under tree). You’re right there and yet you still seem so incredibly far
away. After an interval of silent typing you’ve begun to read what looks like an academic article,
and despite my forlornness and your rapid Italian it’s impossible to miss the excessive references to
the Conte of so-and-so and the Duca of something else – and which at least partly explains your
enthusiasm for reading it, because that sort of shit is right up your alley. In fact aren’t you some
sort of Count yourself? I’m fairly sure your father was, although it’s not totally clear if the title is
hereditary. What if it is though? And what if did get married; what would that make me? A
Countess? I smile to myself then hitch a little closer and nudge your hair a few times with my
forehead.

“You don’t seem very comfortable,” I say. “You keep shuffling.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “You do.”

“It’s the bark, I suppose. I keep catching my shirt on it.”

I now cast your shirt a grateful glance for providing such a convenient alibi (and which, like all
your clothes, seems to have been trained not to wrinkle despite the fact it’s made of brushed linen
and is rammed up against a tree). “You can lean against me instead,” I add, trying to sound
offhand. “If you want to.”

To be honest it’s not immediately clear if you do want to, so eventually I decide to solve the
problem myself by taking hold of you with both hands then winching you round until you’re
leaning on me with your back pressed against my chest. In fact this seems like the saddest of all the
sad bastard activities, because as a ploy it’s so incredibly obvious – only a few degrees removed
from giving an exaggerated yawn just to put my arm around your shoulder. The average teenager
probably has smoother moves than I do, but you’re tucked up against me so snugly that I can’t
bring myself to care.

“Carry on,” I say airily. “I think I can follow most of it.”

“Are you sure?” you reply. To be honest you still seem a bit taken aback by the winching, although
fortunately it doesn’t look like you’re inclined to move away again. “I wouldn’t have thought it
was of much interest.”

“Being here makes it more interesting. I think I can just see the church from here – the one that the
Duke of whatshisname burnt down.”

“Castuccio Castracani. I’m impressed: your Italian is growing rather good.”

“Practice makes perfect, I guess. It’s having to use it every day.”

“No doubt,” you reply. “Although I’m afraid that perfect is vastly overstating the case.” I make an
amused noise then nudge you again with my forehead. “Even so, the improvement is dramatic in
such a short space of time.”
This time I don’t bother responding and instead just pull you closer to bury my face in your hair.
You feel incredibly warm and soft lying in my arms like this; even your shoulder blades aren’t
attacking me in their usual way. Then I briefly descend into a kind of sad bastard mental frenzy
(Sad bastard snuggling with murderous boyfriend who currently hates him) before pulling myself
together and beginning to smooth your hair off your forehead like a sane adult rather than nuzzling
it like a demented toddler. It really is so peaceful here: the sun and the lavender and the soft
humming of bees. By now you’ve put your phone away and appear to be dozing a bit yourself, your
eyes tightly shut and your breath very slow and steady. Even so, I can tell you’re not asleep; not
really. Possibly you’re just brooding over our current situation, exactly the same way I am.

As if to prove the point, you abruptly snap your eyes open then lean back far enough to look at me;
the general effect is slightly unnerving, although I don’t feel like you’re doing it on purpose.
“What did you tell Jack?” you ask. “I suppose he would have been expecting you today?”

Seeing how Jack has become such a point of conflict I wasn’t sure if you’d mention him, but while
my instinct is to get defensive I quickly push it away. I’m tired of giving Jack so much power over
us; it’s like he’s become a third person in the relationship when he shouldn’t matter at all.

“I told him I was doing an interview,” I say. My tone is deliberately casual, like Jack is so dull and
irrelevant I can barely be bothered to discuss him. “It used to be media liaison, but they call it
‘public engagement’ now. Jack’s really into it.”

“Of course he is,” you say witheringly.

“Of course. The problem is that he’s determined I should be into it too.” Then I remember his
initial request to speak with RAI about you and find myself starting smile. “I told him they wanted
me to talk about my career in America,” I add. “And that I had a date with the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“You little horror,” you say idly. “You did not.”

I smile again then prop my cheek against your hair so I can slide my hands downwards to rub your
shoulders. This feels much more how it should be; the two of us lazily complaining about Jack
before losing all interest in him and focusing on ourselves instead. The unexpected success gives
me confidence, and after a several more moments of silence I feel determined to try pushing things
a little further.

“You were right you know,” I say suddenly.

“About what?”

“What you said yesterday. About Bedelia. I don’t mention her, and it is on purpose.”

Immediately your eyes crack open. You seem interested now; I knew you would be. “Oh yes?” you
say.

“Yes,” I reply firmly. “And the reason is because I resent her. I didn’t like the way she was close to
you in a way that I couldn’t be.”

As soon as I’ve said this I have an unwelcome image of the two of us bickering together like a pair
of your jealous ex-girlfriends and do my best to banish it. Even so, I can see the way you’re
looking at me and it’s clear the honesty of the confession has pleased you.

“I never felt as close to her as I did to you,” you reply after a small pause. “The connection was
qualitatively different. Not least because you made yourself so unavailable.” There’s another
pause; I can almost hear you thinking ‘and you still do’. “You were permanently in my mind Will,
yet never fully in my life. Although I suppose, in a way, that also worked in your favour.”

“What do you mean?”

You give me another long stare, your eyes slowly sliding across my face in a way that’s difficult to
interpret. “I mean that your unobtainability made you more desirable,” you say. “A lack of access
will always do that. It enhances the value of a thing, the same way jewellery preserved in cases
appears more precious than the cheaper pieces which are groped and fumbled over in trays upon
the counter.”

For a few seconds I find myself wondering how Bedelia would feel to hear herself described her as
a shitty piece of jewellery before forcing myself to focus again and bite back an urge to point out
that no aspect of your desire worked in my favour in those early years. I suppose I could – it’s not
like it wouldn’t be justified – but after last night one of my newfound resolutions is to stop being so
defensive whenever you talk about our life before the cliff. Besides, while the analogy might be
misplaced I can still understand what you mean. From your point of view your attention was
favourable. You think I was privileged to have it, along with all the pain and wreckage it entailed.

“You know, I sometimes wonder about that,” is all I say. “What would have happened if we’d
become closer earlier. I mean genuinely closer – if we’d slept together. If I’d been the one to come
to Florence with you instead, how different would things have been? Would we have ended up in
the same place?”

“It is, indeed, extremely difficult to say. All these alternative timelines…one could spend an
eternity attempting to chart them out.”

I nod with agreement, because undoubtedly it is. What should we talk about?
Teacups and time and the rules of disorder? “It doesn’t help that it’s so hard to imagine,” I add. “I
don’t think I ever could have done – and I know you wouldn’t have either.”

“An interesting choice of phrase there Will,” you say idly. “That I wouldn’t, yet you couldn’t. It
suggests I could, yet chose not to, whereas you couldn’t have entertained the idea at all. But yes,
it’s true that I never seriously considered it at the time – although that doesn’t mean I never
indulged the idea in private.”

This makes me smile again, because while you’ve certainly inferred as much it’s rare for you to
elaborate and now seems like it might be a good opportunity to get more details. “Would you tell
me,” I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I’d be interested to hear about it.”

You give another small smile of your own. “Would you? Although perhaps that’s because you are
expecting something deviant and outlandish, in which case I am afraid you are destined to be
disappointed. Wherever you were concerned my fantasies tended to be rather wholesome. I think it
would surprise you.”

“So surprise me.”

“That’s a rather difficult commission,” you say. “You know as well as I do that you are not
particularly easy to entertain.” You smile then stretch again, appearing to bask in a combination of
sunlight and attention like a huge jungle cat. “In fact, you may not only be surprised but also
offended, because I tended to cast you in a rather passive role. They would generally be framed
with you coming to me for comfort and reassurance and gradually being coaxed into wanting to
accept something more.”

You give another stretch that’s even more luxurious than the last one, and I wait until you’ve
settled yourself then run my finger along your throat. “Okay you’ve already succeeded,” I say. “I
admit, I’m surprised. Somehow that’s not what I expected.”

“No, I don’t suppose you did. But you must understand how aloof you were back then. So wary
and guarded, Will…like a little wild animal. And while I think I succeeded in making you
dependent on me, I never succeeded in hearing you admit it. It made the idea of you needing me
rather fascinating: even more so because, as I think we have just established, it could never have
actually occurred.”

The context of last night’s argument gives this disclosure an extra weight and I find myself
unexpectedly moved by it. For a few moments I fall silent, gently stroking my finger back and forth
along your cheekbone. “Tell me about the first time you thought of me that way,” I say finally.
“What did you imagine happening?”

I’m genuinely not sure if you’re going to, but to my surprise you just stretch out a bit further until
your full weight’s resting against me then neatly steeple your fingers together, the way you often
do when you’re retrieving a memory of something.

“I think it was when I imagined you coming to my house,” you reply after a pause. “You were in a
state of some distress, although of course were extremely unwilling to show it. See how I took my
inspiration from real-life cues? You were always so protective of yourself in those days, despite
having no idea of your true value.”

“What was I wearing?”

As soon as I ask this your eyes snap shut, presumably to give you time to rifle through your mental
wardrobe. “Those rather dismal jeans you were always so fond of,” you say when you open them
again. “The ones with the frayed hem. And an olive-green Henley shirt.”

“A what? I don’t…”

“It’s a pullover shirt,” you say briskly. “They have a placket of no more than five inches and a
round neckline without a collar, often with three buttons – although I believe yours had four…”

I laugh then give you another nudge with my forehead. “Okay, enough. I get the idea. And I don’t
remember owning anything like that.”

“Don’t you?” A touch of your typical smugness briefly returns to your voice and I can’t help
finding its reappearance rather comforting. “Well, I assure you that I remember it very well. Of
course, I always had a certain ambivalence over your clothes. On one hand I despised them for their
insistent ugliness, yet at the same time was forced to acknowledge there was something faintly
endearing about their simplicity.”

“Nice. Thanks.”

You immediately start to smirk, and the sight of it is so much like your usual self that I quickly
find myself wondering what else I can say to make you do it again. “Well, in that regard they had
an unfair advantage over me,” you reply, “because the body they happened to be covering was
yours. That particular shirt, for example. The fabric was so delicate it was as if it was caressing
you. Sometimes you’d leave the top few buttons unfastened and there would be an occasional
glimpse of your collarbone. Naturally it was the type of thing I would never wear myself, but on
you it always looked rather pleasing.”

“And did it look more pleasing lying on your bedroom floor?”

“Not at all,” you say drily. “It was a truly wretched item – its proximity to you was the only charm
it managed to possess.”

I start to laugh then briefly bury my face in your hair again. “What happened after that?”

“How curious you sound. You genuinely want to know, don’t you? But yes, they would generally
begin with you appearing to seek comfort of some kind. That part, at least, was relatively easy to
imagine.” You open your eyes again and give me a slightly sardonic look. “Such a little waif,
Will.”

I repeat the nudging motion with my forehead. “Yeah, well, I was stressed out a lot of the time.
Mostly because of you.”

“Then on purely aesthetic grounds I am to be congratulated, because you wore your distress
extremely well.” You sigh slightly then let your head fall a little further back against my shoulder.
“Such exquisite unhappiness…how beautiful you were when you were sad. Perhaps this reflects
poorly on me, but there’s little doubt that your physical allure enhanced your appeal quite
considerably. I am an admirer and connoisseur of beauty in all its forms, and it’s hard to deny that
had you been less wide-eyed and willowy then you could not have been fascinating in quite the
same way.”

“Okay then,” I say, holding up my fingers like I’m checking items off a list. “So, I’ve appeared at
your house without an invitation, looking sad but sultry, and wearing a shirt you don’t entirely
hate?”

You give a small smile of your own. “Correct.”

“And what happened next?”

For a few moments you fall silent again, frowning slightly as if you’re attempting to construct it as
accurately as possible. “Well,” you say finally, “in this fantasy of mine, our contact began with me
extending my attempts at comfort into putting my arms around you. I would have enjoyed that in
and of itself, of course, because your response to being touched was always rather delectable. Even
something as simple as a hand on the shoulder: how you’d quiver slightly then go still, the way
your breath would hitch…the faint dilation of your pupils. I’ve always been intrigued with how the
physical signs of desire and fear can be so similar.”

I repeat the gentle nudging motion with my forehead. “I know you have.”

“And for good reason,” you say calmly. “Two comparable responses, yet for such entirely contrary
states. Likewise, it was rather frustrating that in your case I could never identify the precise cause
with any degree of certainty. Normally I have something of a talent for intuiting people’s reactions,
yet you were incredibly skilled at dissembling and difficult to read in the same way.”

“It wasn’t just you,” I say. “I’m not sure I really knew myself.”

You nod with agreement and for a few moments I find my own eyes briefly falling closed as I try
to remember the way it felt. In this respect the ease with which you could have imagined us having
sex never stops surprising me when I hear it, because it’s such a contrast to my own state of
anxious ambivalence that I always seemed to have about you back then. Not, if I’m honest, that my
ambitions ever extended beyond a display of consideration and kindness, at least not in the early
days. I’d have struggled to imagine any substantial intimacy…certainly I couldn’t have imagined
us as lovers (which is a stupid word anyway: vaguely courtly sounding and antiquated, like
something people from the 18th century ought to have). A failure of imagination, I guess, even for
someone as imaginative as I’m supposed to be. But in general my main experience was that people
either wanted to fuck me or fuck me over, with very little in between. I didn’t have the resources to
envisage something as quaintly sentimental as a lover, even if I’d wanted one (which I didn’t). But
I remember thinking that a friend would have been nice. An ally, or a comrade, or whatever else it
could be called: those kinds of hearty terms with overtones of combat and camaraderie that men
are supposed to show towards one another – even aloof, introverted, unlovable men like me. Just
something to make me feel normal, I think…perhaps that more than anything else. At the most I
suppose I might have imagined what it would be like to have you wandering into my living room
with your shirtsleeves rolled up, casual and fully at home amongst my clutter, pouring out a glass
of wine for us both before standing next to me and saying It’s all right Will, everything’s going to
be fine. Even though nothing was fine in those days, and it would have been a huge spectacular
lie…yet how reassuring it would have been to hear it all the same.

Eventually I open my eyes again then give your cheekbone a rather wistful stroke. “I was very
difficult back then,” I say. “Hard to get close to. I’m surprised you had the patience to bother
fantasizing over me.”

“There was no patience required, I can assure you of that. Although if ‘difficult’ could be a
synonym for ‘distressed’ then I would be inclined to agree with you. So much inner turmoil, Will;
yet your desire to make yourself untouchable simply compelled me to want to touch you even
more.”

“Oh yes, we established that, didn’t we? Liked over-priced jewellery.”

You smile again; you seem far more content than you’ve been in weeks and it’s making me feel so
relieved to see it. “Indeed,” you reply. “You were the Hope Diamond with added dog hair.”

“Oh wow, what an amazing compliment. I’m too emotional to speak.”

Your faint smile immediately starts to broaden. “You’re welcome,” you say. “But yes, I remember
I imagined what it would be like to hold you in my arms then pull you close; the way I would have
caressed your face and hair until you finally grew responsive enough to let me kiss you. Although
even my mental version of you was rebellious – it required endless forbearance to win over. I had
to concentrate on smoothing my palms across your back and shoulders, only gradually allowing my
caresses to become a little more suggestive and a little less pure…migrating lower and lower with
each stroke until you’d begun to quiver and rock your hips against mine.”

I sigh slightly then begin to slide my own hand down your chest, pressing my lips against your
temple as the other hand dips beneath the collar of your shirt. “Then what?” I ask.

You arch appreciatively beneath my touch, briefly letting your eyes fall close. “I imagined that I
would have continued kissing you,” you say. Your voice has dropped even lower now; a sort of
soft, husky rumble deep on your throat. “Then I would have taken hold of your hand so I could
press it against my groin. A rather crude gesture, admittedly, but it would have been more for your
sake then for mine…”

“Oh yes,” I say wryly. “Of course it would.”

You start to smile again before catching your breath as my hand reaches low enough to start
unfastening your belt. “You should be more charitable in your assumptions,” you finally manage to
add. “I would have had your needs in mind, because it would have allowed you to see for yourself
how aroused I was – a confirmation that I thought you were beautiful and desirable and that my
attention towards you was sincere. More to the point, showing you I had lost my composure would
have given you tacit permission to lose your own.”
Your belt’s being rather stubborn but after a painful contortion of my wrist I’m eventually able to
get it open. I pause for a few seconds, stroking the tip of my finger beneath the waistline until I can
rub little feathery circles against your hipbone. “Okay then,” I say. “How did you think I’d have
responded?”

You pause yourself, subtly shifting your thighs to give me better access. “I imagined us ending up
tangled together on my sofa,” you say. You sound a bit breathy; I smile to myself then dip my hand
even lower. “I remained somewhat bound by realism, because I knew I would never have
persuaded you into my bed – at least not immediately. It would have been too intimate for you, and
therefore too threatening. You see how invested in it I must have been? It may have been a fantasy,
but I still crafted it to be as plausible as possible.”

“I guess you were right, weren’t you?” I’ve managed to get your zipper undone now. Oh fuck,
you’re so hard…I wasn’t totally confident you would be. “That’s what happened in real-life.”

“Yes, indeed.” You let out another sigh, arching against me as your head tips further back across
my shoulder. “In front of the fireplace in that terrible little hovel of yours.”

I hum with agreement, massaging your cock with long, languid strokes until I feel you quiver in my
arms and a thick bead of pre-come appears at the slit. I moan slightly at the sight of it then press a
kiss to your forehead before letting go of you so I can hold my hand up in front of your face. “Spit,”
I say.

This is so vulgar I’m not actually sure you will, plus you’re leaking so much by now it’s probably
not even necessary. But in the end you obey without complaint then lean back against me, your
legs spreading gracefully a little further apart.

“What a dissolute boy you are,” you finally say. “And I thought I was the one with no boundaries.
What if someone should walk past?”

“They won’t,” I reply. “There’s no one around for miles.” I’ve deliberately slowed my hand down
now, enough for the touch to be pleasurable but not so stimulating that it’ll prevent you from
talking. “Anyway, we haven’t finished yet. I want you to tell me the rest of what you imagined.”

“You are far too invested in this. It is not so fascinating as you seem to think it is.”

“And how would you know what I find fascinating? You said yourself that your empathy sucks.”

This makes you laugh slightly, only for it to turn into another gasp halfway through. “Well…” you
say. “You must understand that I found the thought of making love to you extremely appealing.
Nevertheless, seeing you surrender to me was what I really wanted, which meant it was the
moment of hearing you say ‘yes’ that had the greatest appeal of all. Therefore, believe it or not, the
main share of my attention was devoted to the first part of my fantasy – the set-up rather than the
conclusion.”

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I believe it.” Slowly I smear the pre-come around the head of your cock
with my thumb then snugly wrap my palm around the length. “Just tell me whatever else you want
to.”

As your breath speeds up I kiss you again then let my other hand burrow deeper inside your shirt,
using my fingertips to stroke and tease whichever bits of skin I can reach. I love having you in my
arms like this. We always seem to fit so well: your spine curved against my chest as my legs curl
around yours.
“Mostly I remember imagining wanting to take care of you,” you finally manage to say. “It was a
similar conflict I often faced in our actual lives. A sense of ownership but also obligation: that
somehow you had become my possession to guide and influence, yet also my responsibility to
cultivate, protect and take care of. Just…mine.”

“Yes,” I say in the same soft voice. Gently I rub your lower lip with my thumb, only barely
supressing a moan when you dart your tongue out to give the pad a delicate little lick. “Yours.”

“I would have taken my time with you,” you add. “I would have endeavoured to make my touch as
comfortable and pleasurable as possible. I admit, of course, that this was not purely from altruism.
It was essential you enjoyed it, otherwise you would have had no desire to repeat the experience.”

The fact even your fantasies had such an obvious dash of self-interest makes me smile again. “You
did that anyway,” is all I say. “For real, I mean: when it really did happen. That first time was…it
was incredible.”

“It was perfect.” You arch your back even further then stretch your legs out until they’re more
firmly entangled with mine. “One of the most profound experiences of my entire life. You looked
so beautiful lying beneath me, Will. I’ll never forget how trusting you were.”

“Was I the same in this fantasy of yours? How did I behave.”

“You were very wary,” you say. “But also very passionate. Aloof, stunning, and giving absolutely
nothing away.” You gasp again then briefly open your eyes long enough to give me a rather wry
look. “Of course, I’d have had to do something about that abominable aftershave first, wouldn’t I?
Lifted you into my arms, perhaps, then ignored the wild struggling and held you under the
showerhead until it had all been washed away.”

I lean down to give your earlobe a gentle nip with my teeth. “Yeah right,” I say. “I’d love to have
seen you try.”

“Mmm, yes, I agree – even for a fantasy that is a step too far. Besides, while it would have been
very enjoyable to watch you hissing with outrage I don’t think I could have tolerated the extreme
sulking that would have followed.”

“Yeah, that would be a passion killer for sure.” I lean forward then give you another playful little
nip with my teeth. “Although I suppose you kill everything else, so you might as well kill passion
too.”

You arch your hips then repeat the same laugh-gasp from earlier. “What a rude little monster you
are. Just for that I might decide to keep the remainder of my fantasy to myself. I’m not sure you
deserve to have your curiosity satisfied.”

“Maybe.” I speed my hand up a little, running my tongue along your ear then down your jaw.
“Although there’s a lot of things I don’t deserve. You still give them to me anyway.”

You make an amused sound, your breath catching even harder as my hand gives a determined
twist. As it happens you’re right, and my curiosity isn’t even close to being satisfied, but I’ve
already resolved not to push you anymore. It’s clear you don’t really want to tell me, and given
everything that’s happened I can’t say I even blame you. It’s likely that revealing this private
memory is making you feel too exposed – no doubt because the way I denied you in the past has
too many parallels with the way you believe I’m withholding myself in the present. So in the end I
just fall silent too as I curl my palm round the head of your cock; slicking you up with your own
pre-come, then savouring the smooth wet slide of it as your breath hitches into a shallow gasp.
Your skin, bathed in sunlight, is so warm against mine and there’s a faint glisten of sweat along
one slim collarbone. The look and feel of you…everything’s so perfect.

“That’s it,” I whisper against your ear. “Just breathe. Take as long as you need.”

I can feel the rustle of your hair against me – the shifting muscles of your shoulders – and I softly
repeat your name then nuzzle your face with my forehead, encouraging you on by murmuring how
much I love you; how beautiful you look when you’re like this. As usual we’ve managed to find a
natural rhythm without even trying, completely attuned in sex as we are with so much else. It
means your hips thrust gracefully upwards as my hand rocks firmly down, working you over with
harder strokes until you’re giving a low gasp then biting your lip as you finally come all over my
hand. I cover your jaw in kisses when it happens then wrap my other arm around your chest to hold
you through it, my cheek still firmly pressed against yours. My only regret is that I can’t see your
face anymore because I Iove watching your expression when you come. But it still looks and feels
incredibly sensuous, and when it’s over I lick my hand clean with obvious relish to show you how
much I enjoyed it too; swirling my tongue across each finger, then letting out a soft little moan so
that you know how good it feels to taste you.

Afterwards you seem very sated and sleepy, so I pull you closer then let our heads rest together.
You’re perfect, I think, in silent adoration. You’re everything. Being this tranquil really suits you. It
reminds me a little of a documentary I saw once about savanna lions; how the males in the pride
would sometimes bask in the sun, briefly forgetting to be fearsome in favour of feeling playful and
peaceful. You’re like that now – it’s as if you’ve retracted your claws. Gently I trail my own hand
down your arm then lace our fingers together and hold on tight. The sunlight is so pure and bright
that I can see the dust motes lightly dancing in front of us.

“For what it’s worth, I apologise on behalf of my fantasy self,” I eventually say. “I sound like an
insufferable little shit.”

You huff out a laugh, briefly increasing the pressure of your face against mine. “Not terminology I
would choose myself.”

“Someday I’ll re-enact it for you. I’ll find a green pullover…sorry, a Henley shirt…”

“A Henley shirt, indeed. Four buttons.”

“Four buttons. Five-inch placket. Jeans that look terminally ill. Noxious aftershave…”

“No, not the noxious aftershave. Life should not always imitate art.”

“…and then I’ll walk in looking miserable and be rude to you for five minutes straight until you
seduce me over the sofa.”

“You are always rude to me,” you say leisurely. “And for far longer than five minutes straight.
Even so, I’m pleased that the misery would have to be at least somewhat counterfeit.”

“Are you sure you’re pleased about that? What happened to my aesthetic sadness?”

“It was, and remains, extremely appealing. Nevertheless, I much prefer to see you happy.”

“Of course I’m happy,” I say in a more serious voice. “I’ve got you.”

This time you don’t reply and in the resulting silence I thread my fingers through your hair while
rhythmically rubbing my cheek against yours. “Thank you for telling me all that,” I say finally. “I
know you wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t asked. I appreciate you being so open. I feel like…like it
let me see you. A different side of you, you know? From back then.”

“Yes,” you say simply. “A different side. Indeed.”

“It was the same last night,” I reply. “I felt the same thing.” You glance up immediately and for a
few moments I find myself falling silent again, struggling to find the right way to express it. “I
work so hard to hide my vulnerability from you,” I add eventually. “I know you already know that,
but I don’t think I’ve ever really admitted it until now. Everything you did to me, Hannibal…it
broke me several times over.” I pause then swallow audibly. “Sometimes it felt like the only way
we could ever be together was for me to deny the impact of it. It was as if acknowledging the
damage – really acknowledging it – would make it more real. It would mean it had fundamentally
changed who I am. And then it would mean that you’d won.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “You put so much energy into resisting me. Yet it is not a matter of
winning or losing, because we are no longer on opposing sides.”

I give a small shrug, despite the fact you can’t see it, then briefly fall silent again as I try to
remember your advice about vulnerability in the final few days before Jack arrived and everything
started to spiral. Strength without vulnerability stifles development, you’d said. It destroys
progress. If we remain within the boundary of our perceived strengths then how do we ever
venture beyond them and experience new possibility? Accept and embrace your vulnerabilities
Will, and you can learn from them. After that you can transcend them. And after that you can learn
to know yourself, profoundly and truthfully – and then appreciate yourself for yourself, exactly the
way that you are. I understood what you were saying of course, but as with so many of your lessons
I wasn’t prepared to apply it. It seemed to require the kind of emotional daring I’m not sure I really
possess.

“A while ago you told me that vulnerability made me strong.” I pause automatically, expecting you
to reply, only this time you don’t; I think you want to, but are too curious to see what else I’ll say
on my own. As a show of self-restraint this is unusual and indicates just how intently you’re
paying attention. And while I know whatever I manage won’t to be enough to fully heal this recent
rift, I also know that I at least have to try.

“I don’t think I fully grasped it,” I add. “I mean, I thought I did, but it was more abstract than real.
Then last night, when you let me see you that way…the courage it took. That was when I really
felt it. You were showing me that I have the power to hurt you and you were trusting me not to,
even though you knew I could. But the thing is Hannibal, that’s the same reason it’s so hard to let
you control my decisions. It’s why I sometimes resent and resist you as much as I do. I feel like if I
become fully exposed then I’ll have nothing left for myself and I’d no longer be a mystery to you –
by which point you’d know me so well that you’d know exactly the best way to devastate me.”

Your mouth immediately opens at this and I gently press my fingers over it in a request for silence.
“It’s okay,” I add. “Like I said, it’s something I feel more than something I actually believe.
There’re no easy solutions for what’s happened between us – I may feel that way for a very long
time. But then, later on, it also made me think something else. It made me think about the way
you’ve shown me that I was only truly whole because of the way that I’m broken. How love and
acceptance could elevate all my flaws.” I hesitate then when I speak again I can feel my voice
shaking slightly. “And I love you. I do. So when someone finally feels love then they’re no longer
afraid, because love is courage. And genuine vulnerability is an act of love.”

By now I’m really clinging onto you, my cheek pressed against your hair as your hand gently
strokes against mine. “What you told me yesterday,” I add. “‘I’ve still made you my prerogative
whereas I am destined to only ever be your alternative.’ That was wrong, you know. You were
wrong…you’ll never know how wrong you are. Because you’re not my alternative, Hannibal.
You’re my whole world. You’re everything to me.”

I hear you catch your breath then; a soft, low rustle as if all your words have literally been stolen
away. “Beloved,” you finally say, and your voice sounds almost as unsteady as mine does.

“I’m still not sure what’s going to happen to us,” I whisper, briefly burying my face in your hair. “I
don’t know how to un-do the pain of the last few years. I wish I did, but I don’t.” Then I take a
deep breath of my own because the next part is possibly the most difficult of all. Even so, the truth
is the only thing that’s going to get us through this. I can’t hold back now. My vulnerability is my
greatest strength.

“I’m not over it, Hannibal,” I add quietly. “Do you understand? Everything you did to me. The fear
and the anger and the loss…it’s still so real. I mean, I’m not saying I want therapy; I’m definitely
not saying that. I’d never want therapy from someone I’m sleeping with. But some time I do want
to start talking with you about it. Because I need…I need some help.”

There’s another slight pause before you gently disentangle yourself and move upright so you can
cup my face between both your hands. For a few moments you just stare at me then lean forward
until you can press your lips against my forehead. “Of course, my love,” you say, just as quiet as
me. “Whatever you want. For as long as you want it.”

“Only it’s not enough for you to just listen,” I add with a hint of firmness. “You really need to hear
it. Most times it seems all you ever want to acknowledge is the outcome of what you did, not the
actual process. I’m not asking you to spend the rest of our lives apologising – I’m not even
necessarily asking you to agree with me. But right now I feel like I’m fighting myself, I’m fighting
you, I’m fighting the past…and I can’t leave it behind. I can’t move past it and I can’t be more
peaceful – not until I’m honest with both of us about what the last few years have done to me.”

You’ve got your arms around me by now; I can feel the tender way your fingers are threading
through my hair. “Mano meilė,” you reply. “I understand.”

“And like I said, this isn’t one-way. I need you to be honest with me too. If there’re things I’ve
done that you’re hurt or angry about then you should feel free to say so.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll probably cry,” I say. I laugh slightly then briefly bury my face in your shoulder. “My nose will
run. It’ll be awful.”

For a few moments I feel your mouth pressing against my hair. “Then I shall cry as well to keep
you company.”

I let out another laugh, even though it goes a bit wrong halfway through and turns into a sort of
gasp. “Well in that case I guess we’ve got a deal.”

“A deal. Indeed.” You slowly run your fingers through my hair again then make a low sigh of your
own. “What an impressive creature you are, Will Graham. You have managed to subvert every
expectation I have about myself and yet I can’t resent you for it – or even begrudge you your
success.”

“Same. Although I guess that’s part of the problem isn’t it? I haven’t mastered the last part quite as
well as you.”

“Perhaps,” you say simply. “Although I suppose you feel you have more to resent.” For a few more
 seconds you just stare at me then reach into your pocket for the car keys so you can press them
into my hand. “It’s getting late, beloved. Let’s go home.”

At the sight of the keys I feel myself starting to smile. “Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome. It was very considerate of you to give them to me first.”

You press another kiss against my cheekbone, but as you’re getting ready to stand I dart out a hand
to catch hold of yours. You wait patiently and I draw a rather shaky breath then lean further
forward until I can rest our foreheads together.

“There’s one more thing,” I say. “Just one more and we can leave. But I need you to know that the
other point you made last night was true. You said you want more of me than I’m able to give you,
and you were right. You do want too much of me; you’ve always wanted too much. But the other
thing you need to know is that it doesn’t matter.” There’s another, longer pause and I finally raise
our entwined hand to my face so I can kiss the back of yours. “It’s never mattered, Hannibal.
Because even if you can’t have all of me, you’ll still get more than anyone else. Whatever I decide
to give away, I’ll give to you. Because I always did, didn’t I? And I always will.”

Chapter End Notes

Don’t worry my lovelies – I’m not intending to turn the fic into a meta about the show,
so unless it’s directly relevant to the plot these ‘therapy’ conversations will be taking
place offscreen (offpage?). However, I’d be open to posting one-shots/missing scenes
as separate mini-fics in the future, so if there’re particular canon events you’d like to
see these versions of the characters discussing then please feel free put in a request.

Speaking of which, now I’ve got us past the first batch of cliff-hangers this is just to
let you know that I’m taking a (hopefully very short) break from updating. I’m so
sorry to keep complaining about this, especially when so many of you have been
*unbelievably* kind and supportive, but being yelled at week after week about how
much I suck is really starting to wear me down. I dunno guys, I’ve just run out of stuff
to say about this. It’s the third Hannigram fic in a row where I’ve had to moderate
abusive comments and tbh it just makes me feel kind of sad :-( However, on the plus
side, a friend of mine will hopefully be available very soon to scrub my inbox for me
(i.e., the digital equivalent of eating The Rudes) and I’m optimistic that this’ll get me
feeling more motivated again ASAP.

TL;DR = 1) short hiatus; 2) eat The Rudes; 3) HANNIGRAM FIESTA, BABY.

Lots of love to everyone (except The Rudes…although you get some honorary love
for being Fannibals, because Fannibals rock) and hope to see you very soon xox

EDIT **These kinds of ANs can inadvertently alarm people, so I also want to reassure
any aspiring fic writers that my experience in the fandom is NOT typical (and in fact
this kind of targeted harassment didn’t happen on my 1st or 3rd fic either). So please
don’t ever feel discouraged from posting your own work! Despite a vocal minority, I
firmly believe that there are FAR more lovely, encouraging Fannibals on the site than
there are negative, trollish ones – and which, when you consider how dark the source
material is, is actually kind of adorable :-D **
 Chapter 28
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Admittedly my hopes for any improvement were modest at best. Even so, and despite the
pessimism, it only takes a few hours to realise that the trip to the countryside might just have
achieved the impossible by guiding us towards something close to a truce. In this respect truce
seems to be the most suitable word. After all, total peace hasn’t yet been made yet and to claim
otherwise would be ignoring all the hard work that’s still required to fix things. Yet it doesn’t really
matter, and somehow the thought of this doesn’t discourage me. In fact, if anything it’s the
opposite because dwelling on the work ahead provides a sense of hope. I relish it: I want to work
hard. More to the point, it no longer feels like I’m only having to work for myself as opposed to
working for you (for us) and that makes me far more willing to fling my metaphorical weapons
away with a newfound belief that they’re no longer needed. What’s also clear is how keen you are
to do the same, although despite last night’s outburst I don’t find this surprising. By now I think
we’re both genuinely afraid of what could happen if there was another serious argument, and one of
the few things we’ve always been able to agree on is that we don’t want to risk a situation that
could result in one of us walking out on the other. But that moment hasn’t happened yet and (with
the right amount of discussion and honesty) will hopefully never happen at all. And so, in the
meantime – we stick to our truce.

As part of this ceasefire I call up Jack to tell him I won’t be in for the next few days, so in return
you agree to stay indoors for a while and keep yourself out of trouble (admittedly this last part is
implied rather than stated, although I like to think that even your capacity for mayhem is limited
when confined within the same four walls). Of course the end result of all this compromise is that
we essentially end up housebound: you because you’re trying to keep me happy, and me because I
seem to be a mental teenager and am concerned about getting spotted while faking being sick from
school. At first there seems a risk that such close contact could grow stifling – and a part of me
worries it’ll provoke another argument – but after a few days have passed it’s clear that it’s the best
thing that could have happened, simply because it reminds us how much we like spending time
together when we’re not fighting. Besides, it’s almost impossible to be bored around you so even a
figurative form of house arrest ends up being entertaining when you’re the one who’s going to be
my cell mate. It even makes me realise how much I’ll miss the house itself when the day comes
that we inevitably need to leave it. In some ways this is a paradox, because it’s not like I ever
imagined it as our permanent base. It’s not like I’m even that fond of it, especially given the
disaster its rental ultimately led to. But it’s also been our first proper home – the place where we
planted roots, shared a space, and discovered that it was possible to live together – and for that
reason alone the idea of leaving it behind is touched with a distinct twinge of sadness.

Being together so much also brings the obvious implication that now might be as good a time as
any to finally start opening up to you about revisiting the past. For once my commitment to do this
feels stronger than my desire to avoid it, although despite my insistence it wouldn’t be therapy it
still nudges perilously close to it at times. Usually when we speak it’s in a comfortable, casual way
sort of way – propped against the kitchen counter or sprawled across the sofa with my feet on your
lap – yet from the start this has been far more formal and involves two separate chairs placed a
certain distance apart. It even lasts for the classic Therapeutic Hour and takes place upstairs in my
attic room after I realised I wanted a space detached from our everyday lives that I could physically
walk away from afterwards and leave any emotions behind. In this respect even knowing how to
structure it proved difficult, because in our case something so simple as starting at the beginning
didn’t seem like an option. I suppose that’s not surprising, though: our lives have been such a
tangled, torturous skein that normal concepts like ‘beginning’ and ‘end’ hardly seem to apply.
‘Start with whatever feels easiest,’ you suggested, and so ultimately that’s what I did. In turn
easiest also translated to safest, which means I’ve been edging myself into it by focussing on the
memories that carry the least amount of anger. So far I’ve mostly been telling you about my sense
of loss and loneliness in the times I’ve been without you; partly because it’s less threatening, but
also because it feels like establishing a foundation of loving and needing you was the best sort of
scaffold on which to hang the far more negative events that will inevitably come later. You listen
with great attentiveness whenever I’m talking, rarely interrupting and only then to ask the type of
precise, probing questions which help to elaborate my narrative without ever disrupting it. I know
you understand that I’m pacing myself, although never show any signs of pushing me into
disclosing more than I’m comfortable with.

“It’ll get harder,” I tell you afterwards when we’re back downstairs again. You’re in the middle of
preparing dinner and I’m leaning against the table with a glass of wine that’s already half empty.
This is unusual for me; typically I drink slowly to savour the taste (another habit picked up from
you) and the fact I’ve drained it in a matter of minutes is a sign the strain has got to me more than I
realised. “Eventually I’m going to get sad,” I add ominously. “And then I’m going to get angry.”

As I’m speaking you neatly lay two strips of fish across the skillet; in the lamplight it’s as pale and
pearlescent as slabs of wax and I watch, oddly fascinated, at the way the plump white skin
immediately starts to smoulder. “I know,” you finally reply. “In fact, I’m depending on it. The
main purpose of this is to process emotion and to do so you’ll need to express it. I suspect it will be
painful – for both of us – but it’s also necessary.” There’s a slight pause as you drizzle some butter
into the pan and in the resulting hiss I steam I could swear I see a flicker of sadness on your face. “I
should have taken better care of you by suggesting it sooner.”

It’s extremely rare for you to express any kind of regret or remorse and at the sight of it I can feel
my expression softening slightly. “You couldn’t have suggested it,” I say. “There wouldn’t have
been any point. I had to decide it for myself.”

I sound slightly more confident than I feel, but despite knowing just how hard things might end up
getting, my sense of commitment still doesn’t waver. The truth is my touchstone now, just as it is
for you, because if the last few weeks have proven anything it’s that we don’t have a future without
it. Revelation, strength, suffering…they’re the pillars of our relationship and have already helped
me navigate so much. It can’t have all been for nothing, though. Something still has to grow out of
that wreckage; and that something has to be Us.

*****

Exhuming the past is valuable – more than that, it’s essential – but after shouldering several days’
worth of it I start to realise how much I’d like to expand our hibernation period to include some
more conventional types of closeness. Admittedly ‘conventional’ isn’t a word that sits well with
either of us (and which probably means the plan is doomed from the start) but the more I think
about it, the more convinced I am that I should find a few traditional couple-type activities for us
to do together. Inevitably this means I end up swinging from one extreme to the other, with my
initial focus on the intense and abnormal now shifting towards obsessing over the simple and
mundane instead; partly to fill the time, but also because I like the idea of us bonding over
something that isn’t illegal. Unfortunately this is also easier said than done, seeing how our idea of
enjoyable past-times is not only radically different (even when limited to the legal ones) but
because I’m utterly terrible at this kind of stuff. I’ve always been terrible at it, including in more
typical relationships. But I do my best to think of something anyway, and after auditioning and
rejecting several possibilities finally settle on arranging a movie night. Admittedly this isn’t
particularly creative, but it’s also quick and simple to plan and I like the idea of curling up on the
sofa together, safe and snug in the dark. I’m so into the idea I even go to the trouble of making
some stove-top popcorn – only to have to banish you straight afterwards when you materialise in
the kitchen without any warning to attempt to gourmet it up.

“So much butter?” you say with a little shiver of disdain. “What about paprika instead? Or lemon
pepper?” I give the kernels a determined shake then turn round to frown at you over the top of my
glasses. “Cumin, then?” you say hopefully. “Or what about cilantro?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Now you sound a bit desperate. “Cilantro and lemon zest could be very palatable.”

“No,” I say in a firm voice. “Absolutely not. We’re having it the American way. Which means
salt, additives, calories, and corn syrup.”

This makes you sigh to yourself then glance at the popcorn rather piteously before turning back to
me again. Have you no decency? your expression says. You can’t possibly expect me to eat this
crap. But I manage to ignore you and you still end up eating it anyway, delicately licking the butter
from your fingertips in a way that manages to be far more sensuous than it has any logical right to
be.

Deciding what to watch, on the other hand, presents an even bigger challenge than the popcorn
because I know you’re generally not very interested in cinema and will almost certainly get bored
with anything too mainstream. After puzzling over this for a while I finally decide to opt for the
very early classics – German Expressionism from the 20s and 30s, French New Wave, and Italian
neorealism – and you like it enough that it eventually turns into a sort of custom where night after
night we’ll switch off the lights then retreat to the sofa, my head tucked against your shoulder or
settled on your lap until the next film starts and you’ll stretch yourself out along the cushions with
your long legs resting comfortably across my knee. Naturally you also get your way about the
popcorn, and soon my buttery gunk is discreetly replaced with a recipe of your own that includes
rosemary, garlic and parmesan and is unexpectedly delicious.

Unfortunately, all this lounging around seems to remind you of a different kind of posing, because
it’s not long afterwards that you start renewing your attempts to let you draw me naked. Even for
the sake of the truce I can’t quite bring myself to go that far, but you look so disappointed that I
immediately find myself feeling guilty (despite being well aware that you’re doing it on purpose
and have simply pulled on a vintage edition of your Sad Bullshit Face that was probably practiced
in the mirror beforehand). But I still fall for it anyway, so end up blurting out my previous offer to
film ourselves having sex as a sort of compromise – only to regret it as soon as the words have left
my mouth, because in addition to being cringey as fuck it was a bad idea then, and it’s a bad idea
now, and there doesn’t seem any possible way where it won’t have a potential to spectacularly
backfire.

“Truly?” you ask as I stand there coming to terms with the fact that yes, I just said that out loud and
yes, you definitely heard me. “I remember you mentioning it, of course, but I wasn’t sure if you
were fully serious.”

“Well…” I reply, then trail off into awkward silence while you just wait around patiently looking
like the cat that got the canary (every canary…all the canaries). “I mean, I guess we could. Maybe.
If you really wanted to.”

As soon as I say that your eyes start to gleam; after which you don’t mention at all for a full two
days until I’m walking out the kitchen one evening and you abruptly catch hold of my hand to
make me follow you into the bedroom. I’ve already got a good idea of what to expect, and sure
enough there it is: an extremely expensive-looking camcorder set up on a tripod and angled straight
towards the bed. Even to my inexperienced eye it’s clear it must have cost upwards of $1,000 and I
now proceed to lecture you about this in an attempt to hide my swelling sense of awkwardness (and
which you respond to in the same way you do to almost all of my lectures; namely to sit there with
a very faint smile on your face that clearly translates as I have precisely zero fucks to give about
this). I do my best to ignore you though, because someone needs to be the voice of reason and point
out that we’re making a home-made porn film, not Apocalypse Now, and why are we spending
nearly a grand on a camera when I could have got a second-hand one on eBay for less than 50
bucks? This makes you smile again then stretch back against the headboard and gaze upwards
(look at all the fucks I still do not give – they are literally falling from the ceiling ) before holding
out your hand in a silent request for me to come and join you on the bed.

“Have you finished?” you ask as I sit down.

I huff a bit and irritably fold then re-fold my arms (after which it occurs to me, a bit too late, that
I’ve seen Jack perform a similar gesture so have to immediately vow not to it anymore). “No,
actually,” I say. “No, I have not.”

“Well, in that case feel free to continue,” you say airily (go to the window and observe the barren
field from where my crop of fucks has been fully harvested). “I must confess, I enjoy being scolded
by you very much. Not only are you extremely attractive when you are being self-righteous, but
your eloquence is helping to stoke my sense of anticipation.”

I promptly forget my vow to Not Be Jack and fold my arms even more officiously than the last
time. “Your anticipation for…?”

As I watch you give the most godawful smirk then settle yourself more comfortably against the
pillows. “For when I have you lying underneath me, of course,” you say. “And I have obliterated
your ability to form coherent sentences.” The smirk is now followed by a rather malevolent little
smile as you run your eyes across my body in a way that’s so incredibly suggestive I can’t decide
whether I want to laugh or blush. “You will have been reduced to silence before very much longer,
my love – I guarantee it. I am hardly going to deny you the opportunity to speak while you still
can.”

Seeing that this is too true to even bother denying, I finally settle for giving you another stern look
(and which, like all the others, bounces off with no obvious effect). Although, to be fair, ‘reduced
to silence’ reflects a rare display of tact of your part, because we both know that ‘shrieking like a
banshee’ would have been a little more factually accurate.

“Is that so?” is all I reply. “That sounds like a bit of a win-win for you.”

“Correct,” you say smugly. “Of course, this also implies that it is a lose-lose for yourself.
Commiserations. I trust you will be gracious in defeat.”

“You’re insufferable,” I say. “Have I ever told you that?”

You smile again then stretch your arms rather luxuriously behind your head. “You have, beloved.
Many times.”

I narrow my eyes at you for a few seconds before finally admitting defeat and starting to laugh.
“This is so dumb,” I say, conveniently forgetting that it was my idea in the first place. “Those
plugs were bad enough...”

“On the contrary. The plugs were delightful.”

“…and now we have to add over-priced electronics to our bedroom kit.”

You smile and stretch a bit more then reach out to idly tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Oh
well,” you say leisurely. “I suppose we can at least console ourselves that we are conforming to
masculine stereotypes. Isn’t a fascination with technology supposed to be a defining feature?”

At the mention of stereotypes I get a sudden, random memory of the times I used to pay the rent
and find myself giving a rather manic cackle. “You know, Matteo sometimes hinted at that,” I say.
“The way he’d always insist on calling you my ‘friend’ – like he thought we were just a pair of
dude bros lolling around all day on our PlayStations. Drinking beer, catching the game…” This
reference to beer now reminds me of our last drunk conversation and I repeat the cackling sound
even more manically than before. “…Giving each other bro-jobs.”

As I watch your eyebrows begin to descend across your nose. “What?” I protest. “I didn’t actually
say it.”

“You are thinking it,” you reply. “Which is almost as bad.”

“No it’s not. How is it?”

“What a monster you are,” you say idly. “A degenerate and a fiend.”

“Mmm, someone seems triggered.”

“Indeed: and someone else seems to be prevaricating. If you have changed your mind you only
need to say so.”

“No,” I protest. “I haven’t.”

“And yet you are doing everything possible to delay it.”

“I’m not. I just…I don’t know. I guess I feel self-conscious.”

“Is that so?” You lean over to thread your fingers into my hair then give it a gentle tug. “I would
never have guessed.”

“Oh shut up,” I say amicably. “It’s all right for you – we can’t all be massive narcissists.”

“But that suggests I have planned this with self-gratification in mind,” you reply. I open my mouth
to agree and you smile slightly then press a finger across my lips to stop me. “I anticipate deriving
far greater satisfaction from observing you than myself,” you add. “And I would suggest you adopt
a similar strategy.”

I automatically roll my eyes at this, although to be fair it isn’t a bad point. The thought of watching
myself is pretty excruciating, but there’s no doubt that forgetting all that and simply focussing on
you instead makes the whole thing a lot more appealing. Even so, none of this changes how hard it
is to just flip myself into the right mood without proper preparation and despite my best efforts I
find I’m not quite able to do it. God knows how professional porn performers manage. I mean…
how do they manage? How could anyone manage?

“Try to relax,” you say; and which promptly answers my last question, because from the
enormously contented look on your face you seem to be managing pretty well (as opposed to me,
who’s now regressed to hunching on the side of bed, twitching at intervals like some sort of crack-
addled ferret). I make a rather anguished grunting sound in response and you wrap your palm
around the back of my neck, slowly caressing my jaw with your thumb while discreetly leaning
over to flick the camera on.

“You look so nervous,” you add. “I’m afraid it’s only going to encourage me. I’ve always found
your fear to be rather irresistible.”

“Oh, have you?” I say. “I hadn’t really noticed.”

This makes you smile again. “Well, you can hardly blame me,” you reply. “You were extremely
successful at turning fear into an artform. Eternally in the line of fire, Agent Graham – yet with
such exquisite grace under pressure.”

“Shut up now, Dr Lecter. You’re being creepy and weird.”

You smile even more then lean across to deliver another kiss to by cheekbone. “My beautiful boy,”
you add. “You’ll enjoy it so much. I promise.”

“Y-e-s,” I say. I don’t sound especially convinced.

Instead of replying you take hold of my face between your hands, tilting my face up to stroke your
thumbs across by cheekbones. “In fact,” you add, “you will have double the satisfaction, because
you can watch the footage afterwards and re-live the pleasure for a second time.”

I make a humming noise that’s supposed to indicate agreement, only it goes wrong halfway
through and comes out as a sort of bleating sound, not unlike a depressed sheep. I blink a few times
in confusion, privately marvelling that my vocal chords are capable of emitting such a
magnificently ludicrous noise, so you smile again before shifting behind me so you can unfasten
my shirt without obscuring the view of the camera.

“You won’t be needing this,” you say softly.

“I suppose not,” I reply. In fact, as suppositions go, another thing I suppose is that this is my cue to
accelerate into Manly Porn Star Mode; the problem being that I still can’t quite get there, and so
just end up sitting rather rigidly instead while feeling intensely self-conscious. Then I start to
fantasise how it would have served Matteo right if I’d agreed to be added to his ‘collection’,
because there are surely few worse punishments than engaging in high-risk illegal activities only to
have nothing better to show at the end of them than some truly wretched footage full of sheep
noises. Then after that, I start thinking about the footage ending up as Exhibit A in an imaginary
trial, after which my mind goes into a kind of frenzy involving terrible sex puns about hung juries,
being screwed by the attorney, and getting paid income…at which point I’m half-wondering if I
should just turn round and tell you I’ve changed my mind after all. The thought of this is
admittedly rather tempting, but even so I still don’t. In fact I’m not even close. Of course, I know
that I could – there’s no way you’d try to force me into it. But perversely the crushing sense of
wariness and exposure which are holding me back have also become my main motivators to go
ahead with it. Seeing this through would demonstrate a level of confidence and comfort with a
partner that I’ve never even come close to with anyone else; and after everything that’s happened
recently, it feels more important than ever to confirm to both of us how much I fundamentally trust
and feel safe with you.

By now you’ve clearly realised how uncomfortable I am (although, to be fair, you’d have to be
blind and deaf not to realise). Fortunately, however, this turns out to be a good thing – mainly
because of the almost supernatural ability you have at helping me get out of my head when I most
need it. As such, you don’t make any more attempts to try persuading me, and instead just stroke
my face more tenderly than ever while pressing softly insistent kisses against my shoulder blades
and the nape of my neck. To begin with it feels loving and serious, but then you start doing it in an
exaggerated way because you know it always makes me laugh. Then after that you trail your
fingers along my ribs like you’re about to tickle me; and in the end I get so preoccupied with
lecturing you for acting like a half-wit that I finally forget to be self-conscious and just scramble on
top of you instead so I can pin you hard against the bed then run my tongue along your throat until
you gasp.

You’re smiling up at me now, very relaxed and affectionate, and the intimacy makes it easier than
ever to forget the lurking presence of the camera as you wrap your arms around my back to kiss the
tension out of me. Not that this is surprising: your presence is so consuming it sometimes feels like
standing in the centre of a thunderstorm – so wild and elemental there’s nothing to do but focus on
it. Even I’ve got my limits though, because this strategy quickly starts to fail when I’m finally on
my knees with your cock in my mouth and you suddenly lift the fucking thing off the tripod so you
can point it straight at my face. My self-consciousness promptly comes crashing back full-force as
soon as I realise, but your free hand is stroking my cheek in such a gentle enticing way that I
recover faster than expected and end up carrying on like a goddamn trooper; gazing upwards rather
wantonly as I hollow my cheeks out then lavishing the head with a series of small, kittenish licks
until I feel the muscles in your abdomen pull hard and tight and I’m rewarded with a rush of pre-
come. Your fingers are still flickering around my face – tucking loose strands of hair behind my
ear, stroking my cheek and jaw – although it’s clear you don’t intend on coming too soon, because
when I pump your entire length into my mouth you make a raw, throaty sound then tap me gently
on the bridge of my nose before catching hold of my chin to make me stop.

I pull away rather reluctantly then lean back on my heels, darting out my tongue to lick away the
saliva and pre-come. I’m already feeling awkward. The pause, while short, is still enough to break
the mood and my self-consciousness has taken full advantage of it to sneak its way back in again.
Fortunately you notice straight away though, because you now quickly return the camera to its
stand then tug me forwards to catch my lower lip between your teeth as a prelude for a long messy
kiss. The distraction is helpful and I moan softly into your mouth – quickly followed by another,
far louder one, as I find myself getting pushed onto the mattress with my legs spread apart so you
can go down on me yourself. The sensation is fucking phenomenal as you swallow me down and
makes me fling my arm across my face with a choked-off gasp. Oh God, you’re so good at this; I
always imitate your technique as much as possible, but I’m convinced I can’t ever make it feel the
way you can. It’s like my cock is practically pounding the hot, wet heat at the back of your throat
and makes my breath so harsh and ragged it’s as if I’m hyperventilating. You hum appreciatively
at the sound of it then thrust your head a few more times before reaching upwards to jam your
finger into my mouth, letting me suck it until it’s so wet and slippery that you can slide it deep
inside my ass and use the pad to rub slow circles against my prostate.

The tight clench of muscle easily spreads itself open for you and I moan even louder, spine arching
into a shudder as my fingers claw helplessly into your hair. You’re deliberately pausing now,
giving me time to get used to feeling something inside me, but somehow it’s still not enough and
I’m already struggling to get a balance between the rhythm of your mouth and the thrusting
pressure of your finger. The double stimulation is such a lethal combination. In fact it’s so intense
it’s close to being too much, but your weight is pressing down on me so hard that it’s impossible to
pull away.

“Oh fuck,” I say weakly. “Fuck. Hannibal, that’s…oh God.”

You repeat the same humming noise then pause for a few more seconds to press a kiss against my
hip bone. “Look at you,” you say softly. “You’re so close.”

I shake my head rather senselessly, eyes practically rolling back in my head as I feel my entire
stomach dissolve into a sticky pool of sweat and pre-come. Even so, it’s not like I’m the only one,
because from the laboured way you’re breathing it’s safe to say that you’re growing rather
senseless yourself. I think it first really started a few moments ago, just as soon as I began to make
the sort of helpless whimpering sounds which are always guaranteed to drive you wild. You’ll
never admit it, but it’s like it sets off some kind of predatory instinct you have – and the fact I’m
the one who’s making them is sometimes too much for you. The first time it ever happened it made
you come almost immediately, but while you’ve learned to control yourself more since then there’s
no doubt that it’s still enough to send you through the roof. As if reading my mind you now draw
in all your breath with a hissing noise then lean over me to bury your mouth in mine, all tongue and
teeth like you’re trying to swallow the sounds for yourself.

“Mano gražus berniukas,” you say softly as you finally pull away. “Look at the mess you’re
making. You really like that, don’t you?” My sole response is a breathy gasp and you smile again
then lightly scrape your teeth along the side of my throat. “Answer my question, beloved. Tell me
that you like it.”

I let out another groan as my fingers tangle frantically into your hair. “Please,” I manage to pant
out. “You need to stop. You’re going to make me come.”

Briefly I think you’re going to do it anyway. You love making me come when I don’t really want
to; it’s like it gives you a sense of ownership to have my body obey your preferences more closely
than my own. From the way your own breath is hitching it’s also clear how incredibly turned-on
you are, although it’s also clear you don’t want things to end too soon because you decide to show
a bit of mercy for once and end up replacing your finger with your tongue instead. This feels more
comfortable – much less intense – although it’s still so thick and wet as it spears me open that I
can’t stop grinding against your face until my cock gives a violent twitch and another hot rush of
pre-come spills down the length. You briefly pull away to admire the sight of it then murmur
something rapturous under your breath before burying your face between my legs to push your
tongue back in again. You do it deeper this time; lapping and sucking until I’m soaking wet, spit-
slick and you can finally press another kiss against my thigh before reaching to the nightstand for
some lube. By now I can predict your preferences so well that I instinctively know you’ll want me
on my hands and knees – just like I know you’ll be switching back to a hand-held camera again,
because (not to put too fine a point on it) both endeavours guarantee the best possible view of my
ass and what it looks like with a huge, rock-hard cock sliding in and out of it. Not that it really
matters; I’m too far gone to feel self-conscious anymore and your own arousal is so contagious that
it’s making me close to frantic.

By now I’m so stretched and well-slicked that it’s incredibly easy for you to line up then slide deep
inside me with a single smooth thrust. The sense of being penetrated makes me catch my lip
between my teeth, crying out your name as you gently stroke my back and tell me how much you
love me. In fact we’ve both managed to lose it by now, the whining noises I’m making only
slightly louder than the rumbling growls which seem to be coming straight from the base of your
throat. Fuck, I’m so close. I can already tell how tight I’m getting around you; you must practically
be able to feel me trembling on your cock. I moan again then arch my back, spreading my legs as
far apart as possible as I urgently start to jerk myself off. Ideally I’d like to cling onto your hand,
but one of them is possessively wrapped around my neck while the other one is holding the camera
(which, God knows how, you’ve somehow managed not to drop). I twist my fingers into the sheets
instead, but the amount of writhing I’m doing can’t be helping your balance because you finally let
go of my neck to make a quick grab at my hipbone instead. Your grip makes it harder for me to
move, but I don’t really mind; to be honest, I’m barely even aware of it. Instead I just give another
shuddering moan, my entire focus shrinking and constricting to the drag of your cock as it pulls out
of me before thrusting back in again. It’s hardly the first time we’ve done this, but even now the
awareness of what’s happening – of being stretched open then filled up, of someone else literally
being inside my body – can be profound to the point of overwhelming. The depth and intensity of
the pressure, the smoothness of you gliding in and out…it’s almost shockingly intimate, and after
all this time can still be hard to process. And of course you know this too, and absolutely love it;
the fact that you’re the one who gets to make me feel that way.

My own cock is leaking so much by now that I’m soaking my hand and the sheet, but as usual you
can read my body well enough to gauge the exact right second to pull out and flip me onto my back
so you can film me as I start to come. I cry out your name again when it happens then for a few
moments just lie there trembling, your cock still thick and hard in my ass as you rock forwards for
a final thrust before leaning over me to come all over my chest and stomach. Afterwards you gather
me into your arms, stroking my hair until I’ve stopped quivering and you can pull away to stare at
me, straight into my eyes. I smile at you rather blearily so you nuzzle my jaw with your forehead
then finally open my mouth with your own so you can slip your tongue inside. The kiss is very
gentle and undemanding, and I can already tell how blissful you are that I trusted you enough to do
this. Even so, what I’m somehow more aware of is how incredibly soothed and comforted I feel
when we’re wrapped together as closely as we are now. It doesn’t matter that we’ve done
something almost unthinkable in terms of how exposing it is; none of it changes the sense of
security. It’s like feeling deeply defenceless yet incredibly protected, all at the same time.

Afterwards we end up slumped across the bed in each other’s arms, legs tangled together and lips
that are close enough to breathe one another’s breath. I’m sated and sleepy and inclined to doze off,
but you seem to have other ideas and have discovered one of your manic bursts of energy which
makes you far more disposed to talk. It’s one of your more endearing traits – even though you’ll
never admit it – in that you’ll sometimes crave my attention and won’t be able to settle until you’ve
got it. Right now you’re achieving this through focusing your own attention onto me; namely by
scrutinising every last piece of skin that’s close enough for you to look at. It’s a familiar habit and
sometimes feels as if you’re drawing a mental map for yourself: charting out each last inch of my
body to store away in your mind. In return I bury my face in your neck and inhale deeply, trying to
breathe you in. There’s a trace of spice and citrus from your aftershave, but something else beneath
it which is vague and indefinite while still being uniquely you. I love the way you smell. It’s
impossible to describe exactly – like trying to define a colour or the taste of water – but it always
fills me with a primal sense of love, security, and an awareness of something that’s mine.

“Look at all these bruises,” you’re now remarking in a fond voice. “Knees and elbows, like a
quarrelsome little schoolchild.” I make a vague humming noise (because really, what the hell am I
supposed to say to that?) and you gently trail your forefinger across the nearest one. “You know,
before I actually saw it this is exactly how I used to imagine your body would look. You had so
much restless energy back then, beloved; like a finely coiled spring. Always dashing around. It led
me to picture you covered in bruises beneath your clothes from where you’d collided with the
edges of various objects. Beautiful and fierce, yet also vulnerable, which meant bruises and scrapes,
a lot of pale skin, and delicate bones rather too near the surface from where you’d forgotten to feed
yourself.” You sigh rather lavishly then repeat the same stroking motion from before. “I imagined
myself kissing every last one.”

“What, the bones or the bruises?”

“The bruises, naturally. How would one contrive to kiss bones?”

“God knows,” I say lazily. “Although I’m sure one could have contrived something – if one had
really wanted to.” You give a ghoulish little smile and I roll my eyes at you then lean far enough
forward to press a kiss against the tip of your nose. Most people would probably be a little
dismayed by their lover smirking over such close contact to human bones, but then I’m a person in
love with you so it seems that I’ll just have to put up with it. “You’re awful,” I add, in confirmation
of this. “I don’t know why I like you so much.”
“Because you have impeccable taste,” you say smugly. “And wisdom beyond your years.”

“Oh yeah,” I reply. “I suppose that must be the reason.” You smile again and I smile back at you
before it turns into a yawn halfway through. You watch me do it, your own smile starting to
broaden at the sight.

“How charming you are,” you say. “You have no idea at all, do you? It always overpowered me,
back then just as it does now. Why else would even the image of your bruised skin exert such a
fascination?”

“Hmm, is it because you’re – what’s a polite word for it? Eccentric?”

“On the contrary,” you say placidly. “It’s because you are irresistible; my assorted eccentricities
have nothing to do with it. Either way, it also meant my musings always led me to the same
conclusion: namely what it would be like to have you laid out underneath me, passionate and
desperate while calling out my name…and how I would help you learn to love every single
moment of it.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you that prediction right.” I scrub my hand across my face then suddenly start
to laugh. “Oh God,” I add. “We just filmed ourselves having sex.”

“I’m aware of that, beloved – I was there at the time.” I make a sarcastic grunting noise and you
lean forward again, this time to nuzzle my hair with your forehead. “Even so, it is very possible
that I may need my memory refreshing; in which case the most efficient method would be to watch
the footage back.”

My only response is to repeat the grunting noise, although if I’m honest I feel far more enthusiastic
about this idea than I expected to be. Mostly it’s because I’ve remembered that time we made love
in front of a mirror, and how I didn’t feel awkward or self-conscious as opposed to borderline
entranced by how good we looked together. Surely actual film footage would be even better? It’s
been less than half an hour since I last came, but at the thought of it I can feel my cock twitching
slightly, stirring against my stomach like it’s trying to get hard again.

“You better store it somewhere encrypted,” is all I say. “In fact, you can give to me and I’ll store it
somewhere encrypted.”

“That will not be necessary,” you say briskly. “I assure you it is perfectly safe with me.” I give you
A Look from beneath my hair then repeat another version of the grunting noise (which by this
point seems to be growing slightly operatic in how expressive it is). “You appear unconvinced,”
you add. “Yet surely you don’t think I would ever show it to anyone?”

“I don’t think you’d care either way. Your shamelessness is a superpower.”

“Perhaps it is,” you say thoughtfully. “But only when applied to myself. You, on the other hand –
when it comes to you I can guarantee that my sense of propriety is extremely well-developed.”

“Actually,” I say, in my best Smug Bastard voice, “it’s what’s coming to me that’s the problem.”

You sigh at this (admittedly terrible) pun, although given the profound terribleness of your own I
don’t really know what you’re complaining about. “You are a horror,” is all you say. “You have
also excelled yourself by combining that beautiful face with such an objectionable mouth.
Nevertheless, the fact you are a little vulgar monster does not affect my sense of propriety – and
which is why if anyone ever sees you that way except myself then I will rip their eyes from their
skull.”
I now try, and fail, to look like I find this suitably shocking (as opposed to ever-so-slightly hot)
then yawn again even louder before collapsing across your chest with my own eyes screwed shut.
“You can keep it on your laptop if you want to,” I say sleepily. “I was joking before. You know I
trust you.”

Trust (and the lack of it) has been a significant feature of our recent conversations – part of that
long, slow process of building bridges to bring us back to one another – and as such I’m fully
expecting you to respond to this. However in the end you don’t, and eventually I crack my eyes
back open again to look at you. Judging from your rather sober expression it seems as if your
previous flippant mood has abruptly softened into something more serious. “Hey, what is it?” I ask.
“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing at all,” you say in a gentle voice. “On the contrary – I enjoy hearing you tell me that very
much.”

“Good. Because I want you to know it.”

“Yes I know it,” you reply in the same quiet way. “Yet I still like to hear you say it all the same.”
For a few seconds you just stare at me then finally give a rather wistful smile and begin to slowly
card your fingers through my hair. “Given our history, Will: such profound betrayals and breaking
of faith. And you so very defensive and wary…sometimes I thought you would never learn to trust
me again. Yet without trust there can be no common ground and barely any reason to continue. To
be trusted is almost as great a commendation as to be loved.”

It’s not like you’re explaining anything I didn’t know already, yet somehow I still find myself
deeply moved by it. Pulling myself upright I prop myself onto my elbow then trace a finger along
your cheekbone. “I guess it is,” I say. “It just so happens you’ve got them both. I think you always
had them, even before I realised it myself.” You immediately smile and I smile back at you before
briefly lowering my face until I can bury it into your hair. “And you always will,” I add quietly,
“because I don’t ever want to take them back again.”

*****

A few days later I get a text from Clarice. It’s very neat and to the point, rather like its sender, and
contains a polite greeting followed by a request to meet in person whenever is most convenient. For
a few moments I just stare at the screen, the familiar frown lines already starting to gather around
my mouth and forehead. I wasn’t really expecting this and, if I’m honest, am not particularly
pleased about it. A lack of contact from Jack means there’s been no significant developments with
Il Macellaio, but there’s also no way she’d arrange to meet for social reasons. My best guess is that
she has a hunch she wants to discuss with me, and after pondering it for a few more seconds I
decide it might be better to stay one step ahead of things by finding out what it is. From my point of
view this is purely strategic, but I know there’s no way you’ll see it like that yourself. This, in turn,
creates a minor dilemma, because while I don’t want to antagonise you over it I definitely don’t
want to lie to you either. After a period of brooding I finally settle on a compromise, in which I’ll
be direct about where I’m going but try to downplay the significance of it so you don’t feel that I’m
prioritising the investigation over you. Of course I know you won’t like it regardless, but being
transparent about what my needs are (minus my the usual defensiveness) feels like a good place to
start.

“I think she’s hoping to run some ideas past me,” I say when I finally sit you down to tell you
about it. “Plus she has a performance review next month. They’re always stressful, especially when
it’s with Jack. I promised I’d help her prepare.”

Your eyes promptly start to narrow. At first it’s not clear if you’re buying it, but while you might
be the Emperor of bullshitting I’m still Arch Duke and Chief Ambassador, and fortunately the
annoyance turns out to be less about suspicion and more from a sense of resentment that I’m being
imposed on.

“It seems rather presumptuous,” you say – and which immediately makes me uncomfortable
because ‘presumptuous’ is only a few steps away from being rude. “Surely she has a supervisor for
that type of thing?”

“It’s fine. Besides, she didn’t ask me; I offered. To be honest I feel a bit sorry for her.” I pause a
few seconds, beaming out a mental apology to Clarice for being so patronising. “She’s a nice
person but a bit under-confident, and I think she has a lot to put up with from the other trainees.”

Even a week ago I wouldn’t have admitted this much, but since the fight I’m trying to make more
effort to be honest with you. Then I’m about to add ‘She reminds me a bit of myself’ before quickly
biting it back again. This is too much; hearing this will mean you won’t be able to rest until you see
her in person, and the fact you’re currently on your best behaviour doesn’t change any of the
several million reasons why this would be an extremely bad idea.

As I watch your eyes begin to narrow again. “Another one of your strays?” you ask.

This makes me smile. “Hardly,” I say. “Anyway, she isn’t a stray. She’s got a family.”

I suppose this is technically true; after all, everyone surely has some kind of family? Of course,
what I’m really trying to imply is that it’s a family of the partner-and-children variety in the hope
you’ll interpret this as shorthand for the fact she’s not pursuing me romantically. God knows
whether it’s worked or not, although at least it doesn’t seem like you’re going to try and stop me
leaving.

“I won’t be long,” I add as I’m pulling on my jacket. “No more than an hour. Do you want
anything bringing back from town?”

You stare at me for a few seconds from the doorway. Your face is cast in shadow and briefly all I
can see is the faintest gleam of eyes. “Only yourself,” you say.

Until recently this is the exact type of thing that would have made me angry, but now feels like a
good time to remind myself that all you’re doing is expressing your instincts, exactly the same as I
am. Instead I turn around so I can lean towards you to press a kiss onto the nearest cheekbone.
“Thank you,” I say. “I know you’d prefer I don’t go. I appreciate you understanding why I need
to.”

As soon as I say that your ominous expression starts to soften. “I do not enjoy sharing you,” you
reply. “As I believe you’ve had cause to observe. I’m afraid you are going to have to be patient
with me.”

I smile again then briefly cradle your face in my palm. “Always,” I say.

I’m aware of you watching me as I walk away and for a few moments the urge to turn back and
just forget the whole thing is overwhelming. The truth is I’d far rather stay with you, but after
everything that’s happened it feels the sooner I start practicing some controlled attempts at
independence then the better it’ll be for both of us. In this respect my suggestion was to meet
Clarice at Hunter’s coffee shop, and as I’m walking in I can’t resist a pang of self-consciousness at
how incredibly uninspired this was as a choice of venue. It’s like I’m the worst kind of provincial
American abroad – the sort who ignores all the local restaurants and heads straight to McDonalds –
but it also has the benefit of being convenient and familiar (with free coffee) and seems liked the
easiest option at short notice. Hunter greets me with the familiar “Hey man” when he spots me,
although quickly retreats behind the counter again when he realises I’m meeting someone. He’s
clutching another one of his novels and I can see the rather mournful way he’s laying it down
again like he’s disappointed on its behalf.

Clarice, predictably, has arrived exactly on time and glances up to smile at me when I pull up the
chair opposite hers. She looks much more upbeat than the last time I saw her: the previous frown
lines have softened from around her eyes and (like you) she’s got an enviable ability to catch the
sun in a way that goes straight to a smooth gold and (unlike me) by-passes the usual stages of flaky
redness. I must look absolutely wretched in comparison, although I know she’ll be far too tactful to
mention it.

“So, how are you doing?” she adds once the usual greetings have been exchanged and I’ve had a
chance to order some coffee and a small plate of cantucci to dunk in it. “Mr Crawford said you’d
been sick.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” I say. “Much better now.”

I suppose this would be a natural opening to explain what was wrong with me, only I can’t be
bothered to invent anything so substitute “Just a bit run-down” instead, even though it makes me
sound like a sad old man. In the corner of my eye I can see Hunter hovering expectantly, rather like
he’s hoping I’ll ask him to join us as a kind of jolly trio of Americans. I can’t help feeling a pang of
guilt about this, despite the fact it’s hardly my fault that he always seems to want more from me
than I’m willing or able to give. Not that it makes much difference: I still feel guilty. My problem,
fundamentally, seems to be that I’m a bastard trapped in a nice person’s body.

I now force myself to stop glancing at Hunter, only to turn round and realise that Clarice has
started glancing at me instead – no doubt noting the bruises on my face and wondering where I got
them. It’s obvious I must have been in a fight, which admittedly doesn’t fit with the whole ‘feeling
run down’ cover story although it’s not like there’s much I can do about it. If I’m honest it almost
makes me miss the old days in America, because there’s no way anyone would ever have
questioned it. I could have been wheeled in wearing a full-body cast and they wouldn’t raise an
eyebrow. They’d just have assumed I’d been battling inanimate objects by falling off or walking
into them, or possibly just had an enthusiastic fist fight with myself.

“So, what can I help you with?” I say. I sound a bit brisker than intended but by this point I can’t
help it; I want to get back to you as soon as possible and this is taking up unnecessary time. Clarice,
fortunately, has the sort of easy-going persona that doesn’t seem to mind such curtness. Either that
or she’s just so use to me by now she doesn’t even notice – realistically it could likely be both.

“Yeah, about that,” she says. “I really do appreciate you coming out to see me, Will. I know I
should have just gone to Mr Crawford, but there’s a good chance I’m wrong and…well. You know
how it is.”

She catches my eye with a small smile and I immediately understand that she doesn’t want to risk
jeopardising Jack’s good opinion of her with a hunch that turns out to be incorrect. The openness is
rather endearing, and in spite of everything I can’t help feeling touched that she obviously sees me
as being more approachable.

“Sure,” is all I say. “It’s always useful to sound this kind of stuff out beforehand.”

She smiles at me again, clearly appreciative that I get it. “Actually, I bought you this,” she adds.
“Just to say thank you.”
As she’s speaking she pushes a small parcel across the table, immaculately wrapped in string and
crunchy brown paper like something from a Victorian Christmas card. I huff rather awkwardly,
then busy myself doing battle with the various knots until the contents finally reveal themselves as
a delicate Salimbeni-style photo frame of glossy blue enamel and golden guilloché – and which
admittedly isn’t my taste at all, but is the kind of thing you would absolutely love. Inside is the
cover of the internal police bulletin that features a large picture of me captioned Eroe dell’FBI si
unisce alla caccia al Macellaio.

“Oh God,” I say, starting to laugh. “I didn’t even know they’d done this.”

Clarice laughs too then gestures at the picture. “Of course they did. Mr Crawford was so pleased
when you said you’d get involved – the excitement was kind of infectious.”

“Well, I guess they’re half right,” I say. “I did join the hunt.” Then I realise it sounds like I’m
fishing for confirmation that I am, indeed, The Hero of The FBI (cringe) so hastily add: “Thank
you, it’s very thoughtful. But you really didn’t have to.”

“I know I didn’t,” she says. “But I wanted to. I don’t take your time for granted Will – and you’ve
been so kind to me.”

She raises her cup again for a sip of coffee and so I take advantage of the pause to have another
crafty glance at the picture. I look a bit manic. It’s a pity I can’t commission her as a gift-buyer
though, because I could scarcely have chosen something better for you myself. I’m definitely going
to give you it when I get home – although not before I’ve had a chance to ditch the picture, because
I honestly don’t think I can face the gleefully sarcastic references to ‘Hero of the FBI’ for the rest
of the year (or, quite possibly, the rest of my life). Having said that, my main feeling is relief it’s
not a mainstream publication seeing how the absolute last thing I want is for my involvement to be
widely advertised. The realisation of this reminds me that Hunter seems to be hovering again, so I
quickly slide it off the table and onto my knee before he gets a chance to see it more clearly.

“Anyway…” begins Clarice, “obviously I wanted to ask you about Il Macellaio.” Her voice still
sounds friendly, although by this point a brisker, business-like tone has definitely crept in. It’s one
of the things I appreciate about her, because while she handles social interactions in a very natural,
affable kind of way there’s always a finely tuned sense of how much is enough. “I’ve been going
through the case files again,” she adds. “And there’s something bothering me. It’s about the most
recent one. Matteo Alessandri.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. Internally I feel the first faint stirrings of alarm but keep my expression
deliberately calm and neutral. “What about it?”

“Well, to begin with I was re-reading that paper you wrote about how these guys often have
cooling-off periods between murders. And Il Macellaio’s have been very consistent; even more so
than is typical. The regularity of it came down to within a few days, every single time. Yet this
murder left barely any space from his last one. It happened far too early.”

“Yes,” I say carefully. “That’s true. And it’s good that you’ve noticed it. But that’s something Jack
and I have already discussed. Remember, the concept can’t be used too rigidly; a cooling-off period
is more about the definition of serial murder – separating it from spree killings. It’s not a form of
forecasting. There could be countless reasons why he’d change his pattern.”

“Yes, of course,” replies Clarice. She doesn’t sound remotely deterred – more like responding to a
disagreement that was already expected – and I realise, with a plunge of certainty, that she’s only
just getting started. “The thing is Will, it’s not the sole break in the pattern. I know the body was
dumped the same way as the others, but Mr Alessandri was killed in the middle of the countryside.
 All the other murders happened in the city, so that’s a second difference. So far so obvious, right?
But then I took a closer look at the autopsy report and that’s when it really hit me.”

“What?” I ask. In spite of everything, I can’t help feeling proud of how utterly calm my voice
sounds.

“Okay. So. I know on first glance it looks like the same person’s work...” For the first time she
hesitates, suddenly appearing slightly self-conscious. “I guess I’ve been trying to do a little like
what you’ve described. You know – trying to put myself in the killer’s place.”

“Right,” I say slowly. “You tried to empathise with him.

She nods gratefully, seemingly relieved that I’m not about to start mocking her. “And when I did
that, it suddenly seemed so obvious.”

“What did?”

“Well, you remember how the car interior was covered in blood?”

I take another sip of my coffee then slowly replace it on the table. “Yes,” I say. “Yes. I remember.”

“Well, Mr Alessandri’s throat was cut like the other victims but there was so much more blood at
the scene. The others bled out slower, but this time the carotid artery was hit; he would have died
in less than 20 seconds. It was…I don’t know. Just not as sadistic. Do you know what I mean?”
She leans forward across the table, her voice dropping slightly with the implied urgency of what
she’s saying. “With the others you get the sense Il Macellaio wanted to see them suffer, whereas
this one was so much more efficient. The killer didn’t care about unnecessary pain; they just
wanted to get the job done. If it was Il Macellaio, then why would he deny himself the main
emotional satisfaction he gets from committing the crime in the first place?” She pauses then bites
her lower lip, the faint frown line briefly reappearing between her eyebrows. “I know everyone
thinks it’s part of the series, and there were so many other similarities it seems as if it should be.
But the thing is Will, my gut tells me it wasn’t Il Macellaio. I think there’s a good chance we’ve
got ourselves a copycat.”

Chapter End Notes

Hey my lovelies, for anyone not subscribed to me I’ve already posted a side chapter
describing one of these ‘therapy’ sessions (hopefully the first of several), which if
you’d like to you can read here.

Also, apologies in advance, but I’m still struggling to write at the moment and it might
take me a while to work my way up to weekly updates again. However, I’ll definitely
be doing my 101% best to make sure the gap is A LOT shorter than the last one was!
In the meantime, thank you so much to everyone who’s still sticking with me and I
really hope you enjoy the rest of the fic xox
 Chapter 29
Chapter Notes

OMG before you read the chapter you need to check out this stunning video that
DrLecterWillSeeYouNow has very kindly made for Shape/7th Sense. Hannigram
heaven guaranteed – the music and editing are just soooo good *incoherent fangirl
noises*

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When I finally get home I find you in the living room: long legs stretched out in front of you, hair
artfully tousled, and generally exuding an air of casual glamour which you always seem able to
muster without ever really having to try. Bach is playing softly in the background while a cup of
expresso steams away next to your chair, and the overall impression is one of such contented
peacefulness that I can’t help feeling surprised by it. I was expecting you to be prowling around
again – smouldering and restless the way you often are when I go somewhere without you – and
the fact you’re not feels like a sign you’re taking my complaints seriously about a need for greater
independence. Privately, of course, I’m convinced that you’re feeling the same frustrations as
usual, but the way you’re hiding it is touching and provokes a strong rush of affection at the self-
control it must have taken. Instead you’ve got the puzzle box out again so for a few moments I just
watch you with a small, fond smile on my face. It’s ridiculous, really. You’re the most dangerous
person I’ve ever met in my life and I’m gazing at you as if you’re a kitten playing with a ball of
yarn. Even so, I don’t stop doing it. I’ve always had a talent for sorting then stashing the different
skeins of your personality and an awareness of how lethal you are never stopped me appreciating
the more peaceful side. Besides, I like catching you in these more candid moments. It softens some
of your sharper edges and makes it easier than ever to love you.

As you glance up at my footsteps I smile at you then prop myself in the doorway with my weight
on one shoulder. “What stage is it that?” I ask, nodding towards the box.

“Five.”

“Nice. You’ve nearly completed it.”

“Yes, it would appear so.” You pause for a few moments then hold the box in front of you and
inspect it rather critically. “Of course, one’s gratification with such things tends to be quite short-
lived. Somehow the anticipation of success always exceeds the reality of attaining it.”

“Then you’ll have to find a more difficult one.”

“In the hope I achieve a decent dénouement?” you say. “But then I am condemning myself to a
lifetime of diminishing returns and ever more trying puzzle boxes. Really, the more prudent thing
to do would be to relish my small success and be satisfied.”

I smile at you again then walk over to give your hair an affectionate ruffle. “Except you know that
you won’t.”

“No,” you say. “Of course I won’t.” You smile back then return the box to the table and stretch out
a little more luxuriously against the sofa. “So, how was your meeting?” you add. “You’re home
earlier than I expected.”

As it happens I’ve been exactly 50 minutes – even less than I said I would be – and the fact you
were anticipating longer is an immediate giveaway that you thought I’d want to exploit an
opportunity to be outside the house. The awareness fills me with a sense of guilt and I reach out
again to gently smooth your hair off your forehead. You arch appreciatively beneath the touch,
lithe and supple as a cat demanding to be stroked.

“You look a bit tired,” I say, deliberately dodging the query as to how the meeting went. In fact you
often seem tired now – far more often than you used to. I suppose it’s a sign you’re not fully
recovered, although there’s no doubt you’re improving faster than I’d hoped for. “Did you get
some rest while I was out?”

“I did not.”

“Are you sure? You look like you could use a nap.”

“I do not nap,” you reply with excessive dignity.

“I bet you did,” I ruffle your hair again to show you I’m joking. “You should be careful with that.
Isn’t it what old men do?”

“I have no idea,” you say. “If I see one I’ll ask him.” You flex your neck slightly to give me better
access for the stroking then throw me a rather beady look. “Why are you avoiding my question?”

A small pause now follows where I stand there trying to look casual while achieving very little
except to make myself look as shifty as hell. Of course, I know I need to tell you; there’s no way I
can keep it to myself. The problem is that I’m still processing my own shockwaves about what it
might mean (not to mention how your own reaction could complicate things) and together it’s
created a powerful urge to take refuge in denial for as long as I possibly can. Admittedly I of all
people also know how pointless this is, because denying the truth doesn’t change the facts. Reality
is pounding at the door but I’m not yet ready to deal with it so am just going to sit with my fingers
in my ears instead. Gazing into nothing while pretending to enjoy the silence.

“Honestly?” I say at last. “It was kind of stressful.”

“How so?”

“Because I was expecting something unremarkable,” I reply wearily. “And then it turned out to be
the exact opposite.” I suppose this is the point most people would begin grasping for further details
but you, of course, don’t do anything except continue to watch me with the same calm stare. “I’ll
tell you about it later,” I add. “I could do with some advice. But right now, I just…I don’t know. I
just don’t want to think about it anymore.”

“And yet it does have to be thought about?”

I bark out a laugh that’s distinctly dark and humourless. “Oh yeah. It’ll definitely need thinking
about at some point.”

You throw me a quick glance and I have a sudden sinking feeling that you’ve already guessed
exactly what it is. Then I brace myself for a request to confirm it – possibly even an ‘I told you so’
– but as usual your expression remains as smooth and impassive as a sheet of glass. The restraint
required must be considerable, and it fills me a renewed wave of affection for your ability to read
me so precisely and respond in whatever way I most need.
“I think the karma police are coming for me,” is all I say. “I was making fun of you about naps and
now I feel I could use one myself.”

“Poetic justice, my love. Irony does tend to punish the most deserving.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna take a shower first. They were frying vrasciole at the café and my hair
reeks of it.”

This makes you smile serenely. “Thank you Will. I must applaud your self-reflection there.”

“Why?”

“Because you do, indeed, reek.”

“Thanks.” I try, and fail, to look offended by this then end up just wrinkling my nose at you in a
way that makes your smile broaden even further. “Is that so?” I add. “Has anyone ever told you
how rude it is to make personal comments?”

“Almost certainly. It would appear I did not take their advice.”

“Well, I’m still going to go. Do you want to join me?”

“For which? The shower or the nap?”

“Either. Both.”

“One is more tempting than the other; I shall decline the nap but accept the shower.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “You can nap down here in private.” You give me the faintest hint of an eye-
roll and I smile at you then briefly raise my finger to touch your cheek. “Go ahead if you want,” I
add. “I’ll be up in a second.”

You throw me another questioning look, but once more manage to smother any urge you might
have to ask questions and simply head towards the doorway instead. It’s clear you’re wondering
why I’m lagging behind, but the truth is that Clarice’s disclosure has unsettled me badly and I still
need some time to recalibrate. I now wait a little longer until your footsteps have faded away, then
go into the kitchen to dunk my face beneath the tap before resting it against the coolness of the
tiles and taking a few deep breaths. Realistically I suppose I should be feeling more pragmatic
about all this; I should have seen it coming earlier. And yet I’m not and I didn’t. It’s as if a year of
living in relative peace has made me complacent and dulled my previous edge. Perhaps it’s also the
case that your contempt for Jack and his team rubbed off on me a little too much as I now realise
how I much I took it for granted that I could make them see what I wanted them too. The sting of
failure around this is acute and serves as a cold hard wake-up call that someone like Clarice was
yet another one of your unknown variables – something I should have tried to account for but
didn’t.

All this wallowing is oddly satisfying (in a weird, masochistic kind of way) but it’s also pointless,
and after a few more moments I finally snap myself out of it then force myself to head upstairs.
The shower’s already running so I dump my clothes on the bed then go into the bathroom to stare
at you for a while before walking up to the stall and abruptly pressing my hand against the glass.
It’s a strange facsimile of the scene in the prison all those years ago, and I’ve honestly no idea
what compelled me to do it; in fact it’s such a corny gesture I’m not even sure if you’ll take it
seriously. But to my surprise you do and immediately raise your own hand to press it exactly over
mine through the glass. For a while longer I just stare at you; the trickles of moisture mapped
against my face must make it look as if I’m crying. Then I feel like I should do something to break
the tension, but in the end I can’t quite manage it so just open the door instead and slump against
you with my face pressed between your shoulder blades. I suppose it would make most sense for
me to be worrying about my own safety, yet now it’s come down to it I know that I’m not. Instead,
what I’m mostly aware of is a painful sense of letting you down. Because surely I have? I should
have protected you better and when the moment came I’ve managed to fail us both.

The entire time you stand there very patiently while I loll around against you with my arms hooked
round your neck like some kind of ungodly hairless monkey. The pressure must be uncomfortable
for you, and it’s the awareness of this that finally makes me pull myself together and straighten up
sufficiently to wrap my arms around your waist instead. You promptly lean into the touch, so I
hook my fingers together to hold you tighter then prop my chin onto your shoulder so I can
concentrate on the way it feels to have you pressed against me. Most people seem vulnerable when
they’re naked, but you never do. You have a certain strength and suppleness that proudly stand on
their own; a bit like heroic Classical statues of warriors and athletes, always depicted as naked and
unashamed.

I now sigh to myself then give you a small nudge with my forehead, clinging on to you the entire
time to get as much of your body against me as I can. Your skin feels so warm and balmy from the
steam…it’s impossible to stop touching it. “You’re really stunning,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry I
don’t tell you more often.”

Beneath my hands I feel you shift slightly. I think you’re surprised; I’m not prone to these kinds of
outbursts and it’s understandable you’ll be wondering what’s caused it. “Mano meilė,” you say at
last. “You don’t need to. You show me how you feel every time that we’re together.”

You sound very sincere, although I can’t help feeling you’re just being polite. I should tell you
more often, especially when you’re always so effusive about me. Hell, I’ve probably developed
some kind of praise kink from how intensely flattering you are (oh shit, have I though? I bet I
have…I bet I’ve got a praise kink). Admittedly the awareness of this is also rather ironic, because
far from enjoying it I remember it used to make me wary. The compliments were so lavish and
frequent I suspected it was just another way to manipulate me, and it ended up taking quite some
time to gradually learn that it wasn’t. Instead, what I realised was that the praise was simply your
way of showing you were happy; that now we were finally together you could relax enough to
open up and share more of what you felt. In this respect you’re far more talkative generally. You
were always so taciturn in the old days, doling out your thoughts in short bursts, like sips. Now, in
contrast, you’ll speak for entire minutes at a time. If anything the problem is figuring out how to
make you stop.

At the thought of this I allow myself a small smile then press a kiss against the back of your neck
(followed by an irritable toss of the head like a horse, because my hair always gets longer when it’s
wet and is now insisting on tangling in my eyes in the most annoying way possible). “Well, you
are,” I say firmly. “You always have been.”

There’s no way I can ever be as eloquent as you, but somehow it doesn’t really matter as the
honesty is the thing that’s most important. Because it’s true, and you are. You’re captivating.
Almost perfect, in fact, in your extreme and excessive imperfection. For a few moments I content
myself with nuzzling the skin between your shoulder blades while enjoying the feel of your body
next to mine; how powerful and sinewy it is, long-limbed and sharply chiselled, with hard slabs of
muscle tempered by the surprising softness of your skin. After that I press a few more kisses along
your spine then finally slide my hands down to stroke further along your chest, brushing my thumb
in light circles across the pectoral muscles then applying a light scrape of fingernails before trailing
towards your abdomen.
“You don’t really work out anymore, do you?” I say. “You’re lucky you look like this naturally.”

“Yes, luck undoubtedly plays a role.” You’re trying to be casual, but I can still tell from your tone
how pleased you are with hearing me praise you. “At least in the sense of genetics. My father was
extremely muscular – far more so than I am.”

“Was he as tall as you?”

There’s a small pause, which I can’t help finding rather poignant; the idea that your father’s been
dead so long you really need to focus to remember what he looked like. “No,” you reply
eventually. “He would have been somewhat shorter. But very broad.”

I now pause myself as I silently digest this. “Hmm, no, you’re not broad, as such,” I eventually
add. “You’re too graceful to be broad. You’re more…” I falter again, dredging my mental
thesaurus for a suitable word. “Athletic.”

“Thank you, Will.” You sound slightly amused now, although it’s not totally clear why. Possibly to
you ‘athletic’ is a particularly American point of comparison? “In terms of your previous
observation, there’s also no doubt that a regular work-out routine would achieve far better results.
Even so, I am not completely inactive.”

“No, I know you’re not.” I briefly leave your chest alone in favour of running my hand along your
bicep, admiring the way your skin is glistening from the spray of water. The warmth and humidity
of the air has given you a beautiful rosy flush beneath your suntan…I want to kiss every inch of
you. “Anyway, you don’t need to work out. I like you as you are.”

“Is that a prohibition then? What if I decided I want to?”

“Well, if you wanted to,” I say doubtfully. “I don’t know…perhaps we could do it together.”

This makes you laugh outright before swivelling round far enough to nudge me with your
forehead. “You? The one who avoided every single training session Jack tried to send you on?”

“But those were endurance tests,” I say, attempting to sound dignified. “They’re meant to make
you suffer.”

“Yes, beloved, yet you suffer so beautifully.”

I lean down myself and give your shoulder a playful swipe with my teeth. “Oh shut up,” I say
amicably. “Who wants to go sweating through the woods on an assault course?”

“It is, I agree, extremely unappealing. Even so, I’m afraid I can’t consent to the idea of muscle
training. You are very fit and supple, but also very slim – which is exactly how I like you.”

“Probably just as well to be honest. I don’t think I could really be bothered.”

“Good,” you say firmly. “Because you don’t need to. You already have ample strength and
stamina, as well as a very beautiful body.”

“Well, so do you,” I reply…which now means we’ve gone full circle with me awkwardly trying to
compliment you while still struggling to find the best way of doing it. Clearly some kind of
qualifier is required, but anything along the lines of ‘you turn me on’ feels too vulgar for you (not
to mention being a classic case of ‘show don’t tell’, seeing how the obvious erection poking into
your back is making that fairly obvious already). Instead I work one hand down between your
thighs then resume kissing your neck while trying to summon some inspiration.
“I love looking at you,” I say instead. “Even before I could admit I found you attractive. I still
appreciated you. It’s impossible not to. You’re like…you’re like sculpture. Like a Grecian statue.”

It's almost as if you’re visibly preening at hearing me say this: I’d bet anything it’s making you
hard. I smile to myself then brush my lips against the smooth arc of skin where your jaw meets
your ear. “Do you want to hear something weird?” I add. “Actually, why am I asking: of course
you do. Well, when I was 18 I went on a field trip to London. It was just before I graduated high
school. They had some subsidised places and I thought hell, why not, so applied for one and won
it.”

“You won it?”

“Yeah, it was like this scholarship thing. I passed the exam.”

You reach round then fondly wind your fingers into my hair. “Naturally you did.”

“Well, it’s not like I had a choice. I wouldn’t have had the money otherwise; there’s no way my
dad would have paid for it. Anyway…that’s not the story. So, one of the scheduled visits was to
the V&A. You know? The Victoria and Albert Museum?”

“I’m familiar, yes, although I admit that I rather to struggle to place you there. It doesn’t seem like
the type of thing to have appealed to you.”

“That’s because it didn’t,” I say briskly. “I was bored out my mind. It was mostly design and
decorative arts and I couldn’t have cared less. So, yeah, eventually I ended up breaking off from
the rest of the group and wandering into one of the sculpture galleries instead. It was mostly just
small figures and busts, but then right at the back they had this massive centrepiece. It was so big it
wasn’t even on a normal pedestal; they had to display it on a marble plinth. And the moment I
noticed it was like…I don’t know. Like I was transfixed. Like I couldn’t stop looking at it.”

“What was the sculpture?” you ask. “And I warn you now, you horror, that I shall be exceedingly
disappointed if you pretend you can’t remember.”

“Oh no, I can definitely remember. It was Theseus and the Minotaur.”

“Antonio Canova.” You give a soft, satisfied sigh. “I congratulate you, beloved: an excellent
choice. Tell me what it was about it that caught your eye.”

For a few moments I find myself hesitating. It’s stupid really – plus by this point I’ve clearly
committed myself too far to start backtracking – but I’ve never told this ridiculous story to a single
living person and even all these years later the sense of self-consciousness still lingers. “Well…” I
say cautiously. “At first it was just because it was so striking. And so big. But then the more I
looked, the more I seemed to see.”

“And what did you see? Tell me everything you remember.”

The intrigue in your voice is obvious and reminds me how, asides from the actual compliments,
the most powerful flattery of all is your intense, abiding interest in whatever it is I have to say. It’s
one of the things which drew me to you in the first place, and even now still makes me want to
offer you as much as I can; summoning each small scrap of detail to feed your insatiable, craving
quest to learn as much about my mind as possible.

“The carving was so smooth and precise,” I reply after a pause. I’m still brushing my mouth against
your neck, very light and soft like I’m using my lips to feel my way along your skin. “They could
almost have been alive. I felt if I’d reached my hand out they’d have both been warm to the touch.
Plus the detail was incredible. The hair, the draping of the fabric, the muscles…” I pause a few
seconds then slide my soap-slicked hands across your chest again. “It was noble and beautiful and
dramatic: all the usual types of stuff. But the thing is…it was also erotic. Theseus is straddling the
Minotaur, he’s practically naked, his legs are spread apart. He’s even got his hand on the
Minotaur’s thigh. And then there’s the way the Minotaur is arching its back beneath him. It almost
looks ecstatic; as if it’s in the middle of an orgasm. The scene is meant to be violent, but the more I
looked at it the more I felt as if I’d walked in on two lovers.” I pause again then slowly drag my
tongue along your throat to lap away the trickles of moisture. “It actually made me hard; I had to
tie my jacket round my waist to hide it. I mean I was 18 at the time – everything got me hard. But
God, it turned me on so much.”

In front of me I hear your breath give a small hitch. “That sounds rather inconvenient.”

“Yeah, just a bit.”

“So what did you do to take care of it?”

“Went back to the hotel, of course,” I say wryly. “Then jerked off so hard I nearly passed out.”

“Lying on your bed? Or somewhere else?”

Briefly I close my eyes again, warm water sluicing across me as I lightly skim my hands up and
down your ribs. “On the bed.”

“And were you as ecstatic as the sculpture? Did you arch your back during orgasm?”

“Probably…at least at first. After that I think I just felt ashamed.”

“Yes, naturally you did.” You pitch your hips down slightly, encouraging me to grind up against
you, then reach round again so you can curl your palm around the back of my neck. “My poor boy.
What a pity that I wasn’t there to take care of you personally. I was nearly 30 at the time and
happened to take a sabbatical to London myself.”

“What, seriously?”

“Yes indeed, I am entirely serious: I spent a whole six months at the Bethlem Royal hospital. Just
think of that, Will – we might have crossed paths. It’s safe to say I would have been reliably
entranced by your 18-year-old self. I could have held you down in the same way as the statue; do
you think you would have liked that? A firm, hard body pressed against yours…dominant, yet
eager to caress you?”

“Oh God, yes,” I say. “I would have loved it.” In fact I’m not sure this is entirely true, but I’m
getting into the idea by now and can’t be bothered to let a small thing like reality ruin it. “That
would have been…fuck. Let’s just say I was a late developer: I didn’t even have that much
experience with women at that point, let alone another man. Being in bed with you would have
blown my mind.”

You make one of your little rumbling purr-like noises. “And would I have had to approach you, do
you think? Or would your encounter with Theseus have aroused you so much you would have been
prepared to take the initiative?”

Reality is now insisting that I’d have been more likely to fly than accost a 30-year-old version of
you, so I take a moment to politely invite it to fuck off before resuming the press of kisses along
your shoulder blades. “I’d have been nervous,” I add, delicately using my tongue to chase the
droplets of water away. “But I’d have wanted you so much I’d still have gone for it. I’d have
invited you up to my hotel room.”

“How?”

I now give a small scowl behind your back, because the difficulty answering this question is really
highlighting how outlandish the entire premise is (and makes it feel as if you and reality and are
actively working together to put me off). “Probably by being incredibly awkward and obvious,” I
say with unintentional honesty. “I don’t know…maybe I’d have just tried to seduce you visually?
Believe it or not people thought I was quite good-looking when I was younger. A model scout once
approached my dad to try and sign me up.”

You reach round again and give my hair another gentle ruffle. “I’m afraid shall have to stop you
there, Will. Any evidence is unnecessary – believe me, your beauty at 18 is not something you
need to convince me of.”

“Well…like I said, I’d probably have just taken the easy route.” By now my hands are kneading
against your chest again, digging in harder and harder as I get progressively turned on at the
thought of it. “I wouldn’t have had a choice, really – I had even less small talk back then than I do
now. I’d have got you upstairs and locked the door behind us, at which point…” I pause then
suddenly start to laugh. “You know, I think at that point I would have totally lost my nerve. I
wouldn’t have had a clue what to do with you, so you’d have had to have taken over.”

“Which I would have done,” you say. “Very enthusiastically.”

I laugh again then give your jaw a light nip with my teeth. “You’d have had to. I would have been
so terrible at it.”

“That would have been a good thing, mylimasis. I’d have been completely overwhelmed by you as
it was.”

Seeing how hard it is to imagine you getting overwhelmed by anything (much less an 18-year-old
version of me batting its eyelashes at you like a Disney cow) I can’t help feeling you’re only saying
this to be polite. Not that it really matters, because by now I’m so immersed by the image of it that
the small indignities and gracelessness of real-life no longer seem to apply. Fuck, I’ve got so hard I
might end up coming just from grinding against your back.

“I would have lost control,” I say, almost dreamily. I give your throat another quick swipe with my
tongue then slowly slide my hands across your chest again. The slick of soap makes the movement
incredibly smooth; it’s like my palms are gliding against your skin. “I’d have been lying
underneath you with my legs spread open, trying to process how the hell this had happened.”

You give a breathy little sigh then tilt your hips upwards in renewed encouragement for me to rock
myself against you. Not that I need much encouragement…by this point I’m so achingly hard it’s
almost painful. “Yes indeed,” you reply. “It’s quite the predicament you’d have found yourself in.
Tell me how you would have felt?”

“Honestly?” I ask. “Overawed. I think I would have wanted to close my eyes, but I’d have made
sure I kept them open so I could see you. I’d have had to: I’d have struggled to believe it was
happening otherwise.” I reach up to smooth your hair off your face then slowly trail my fingers
downwards; lower and lower until I can gently rub your lower lip before sliding one inside your
mouth. “Another man – a mysterious, stunning, older man – is about to push his cock into my ass,
and I want him to. I’m desperate for it. I’d have been trembling. Gasping. So nervous yet still
incredibly impatient for it to happen.”
As I say this I can feel you arching up against me; it’s obvious how much you’re savouring the
image. “Would you have begged me?” you ask softly.

“Hell yes, I would have begged.”

“I can imagine. Dearest Will…you would have begged so prettily it would have been impossible to
resist you.”

“You’d have taken your time with me, wouldn’t you?” I add with a hint of wryness. “Kept me on
edge until I was close to losing it entirely. I think you’d have been gentle, though; you’d have let
me hold your hand to try and calm myself down. Even so, when you were ready to fuck me you
wouldn’t have held yourself back. You’d still have pinned me down and made me take it as deep
as possible.” Briefly I let my own eyes fall closed then press my forehead against the back of your
neck. “That sense of being penetrated for the first time…feeling you pushing in. God. That
would’ve been it – I’d have come all over myself the second it happened. Come completely
untouched. Just having you inside me would have been enough.”

You let out a low sigh, pushing against me almost ecstatically as the steam swirls up around you.
“Beloved,” you say breathlessly. “My beautiful boy.”

I’ve not really spoken to you this way before (and am almost certainly going to feel mortified about
it later) but by this point I’m on a roll and can’t quite stop myself. I give my hips another thrust,
slowly running my tongue along the edge of your ear before giving the lobe a light tug with my
teeth. The water is pounding my back and stinging my skin but I’m barely even aware of it
anymore. Instead I focus on weaving my hands across your chest, watching the way the droplets
are slipping over your body. There’s something so sensuous in how they slide along the length of
your spine then glide across your hips; it’s like they want to caress you as much as I do.

“It would have felt incredible for you as well,” I say. Your breath promptly catches again and I
gently press my face against your throat to nose at the warm, wet skin just behind your ear. “I’d
have been so tight. I was tiny back then. Like I said: late developer. I filled out a bit when I went to
college, but in high-school I was so small and slim. Imagine this huge cock inside that tight little
teenage asshole. You’d have wrecked me, wouldn’t you?”

As I’m speaking I slide my hands down further so I can rub feathery little circles against your hip
bones. Oh fuck…it’s possible you might be even harder than I am. I know I’m being far too crude
for you to acknowledge me verbally, but you still can’t stop from your body from giving you away.

“I’d have felt so humiliated,” I add softly. “Coming that fast before we’d even got started. You’d
have loved that, wouldn’t you – you’ve always enjoyed seeing me uncomfortable. I’d have wanted
to make it up to you though, so I’d have asked you to pull out then got down on my knees instead to
suck your cock. Ass to mouth….it would have felt so depraved, but I wouldn’t have cared. I
wouldn’t have cared at all. You’d have been able to see how much I was enjoying it; I’d have been
choking and gasping, trying to take you as deep as I could. Even when you’d come straight down
my throat it wouldn’t have been enough for me. I’d have been kissing your thighs, your stomach…
any bit of you I could reach. Fuck, I’d have wanted to devour you. Like Saturn eating his children.”

At this point your self-control seems ready to snap entirely, because you make a sound that’s close
to a growl then try to spin round to take hold of me. I quickly catch hold of your wrist to stop you,
gently twisting it behind your back before edging forward until I’ve got you trapped against the
wall. You make a faint noise of protest but don’t attempt to struggle, and secretly I can’t help
feeling surprised that you’re going along with it. It’s rare for you to do what you’re told, and it
always makes these flashes of obedience incredibly charming.
“Not yet,” I say softly, straight in your ear. “I’ll give you what you want. But first just let me
enjoy…the anticipation.”

You let out a rather breathy laugh then dip your neck down, wet hair tangling into your eyes. Your
other hand is curled into a fist then braced against the cubicle door, and it’s easy to see without
being told how incredibly turned on you are – when I finally do touch you you’re probably going
to ignite.

“What a sadistic boy you are,” you manage to say. “I’ve taught you a bit too well, haven’t I? And
now I must suffer for it. Little did I know the kind of knife I’ve been sharpening all these years.”

“Mmm. That moment when the monster turns on its creator.”

You take a few steadying breaths then press your forehead against the tiles an in obvious attempt to
calm down. I can’t help smiling at the sight of it – for all your lectures about embracing
vulnerability you’re terrible at just admitting when you really need something. “Then I suppose I
must wait,” you add. “Although the least you could do is indulge my curiosity in the meantime.
Tell me, Will, I’m interested to know. Who did you identify with the most – Theseus or the
Minotaur?”

I’ve been waiting for you to ask this, so smile to myself before pressing another kiss to the back of
your neck, gently caressing the skin with my tongue as I chase the rivulets of water. “Guess.”

“If I must,” you say fondly. “Let me see, what do we have to choose from? The first figure:
virtuous, idolised, and embodying the triumph of goodness and reason. The other vicious and
animalistic. Powerful, bestial brute force. Man and monster; hero and villain. I suppose it’s rather
obvious, isn’t it my love? You saw yourself in both.”

I smile a bit more then lean over to lather my hands with more soap so I can glide them across your
torso. “Correct.”

“Yes, indeed,” you reply. “Hence your shame.” You’re arching yourself against me now, powerful
yet supple as your muscles flex beneath my fingertips. It’s like I can feel the tremors rippling
through your body. “A more typical teenager would be humiliated at feeling such arousal for a
statue, but I don’t imagine that concerned you much at all.”

“No,” I admit. “Not really.”

“No, of course it didn’t. On the contrary – it was your conflict over the Minotaur which really
troubled you. At first glance he looks human, doesn’t he? Especially if approaching the sculpture
from behind. A beautiful male body, perfectly proportioned…only to perceive that fearsome head
and realise that he was concealing his true nature all along.”

As you’re speaking my hands are sliding lower and lower, gently raking your skin with my nails
until I feel you shiver as I finally take hold of your cock. I kiss you again then teasingly stroke a
wet thumb around the slit, slowly pulling from base to tip. Oh God, the friction feels so good. So
wet and warm and slippery….it’s perfect. “I made myself come so many times thinking about that
damn statue,” I say quietly. “And then I got back home, and gradually I just forgot the whole thing.
Other problems got in the way. Other people. Life got in the way. Sometimes I thought I’d
forgotten what it was like to feel excitement or fascination over anything at all. I didn’t think about
that statue again for years and years, Hannibal…not until I met you.”

As you quiver beneath me I wrap my free arm around your chest, tenderly holding you through it
until your hips give a violent jolt and a thick rope of come starts to spatter against the tiles. You let
your head fall back against my shoulder when it happens – throat exposed in a sign of submission
that’s extremely unusual – and the sight and feel of it is so sensuous that I end up coming myself
from simply grinding against your leg, exactly like I thought I would. Afterwards I turn you round
to kiss you passionately beneath the spray, warm and wet and breathless, before finally pulling
away so I can run my finger along your cheekbone.

“I just wanted you to know that,” I say in a soft, serious voice. “I wanted you to know that it wasn’t
all bad back then. Because you made me feel something I hadn’t felt for a very long time.” As you
gaze back at me I meet your eye, then gently move my hand around to cup your face in my palm.
“You made me learn how to feel alive again.”

*****

My original plan was to tell you about Clarice sooner rather than later, but like so many of my
good intentions it gets distilled, distorted, and ultimately delayed until it’s late in the evening and
the sun’s gone down before I finally man up enough to announce that yes, actually, I might be in
the deep proverbial shit. I often end up regressing with these kinds of conversations, so when it
does eventually happen it’s with me sitting on the floor by the edge of the sofa, back resting on
your legs and head tipped against your knee so I can get a sense of closeness without any actual eye
contact. You run your fingers through my hair while I’m speaking, very quiet and attentive, and
allowing me to run through the entire thing without ever once interrupting.

“You can say ‘I told you so’ if you want to,” I say dolefully when I’ve finished. “I wouldn’t blame
you.”

“I have no desire to tell you so.” You let out a slightly rustling sigh then give my hair another
gentle ruffle; admittedly you don’t seem anxious, yet somehow you’re still more subdued than I
expected you to be. “It would hardly be constructive and, more to the point, it wouldn’t even be
true. As you know I had my objections about the scheme, yet the likelihood of its success was
never one of them. There was no reason to think you couldn’t have achieved what you intended
to.”

I shuffle rather restlessly then let out a sigh of my own. “But I didn’t,” I say. “Did I?”

“Are you perhaps being a little pessimistic? There is a considerable difference between identifying
a copycat and identifying you.”

I repeat the sighing noise then lean further forwards so I can prop my chin against my hand. “Y-e-
s,” I say slowly. “Yes, there is…but you must see that the stakes have just gone way up? I covered
my tracks as best I could, but I had no equipment and no time to plan. Let’s just say it wasn’t an
ideal job.”

“So it was an inferior piece of work. It was also your piece of work, which elevates it above the
ordinary.”

I’m about to sigh again before realising how feeble it sounds and changing my mind halfway
though. Instead I haul myself off the floor so I can sit next to you on the sofa; you wait until I’m
settled then take a sip from your wineglass before regarding me rather meditatively from over the
top of it. “How was the situation left with the trainee?” you say.

“Open-ended, I guess. I told her it was an interesting theory, and that I’d have another look at the
file. I couldn’t just shut her down,” I add with a hint of defensiveness. “Her argument was too
plausible. It would have looked suspicious if I hadn’t taken it seriously.”
“Not suspicious, necessarily, but yes – I agree that at the very least it would have seemed odd. I’m
afraid your reputation for fairness and creativity has rather let you down there. A high-handed
dismissal from Jack would probably not have been questioned – unfortunately she showed good
judgement in approaching you first.” You narrow your eyes slightly then take another slow sip of
your wine. “Even so, I don’t think this is a cause for undue alarm. If there was a possibility to link
Matteo to you – or, indeed, myself – it would have been uncovered by now.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say gloomily. “Remember, that was the whole point of me getting
involved in the first place. If they thought he was one of Il Macellaio’s I figured they wouldn’t
bother looking into his personal life too closely.”

“But even if the copycat theory is taken seriously that wouldn’t change. He still remains a random
victim.”

Admittedly this has occurred to me too, yet somehow I can’t feel as casual about it as you are. I’ve
already taken too much for granted; any more feels like tempting fate a little too far. Any more
feels like hope, and hope is avoidant, escapist and complacent. Hope always lies to you. “Maybe,”
I say at last. “But either way, it’s attention we could do without.”

For a few moments I feel like my sense of doubt must show on my face because your own
expression softens slightly before you lean forward to rest your hand on my knee. “Don’t look so
concerned,” you say. “Even if you were discovered – and I don’t believe that you will be – then I
can guarantee no one will ever get close enough to question you, let alone attempt an arrest. I
would kill them first with my bare hands.”

In fact I’m so wired at the moment that the image of you getting arrested feels equally real
(possibly more so) but there hardly seems any point raking over the same old argument by pointing
this out. “So what do you think?” is all I say.

“Probably the same as you.” You give me a rather fond look then briefly increase the pressure on
my knee. “I think it never does any harm to err on the side of caution – which means our next step
should be to vacate this property as soon as possible. It’s been a long enough interval by now that it
would not look suspicious. We can then take a hotel where it will be impossible for us to be
traced.”

To be honest I wasn’t sure if even a step as reasonable as this would appeal to you, and the fact
you’re suggesting it yourself feels like a huge relief. “Yes, absolutely,” I say, eagerly leaning
forward. “I’ve already been looking. There’s a place on the edge of the city we could go. It’s kind
of low-profile.”

“By which you mean cheap,” you reply with a little shudder of disdain. “No, I’m afraid I can’t
possibly agree to that plan. You must let me find somewhere myself. Left to your own devices you
would have us sleeping in bunkbeds in a hostel.”

I give a small smile then press my own hand over yours. “Fine – whatever you like. Only let’s do
it soon.”

“Of course. I’ll begin preparations tomorrow.” You take another leisurely sip of your wine then
pause for a few moments, your eyes gleaming slightly from over the top of the glass. “Well, that
appears to be settled; haven’t we done well? In the meantime, however, I’d like you to indulge my
curiosity. Tell me more about this trainee.”

I’m in the process of reaching for my own wineglass, but as soon as I hear you say that my hand
briefly freezes mid-air; from the corner of my eye I see you glance down at it then back up to my
face again. “Why?” I ask. My voice in my own ears sounds slightly strained and artificial. “What
are you curious about?”

“Surely you can guess?” you reply, with a calmness that’s almost eerie. “You said yourself she
reminded you of Abigail. Plus she appears to be someone of unusual perception and such things are
always of great interest to me.” There’s another pause as you continue to stare; in the dimness it
seems as if your eyes are gleaming again. “I confess, I am rather intrigued to meet her myself.”

Admittedly there was never any question of not telling you about Clarice, yet this is the exact type
of thing I was afraid of and every muscle in my body immediately seems to stiffen at the sound of
it. “I don’t want her anywhere near you,” I say, my voice unusually low and intense. “She knows
who you are – and she’d recognise you in a second.”

“Perhaps,” you reply with the same awful calmness. “Or perhaps not; I think you’d be surprised.
People see me so often without ever realising exactly what it is they see.”

The absolute last thing I’m in the mood for is another one of your ‘hiding in plain sight’ lectures
and I now restlessly drag my hands through my hair. “You mean like Matteo?” I say bitterly. Then
another, even worse, thought occurs to me at which point I find myself giving a visible flinch.
After our last fight I can’t quite believe you’d go there, yet I of all people know that the urge to
believe you wouldn’t isn’t enough to cancel out the obvious capacity that you could.

“Listen to me Hannibal,” I add. “I don’t want you to do anything to hurt her. Do you understand?
It’s not like it would even make any difference. If she figured it out then sooner or later someone
else will too.”

For a few moments you just stare at me, slow-blinking like a cat. “Naturally,” is all you say.

It’s obvious you’re refusing to specify which of these options you’re referring to: that you won’t
hurt her, that you understand, or that it wouldn’t make any difference. Maybe some, or all, or none
– maybe you’re thinking of something else entirely? It’s only a few short days ago that my own
response would have been to lose my temper, but the awareness that you’re simply following your
impulses – exactly the same way I am – forces me to bite back the spark of impatience. After all,
it’s still just both of us in the mirror isn’t it? Both still urging our reflections to conform to our
versions of the ‘right’ thing. Instead I reach out again then take hold of your hand in mine, gently
smoothing my thumb across your knuckles in a deliberate attempt at calmness.

“I’ll tell you what,” I say. “I’ll quit the taskforce. I’ll call Jack right now: if you agree to leave with
me. Find a different city – hell, a different country if we need to – and just put all this behind us.”

In the resulting silence I stare back at you, staring at me. I know without being told that you’re
thinking you won’t leave as long as Jack’s still alive, but while a part of me longs to explain that I
don’t want you to hurt him – that he’s my friend, that I care about him – this ultimately feels like
the worst possible thing for stoking your sense of resentment and jealousy even further. Not that it
really matters though, because it’s nowhere close to being the most important reason.

“I don’t want you to go after Jack,” I add quietly. “Because I don’t want you to do anything that
could put yourself at risk. Getting captured…” There’s another pause as I tighten my grip on your
hand. “Getting killed. He carries a gun and he’s surrounded by law enforcement 24/7. The danger
is so high, and for what? Why chance it? We’ve both turned Jack into something significant and
he’s not. He doesn’t matter.”

There’s another long pause; by now you’re thinking so hard I feel like I can practically hear you do
it. “Perhaps,” you say eventually. “Perhaps, relatively speaking, that might be true. Yet in other
 ways it does matter Will because it matters to me. It matters very much.”

“Yes,” I say in a small voice. “But you matter to me.” The urge to be aggressive with you continues
to linger, yet somehow it’s getting easier to ignore it and just focus on being honest instead. My
previous promise to express more vulnerability is still running though my mind, and in the end it’s
that which compels me to lean forward and add in a way that’s unusually soft and sad: “It matters
because I need you. A lot…I need you all the time.”

As soon as I say that your entire expression flickers before you disentangle your hand from mine
and reach out to cradle my face in your palm. “Beloved,” you say, equally quietly. “I know it’s not
easy for you to admit that; it’s not easy for many people. Nevertheless, you appear to have devised
a situation where my ability to empathise may actually rival yours.”

I give another small smile. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” you say simply. “Because you are essential to me.”

I smile again, then without breaking eye contact raise my own hand upwards to cover yours. In
some ways I know it’s premature to take too much satisfaction from this moment – after all, our
assorted problems are far from being fully solved. Yet the ability to express competing needs
without conflict still seems a huge sign of progress, because it’s far closer to how things ought to
be. Our unity is our strength and always has been: a joint aim and shared strategy, gathering power
and purpose from the presence of the other like a uniquely unsplittable atom. It’s what we need to
get through this, and I now send a silent pledge to both of us that somehow we will. We can, can’t
we? We must. Because when we’re alone we can do so little, yet together we can do so much.

Chapter End Notes

I’ve deservedly lost a ton of readers after that long gap, and it’s made me want to give
a HUGE thank you to everyone who’s still hanging in there. I’ve been obsessively re-
reading your lovely comments over the past week, and they’ve given me so much
inspiration to start writing again and get this chapter finished quicker than expected.
Every fic I do I’m always blown away by how many Fannibals are willing to follow
along with support and encouragement, because while I 100% understand why most
people avoid WIPs there’s no way I’d have the stamina to keep going with these
monsters for months at a time if no one was engaging with them. You are all taking
one for the team and everyone who reads the finished version owes you a beer!

Okay, I’ll stop fangirling all over you now. On a lighter note, in case anyone was
wondering…here it is. I MEAN.
 Chapter 30
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Behind me I can feel the faint rustle of your breath against my neck. It’s soft and warm, a bit like a
caress, and forms a perfect rhythm with the slow rise-and-fall from where your chest is pressed
along my back. The sensation is a soothing one – almost unfeasibly so – and makes me realise just
how much I value the intimacy of it, as simple as it might be. It’s true though because I really do;
in fact, sometimes I feel as if my favourite place to be in the world is in your arms like this. The
draught of your breath, the pressure of your collar bones, the careful way you leans across to
smooth my hair away from where it’s tangling in my eyes…the sense of closeness is so intense it’s
nearly overwhelming. Even so, if anyone asked me I know I’d struggle to explain it, because it’s
about far more than simply sharing the physical space. It’s more of an emotional thing, I think: a
profound pledge and unspoken bond of belonging which leaves me feeling safe and loved and
manages to surround me far more completely than even the fold of your arms or the rhythmic
warmth of your breath on my neck. It’s a safe harbour of the psychological kind: a perfect, restful
sanctuary in which two separate people find each other so they can slowly merge into one. In the
past I’d never have been able to tolerate this much contact with another partner, but when it’s you I
actively seek it out – which of course is something you’re very well aware of and take every
opportunity to encourage. There’s a part of your mind that no one else knows about, you seem to
be telling me. I want you to take me there and show it to me. And my response whenever you
suggest that you want this is inevitably the same: Always.

I now sigh contentedly, relishing the sensation. There’s still something unique and special about
waking up together like this, especially after enduring so many years of separation. By this time the
kisses have also grown slightly more insistent and are accompanied by a stroking motion up and
down my forearm as your fingertips skim across the skin in the lightest way possible. I can tell how
cautious you’re being; it’s clear you’re trying not to disturb me yet are still unable to resist a
temptation to touch. Your other palm is pressed flat across my chest with your fingers curled across
the sternum. You’ll often do this. Just lie there quietly, patiently counting my heartbeats.

“Are you awake?” you ask.

Your voice always sounds softer first thing in the morning; the vowels a little less polished and the
timbre somewhat lighter than the usual smoky rumble. In fact you’re just softer generally – it’s like
your sharper edges get smoothed into curves while you’re sleeping before slowly hardening up
again during the day. I obediently open my mouth to reply, only to find it goes a bit wrong and
turns into a yawn halfway through. You make an amused sound at the sight of it then briefly
transfer the kisses to the sensitive sliver of skin just behind my ear. It’s nice; I can feel the rustle of
your breath each time you exhale.

“No,” I eventually say.

“No?” You’ve moved again now; I think my hair is getting in your face. I give your foot a prod
with my own then make a vague muttering sound as I arch against your chest (and which is
definitely not snuggling). You’re always a tangle of long limbs first thing in the morning: it’s like
you take up the entire bed. “Sound asleep, are you?” you add.

I blink my eyes open then spend a few moments just squinting at the dust motes floating in the
beam of sunlight that’s spilling across the sheets. It’s strange to think that they’re mostly
comprised of our discarded skin cells: yours and mine, swirling together mid-air as if they’re
dancing. I can’t decide if this romantic or gross (probably it’s just gross). “Dead to the world,” I
say, closing my eyes again.

There’s a slight pause as your lips brush along the edge of my jaw, very slow and sensuous in a
way that’s both innocent yet intensely erotic and is always guaranteed to make me quiver. “Very
good,” you eventually reply. “You make an immensely charming corpse. In that case, would you
have any objections to me making love to you before you come back to life again?”

I give another yawn then nestle even further to where your arms are encircling me. It’s so warm; I
could stay like this for hours. “No, I don’t think so,” I say drowsily. “As long as you don’t wake
me up.”

“An excellent decision.” You smooth your hand down my back then drop a quick kiss onto my
shoulder before reaching over to the nightstand, presumably to retrieve some lube. “Rest assured,
you can sleep through the entire thing,” you add once you’re leaning back down again. “You will
not have to do anything except lie there exactly as you are.”

I smile to myself then lazily stretch out behind me so I can tangle my fingers into your hair. In fact
this impromptu attempt at (very early) morning sex has become kind of on-brand for you recently,
because in the last few days you’ve been…hmm, actually, what would be the best way to describe
it? I frown to myself for a few seconds, trying to work it out. Amorous, I suppose. Would that be
the word? The concept seems to suit you somehow: it’s courtly and dignified, like something from
a novel (impossible, for example, to ever consider you to be something so commonplace as
‘horny’). So yes, you’ve been very amorous recently – even more so than you usually are. In this
respect you’re already nearly vibrating with impatience; it’s obvious you want nothing more than
to flip me over and fuck me into the mattress yet are deliberately holding back so as not to put me
through anything I don’t have the energy to take. Most likely this amorousness (Amor? Amorosity)
is because we went almost a fortnight without having sex at all – an unprecedented gap for us, and
no doubt something you feel you need to make up for. It’s actually kind of unfair. Seeing how I’m
a full decade younger than you are then technically I should have the higher sex drive, but as with
most of your other drives you often seem to hurtle off several miles ahead of me.

Behind me you now bury your face in my hair, inhaling deeply like you’re trying to breathe me in,
then slowly ghost your lips downwards to hover on the side of my throat. I immediately return the
pressure, very pliant and drowsy as your hips start to grind in slow circles against me. Oh God,
you’re so hard. It’s leaving a wet trail of pre-come on my thigh that’s sensuous enough to make my
own cock immediately twitch into life.

“Ready?” you ask in a gentle voice.

“Yes,” I reply, although it comes out more like ‘Mmph’. The primary human drives are sex and
death…didn’t Freud say something about that? I start to frown again, trying to remember what the
quote is, only to promptly forget the whole thing as a warm slippery finger starts to work its way
inside me. The sensation feels perfect, so smooth and so right…it’s as if you’re meant to be there. I
let out a small mewling noise and you hum soothingly in response before reaching round to stroke
me to full hardness with your other hand. I begin to rock myself against you, blissfully lost in how
good it feels, followed with another breathy moan when you finally take hold of my waist so you
can gently ease me backwards onto your cock. By this time I’m so relaxed and turned-on that my
body opens up for you immediately, both of us gasping at the same time at how easily the tight
clench of muscle loosens to take you until you’re buried about as deep as you can go. You wait a
few moments to run your tongue along the side of my throat then pull out until only the head of
your cock is inside me before slowly thrusting back in again with the entire length. It feels
incredible and as I call out your name you hook your arm around my neck to cradle my cheek with
your palm, gently tugging my face until it’s close enough for you to kiss me. I give a small moan
as you lick against my tongue, the kiss growing hotter and more breathless as I push my legs back
so I can tuck them beneath yours and take you even deeper. The whole thing feels extremely
intense, despite being so tender, but when the thrust of your hips grows harder I find myself
gasping helplessly into your mouth.

“Slow down,” I finally manage to say. “Please. I want us to stay this way for longer. I want it to
last.”

You kiss me again then pull back slightly, fingers skimming along the side of my jaw until you can
slide them into my mouth. “Like this, my love?” you say softly. “Is this what you want?”

This time my only reply is a rumbling purr-like noise as I grind against where your chest is pressed
along my spine, strong and snug. This leisurely, sleepy sex is so different to the wildly unrestrained
kind we usually have – so quiet and calming in the soft morning light – and it means there’s always
a sense of novelty in it. It’s as if nothing exists in the world right now except for the rustle of the
sheets, the creak of the mattress, or the quiet gasps that are easing out of both of us. Of course in
reality the sounds of a city waking up are already very obvious – the hum of traffic, the
neighbour’s radio, even the occasional bell chime from a passing cyclist – yet none of it really
seems to register because right now it’s just us. Just me and you. Basking in the dance of dust
motes and the golden glow of sunlight that filters through the open window, lost in the slow,
sensuous pleasure of our own safe harbour of two.

I end up coming first, with you not far behind, and the whole thing leaves me sated, sleepy, and
helplessly in love as I wallow in the sort of peacefully contented mindset that I’m rarely able to
achieve on my own without your help. In fact it’s pretty tempting to simply doze off again, only I
don’t want to go somewhere that you can’t come too so eventually opt for a compromise where I
remain curled against your chest with my face half-buried in the pillow. You’ve got one hand
wrapped around (of all places) my knee, but I’m so used to this by now that I can’t be bothered to
comment on it. You’ll often seek out bits of bone that are just the right size to slot snugly into your
palm: knee, hip, the back of my neck – even my elbow if there’s nothing better within reach. I like
the precision of it, you once said when I asked you about this habit. It’s as if there are parts of you
that were just made for me to hold.

At the thought of this I promptly find myself smiling again. Even so, all good things must come to
an end, and my sense of blissfulness admittedly starts to break down pretty quickly once I turn over
and realise how unpleasantly sticky the sheet is. This is annoying as we’d normally have put a
towel down, although it’s not (totally) my fault that I was too dead at the time to sort it out. I now
decide to make a version of this observation out loud – and which immediately proves to be a
serious error of judgement, seeing how it provides a perfect opportunity for you to pretend you
can’t hear me simply for the satisfaction of forcing me to repeat it. This convenient bout of
deafness now means I’m forced to lift my head up and announce with as much dignity as it’s
possible to muster (and which is, admittedly, very little): “I said that I’m lying in the damp patch.”

“Oh dear,” you reply after a suitably awkward pause. “Are you?”

Honestly, you’re such a dick sometimes: I don’t know why I love you so much. “Yes,” I say
firmly. “Yes I am.”

You make an exaggeratedly sympathetic noise (which is therefore not sympathetic at all) then lean
down to kiss my shoulder. I end up getting speared by one of your cheekbones halfway through; I
swipe at it rather feebly, but it simply reappears a few seconds later for another prod, at which
point it seems easier to just admit defeat and let it do its worse. “And is a further response
required?” you add. “Or are you just discovering your inner Proust and narrating your experience
in excruciating detail?”

Now you sound smug (translation: complain all you want to little man; there’s no way I’m
changing places and rolling around in multiple ejaculates myself). This is actually one of your
many contradictions, because when we’re having sex you’ll always be incredibly unrestrained –
hell, you’d probably gargle with my bodily fluids if I asked you to – but then as soon as it’s over
it’s like you suddenly remember that you Actually Still Have Standards and grow surprisingly
scrupulous about what you’ll allow to get near you. It’s not like I’m even sure why you’d care
about it that much, seeing how I know for a fact you’ve been covered in far worse (and often from
multiple people at the same time). We could always use condoms, I once said to you, but you’d just
given me a rather incredulous look and didn’t bother replying. Not that I really expected much
different: as far as you’re concerned coming in me (or, for that matter, on me) is an essential part
of intimacy and refusing you permission would be tantamount to saying we could no longer kiss.
Even so, I hope whatever hotel we end up in has a good laundry service because (unlike me) you
always insist on using a fresh towel every single time. Unfortunately you’re also too aristocratic to
actually shovel the bastards into the laundry hamper, so I’m inevitably the one who has to dispose
of them (usually by the fingertips, grimacing the entire time). Such fastidiousness, combined with
your supernaturally high libido, means that we end up having to wash an absolute ton of these
ungodly Sex Towels, and it really makes me wonder what the hell Giulietta must have thought
when she saw them.

“Did you book us a hotel?” I say abruptly. “And does it have housekeeping?”

You’ve been thoughtfully tracing your finger up and down my arm but as I soon as I ask this you
stop doing it and give me a small nudge instead. “I have,” you say. “And it does. And we should be
able to relocate to take advantage of it the day after next.”

“Seriously?” I reply. “As soon as that?”

I sound surprised, because I am. After all, cancelling the lease, finding a suitable hotel, then
arranging for all our belongings to be put in storage seems like quite the feat within 24 hours, even
for you. Admittedly I’ve also been making regular offers to help with organising it, but you’ve
been turning each one down just as quickly as I can suggest them. My interpretation of this was
initially rather uncharitable – namely a lingering display of your control freakery for preferring to
be in charge – but I’ve since decided it was more from consideration than anything else. You’ve
been under a lot of stress, you’d replied. Let me take care of it. I’d wanted to point out that you’ve
been under quite a bit of stress yourself, although ultimately didn’t bother in the end seeing how
it’s not the sort of thing you’re ever prepared to acknowledge. Sometimes I don’t think you even
recognise it. Do you really know what ‘stress’ is? Your emotional life tends towards the grand and
baroque: the emotions of Shakespearean heroes or the lead in some Romantic opera, strutting
around in a cloak and boots where even a facial expression warrants pounding percussion or
swooning strings. Somehow ‘stress’ seems beneath you. It would be like Don Giovanni turning
round and requesting the Commendatore to kindly stop busting his balls.

You now give a very faint smirk as if you’ve guessed what I’m thinking (which, realistically, you
probably have). “Yes, seriously,” you reply. “As soon as that.”

I smirk back to show I’m onto you then lean over to give your hair a ruffle; partly from affection,
but also because the sight of you with mussed-up hair is always inexplicably hilarious. “That’s
great,” I say. “And impressive – it must have been quite a lot of work.”

“No, not especially.” You give a modest little shrug (like most of your attempts at modesty, it’s
incredibly unconvincing). “The new manager at the rental agency said several other tenants had
also ended their leases.”

“Yeah,” I say wryly. “I suppose they would have done.”

“She still tried to persuade me to remain until next month, of course, although I assured her it
wouldn’t be possible.”

“How?”

“By pretending that I’d been thoroughly unnerved by the untimely loss of Matteo.” You catch my
eye then give one of your more evil-looking smiles. “I confess, as performances go I found it rather
entertaining.”

Despite knowing how skilled you are playing a part when you need to I still find this rather hard to
imagine. It’s just such an unlikely image: the thought of you bleating anxiously down the phone,
flawlessly slipping into the role of one of The Normals who finds violent death something to be
unnerved by. I start to laugh then ruffle your hair again (you wait a few seconds then discreetly
smooth it back into place). “Good for you,” I say. “The sooner we leave the better.”

“Indeed,” you reply. “Prima è meglio è.”

I smile at you again then bide my time for a few more seconds until I can dive in for another hair
ruffle before you can stop me. “You know, I really like hearing you speak Italian,” I say when I’ve
finished. “Your voice is so different. Not that it’s bad in English,” I add quickly, suddenly realising
how insulting that might sound. “It’s just…different. You know what I mean?”

This explanation is so incredibly half-assed that it’s probably safe to say that you don’t, although
fortunately you don’t show any signs of taking offence. “I enjoy speaking it,” is all you reply. “It’s
a very beautiful language.”

“Are you as fluent as you are in English?”

“Not quite,” you say, and I immediately get the sense of how much you dislike admitting this. “Of
all my second languages, English is the one I’m most proficient in – simply because I have had the
greatest opportunity to practice.”

“Yes, your English is exceptional,” I say earnestly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you make a
single mistake.”

This makes you smile. “Thank you. Although I sometimes still do; in writing, especially, I am
prone to the occasional error.”

“Like what?”

You now start to frown slightly, clearly dredging through your memory to select a suitable
specimen of actually making a mistake. “Homophones are a recurring one,” you say finally. “They
often get the better of me. The variations of rain, to give one example.”

“Oh yeah,” I reply with mock seriousness. “That actually explains quite a lot. No wonder you’re so
over-the-top most of the time – you’ve never learned how to rein it in.”

You give a hint of an eye roll then reach out to deliver a playful flick across the tip of my nose.
“Yes, very good. You are a true comedian.”
“You need to practice,” I add. “Otherwise how are you going to have a reign of terror? Or rain
down vengeance on The Rudes?”

This time you go for the full eye-roll, which as a gesture is sufficiently out of character to make me
start to laugh. “I can already tell I’m going to regret this confession,” you reply. “But given that I
have not yet learned to rein myself in, then perhaps you will show some mercy and take your own
advice?”

“Okay, fine. No more rain puns.”

“Excellent,” you say drily. “I shall not miss them at all.” I smirk at you and you smirk back before
leaning against the pillows again with a luxurious stetch that makes all the muscles in your
shoulders flex. “Another thing I shall not miss is this apartment,” you add. “Its association with
Matteo has ruined it for me beyond repair. As you said, the sooner we leave the better.”

“Yes, well, thanks to you it’ll only be a few more days.”

“You’ll have to take some time off,” you add idly. “What are you going to tell Jack?”

I catch your eye very briefly then give a small shrug. “That I’m taking some time off – I don’t
work for him, remember, I can do what I like. Actually, I’ve got a meeting this afternoon so I can
let him know then.”

This is the first time I’ve mentioned a meeting with Jack and it’s not hard to guess that you won’t
be happy about it. Even so, whatever complaints you might have been tempted to make, it’s
already obvious that you’re intending to keep them to yourself. As a reward I lean over to place a
kiss on your forehead to show how much I appreciate the attempt at compromise. “I’ll only be a
couple of hours,” I add.

“You’ll be back in time for dinner?”

“Yes, of course.”

You give me a rather beady look. “Let me know if you’re going to be late,” you say. “I prefer to
know where you are.”

This makes me smile. Most of the time you’ll be as cavalier about my behaviour as you are with
your own, but as soon as Jack’s involved you’ll regress into hyper-cautious mode and insist my
every movement is accounted for so you can be sure I haven’t wandered off somewhere and got
lost in the wild. I give you another kiss then flop back down against the pillows and stretch my
arms above my head. “What about you?” I ask. “Any plans for what you’ll be doing?”

“I have a sketch I want to finish, which should take up most of the morning. And I still need to
contact the storage firm.”

I mull this over for a few seconds then roll onto my side and narrow my eyes slightly. “What else
are you doing?”

“Why do you imagine I would be doing anything else?”

“Your face – I know that look. It means you’re plotting something.”

“What look?” you say innocently.

“That look. It’s as shifty as hell.” Your smile promptly broadens. “Seriously,” I add. “You’re not
going to do anything…” I glance up at you rather doubtfully from beneath my eyelashes.
“Anything…risky. Are you?”

“It’s impossible to answer that question to your satisfaction,” you say in a brisk voice. “Because our
evaluation of risk varies so considerably.” I make a snorting sound and you smile a bit more then
lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “My plan is to be very bored and impatient when
you’re away from me,” you add. “Then to be ready to feed you when you return from visiting your
Uncle Jack.”

It’s obvious you’re refusing to specify exactly how these ‘bored and impatient’ hours are intended
to be spent, but your own willingness to compromise has made me determined to show a similar
level of restraint. Instead of pushing you for a response I therefore just lie back again then stretch
my arms further out above my head – then promptly have to resist an urge to start laughing (which
is definitely not giggling) when you catch hold of my hand to start kissing the pad of each finger.

“It’s just as well we didn’t buy much furniture,” I tell you (because this seems like the sort of
observation a mature, non-giggling adult should be making). “It’ll cut the storage costs way
down.”

As I’m speaking you dart your tongue out in a rather dainty, feline way to lap against my thumb –
and which somehow manages to look far more erotic than it has any reasonable right to be. How
the hell do you even manage it? It’s like some sort of superpower that you have. “It certainly
shall,” you reply once you’ve finished. “Although I paid them extra to take care of the packing, so
we won’t have to do too much ourselves.” You pause then give me a rather wry look. “They shall
probably need a separate team just to deal with your collection of American souvenirs.”

I’m not sure exactly what my face is doing, but something about it must indicate discomfort
because you now raise your eyebrow and add: “Surely you didn’t think I hadn’t noticed?”

“No,” I say. “I knew you’d noticed them. I just…I don’t know.” I glance at you again then give a
slightly guilty shrug. “It turned into a habit I suppose.”

“Indeed.”

“It’s kind of embarrassing.”

“No, you shouldn’t feel embarrassed.”

“Sometimes I get a bit homesick,” I add carefully. “But it doesn’t mean anything. I’d never go
back.”

The implication, unspoken but obvious, is that it’s impossible for you to go back; and which
means, by default, that it’s also impossible for me. The awareness of this creates an undeniable
pang, but it’s not like I can do anything about it. Homesick or not, my home now is wherever you
are and it’s as simple as that. The collection of trashy Americana was a trivial way of expressing a
deeper need but thinking about it now makes me feel ashamed of how you must have felt when
you saw them. It was thoughtless of me, wasn’t it? All those items lying around, like little living
symbols of discontent.

“You know what?” I say suddenly. “It’s ridiculous paying money to store all that crap. Before the
moving truck comes I’ll just put the whole lot in the trash.”

You throw me a quick glance. “That seems a rather drastic solution. You could always donate it to
charity?”
 “No self-respecting charity would want it.”

For a few moments you just stare at me. You don’t say anything, but I can tell just from looking at
you how happy you are. “I thought they were a link to your old life,” you finally say. “Are you sure
you don’t want to keep them?”

I smile again then dart out to ruffle your hair for a third time. You try to duck out the way when
you realise so I end up rolling on top of you then pinning you down with your wrists above your
head. You smile up at me and I lean down so I can nuzzle my forehead against yours. “No,” I say.
“I don’t want to keep them. Not anymore.” For a few moments I pull away to gaze you, my voice
softer and more serious as I add: “I’m ready to leave all that behind.”

Chapter End Notes

So sorry guys, had a few irl issues this week (nothing serious, fortunately) which
meant I couldn’t get this chapter finished, but I’ll post the second half ASAP xox

In other news, a reader sent me this recently and I just had to share it because it’s too
good to keep to myself *subdued cackling noises*
 Chapter 31
Chapter Notes

Part 2 of chapter 30 :-D Thanks so much for your patience and sorry for not posting it
with the rest last week xox

Despite the very real threat of running all evening, it seems like Jack’s briefing might finally be
about to grind to a close. It manages to achieve this a mere 70 minutes after it first started (I check
my watch in disbelief, because it felt like at least 170), but the fact it’s overstayed its welcome does
nothing to convince it to slink off and die quietly; instead insisting on going out in a storm of
enthusiastic questions and compliments, accompanied by a couple of foot-stamps and even some
whistles from a group of junior officers at the back of the room who’ve got a bit carried away. I
think it’s the association with the FBI that does it, at least for the younger ones. They have this
naïve kind of awe and eagerness that’s been brewed in a crucible of movies, novels, and sundry
pop culture references where the FBI is all-seeing, all-knowing and the lead investigator is always
a chain-smoking lantern-jawed maverick who never plays by the rules yet always gets their man…
and all of which is surely destined to be crushed in a matter of weeks when they realise we don’t
have a much clearer idea of what’s going on than they do.

Jack, to be fair, is also very impressive in full-on Glorious Leader mode, which has no doubt
helped to stoke the rush of enthusiasm. He’s definitely got presence, I’ll give him that (not as much
as you of course, but still…some). I, on the other hand, have had precisely zero presence and my
own contribution to the meeting mostly been staring out the window while doodling extravagantly
on my notepad and trying not to notice how supremely depressing the interior of the meeting room
is. In fairness though, I don’t think that ‘depressing’ was the intended effect; more likely is that it
was done up according to some government designer’s idea of what calmness should be. Maybe
it’s a European thing? ‘Calmness,’ this asshole had clearly said to themselves, ‘is pallid blue paint,
Claude Monet prints and pot plants. And plush, goddammit. Lots of plush. All the plush – as far as
the eye can see.’ As it happens the plush (blue and pallid, naturally) which upholsters the chairs
has an unfortunate precedent, because it’s the exact same shade as the lividity of a corpse that’s
been pulled out the water and it’s apparently never occurred to anyone to mention this.

In fact I’m actually quite tempted to do the honours myself – if only as an excuse to get thrown out
– because after only a few minutes’ worth it was obvious that I’d be finding the meeting a serious
strain. However, this isn’t for any of the obvious reasons. It’s not because of the over-enthusiastic
police officers (embarrassing) or Jack’s preaching (irritating) or the warm sandwiches and cold
coffee (indifferent; it’s not like I’m you, after all) but because I’m aware of something which no
one else is…namely that me, the ‘hero’ that they’ve recently plastered on their police bulletin, and
the copycat killer Jack’s been describing in excruciating detail for the past 70 minutes, just happen
to be one and the same person. In this respect my dissonance for this inconvenient fact has grown
so immense that I’ve found the only thing left to cope with it is to completely tune the whole thing
out. It’s not my fault though; what else can I do? The sensation would overwhelm me if I let it, so
instead of focussing on what’s being said I’ve simply gone the other way and not engaged with it
at all. The sole consolation is that the whole thing is finally over, and once I’ve fulfilled an earlier
promise to catch up with Price and Zeller there’s nothing left for me to do except go back home
and pretend the last few hours didn’t happen.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” says a sudden voice me. “Don’t you think so, Mr Graham?”

The voice belongs to one of the Italian detectives – and which, because he doesn’t seem inclined to
sit next to me – continues to hover behind my head in a rather ghostly, disembodied way before its
owner eventually appears and pulls out one of the corpse-coloured chairs without actually
bothering to sit in it. I already know who he, but have so far been doing my best to avoid him on
the basis that his ambition and self-importance combine in a particularly irritating way with a
complete lack of actual detecting ability. There’s also the fact that he doesn’t like me (and hasn’t
taken much trouble to hide it) although somehow this bothers me far less than the other traits.
After all, I’m used to being the outcast. The one who’s different and disliked; most of my life it’s
been the same. Really, the only person who’s never made me feel that way is you.

“I’m not sure I’d describe it exactly like that,” I reply once it’s clear he’s not picking up on my
mental ‘kindly fuck off’ vibes. “Copycats aren’t that uncommon with these types of offenders.”
I’m trying to sound casual, but like most of my attempts it comes out as a sort of bastard offspring
of bored and indifferent. Then I realise ‘bored’ and ‘indifferent’ have somehow managed to mutate
into ‘insufferable smartass’ so force myself to add: “Although you’re right that it typically
wouldn’t happen while the investigation’s still active.”

The only response I get to this to this is a disdainful sniffing noise so I stare down at my notepad
again in a rather desperate impression of someone who has any shits left to give. I’ve also realised
that I can’t remember his name, which is going to make responding to him decidedly awkward. I
think it begins with a G and ends in a vowel sound (Giacomo? Giorgio?) although all Italian names
seem to end in vowel sounds and a multitude begin with a G, so this insight doesn’t really help me
that much.

To my immense annoyance Giacomo/Giorgio now plants himself down in the chair, dumps his
coffee on the table, then stretches his legs out with every indication of someone who intends to
stay and torment me for as long as feasibly possible. “You like our building?” he says, waving his
hand around at the multitude of blueness. “It is very beautiful, no?

I open my mouth, clear my throat, then slowly close it again. No. Fuck, no. No-no-no. “Yes,” I say
carefully. “I do.”

“Very historic?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I suppose you do not have such buildings in America? It is all brand new there.”

As with so many other things, this observation immediately manages to wind its way back to you;
namely the time we visited a crime scene in Baltimore and the incredulous look on your face when
I was expressing admiration for a townhouse that dated all the way back to the Historic Dark Ages
of 1938. It wasn’t just me, either; I remember Jack being interested in it as well (with you standing
there the entire time wearing a ‘My God, you utter pair of peasants’ expression). Unfortunately it
seems this memory is making me look far too cheerful though, because Giacomo/Giorgio now
clearly feels compelled to fuck it up by extending a spindly finger across the table to give my ID
card a small nudge.

“Did you know your photo is missing?” he says.

‘And did you know that your vile chairs are the colour of rigor mortis?’ I want to reply – although
of course can’t – so just nod rather vaguely. This part, at least, is easy because I’m very good at
being vague; it’s one of my few unsurpassed skills. Even so, there’s no doubt he sounds genuinely
aggrieved about it. Imagine caring so much about someone’s else’s ID badge? People are weird.

“It’s never had one,” is all I say.

“Why not?” he persists. “The others do.”

“Because it’s temporary,” I reply through gritted teeth. “Jack hasn’t had time to arrange a formal
one.” Not that I’m exactly sure how Jack is supposed to arrange this. After all, I’m surely the last
person they’d want to issue with a full ID. I can almost imagine the collective eye-rolls spinning
across the ocean all the way from DC when the request came in.

Giacomo/Giorgio takes a few moments of solemn silence to digest this pointless information before
reaching over again to give my card another prod. I promptly need to resist a childish urge to
snatch if off the table – and which is admittedly rather ironic, seeing how my own attitude towards
it until this point has been supreme indifference, and it’s only now he’s touching it that I’m aware
of feeling absurdly protective on the little bastard’s behalf. Hmm, no, this is a mistake – I am
clearly making a tactical error by accidentally choosing to give a fuck about this. Without fully
meaning to I find myself shooting him a rather resentful look. Hey, I tell him silently. Give me back
my fuck.

As I watch Giacomo/Giorgio tilts the badge a little nearer, scowling furiously with an expression
more suitable for someone trying to decipher the Enigma Code than staring at a dog-eared bit of
plastic. “Why does the FBI logo have a cactus?” he asks.

Immediately I can feel my eyebrows elevating so high there seems a genuine risk they might
become airborne. I suppose I could explain that it’s meant to be laurel leaves, but I can’t help
suspecting that this is either epic trolling or he’s so dense that he really does think it’s a cactus; in
which case he’s beyond helping and the kindest thing to do would be to simply let him wallow in
his denseness like a pig in the proverbial shit. Then I open my mouth to tell him it’s because the
FBI is full of pricks before forcing myself to close it again and just shrugging instead.

“Who designed it?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“J. Edgar Hoover?” He leaves a rather dramatic pause after saying the name, almost as if he’s
expecting me to salute (or curtsey) or possibly launch into The Star Spangled Banner. “Surely you
must know?” he persists when I don’t reply. “I thought you were once a teacher?”

“Jack could probably tell you,” I reply. Then I want to ask Giacomo/Giorgio if his Google fingers
are broken, but it’s pretty obvious by now that he’s goading me for a reaction and I refuse to give
him the satisfaction of providing one.

“I’m surprised it doesn’t have an eagle,” he adds. “Americans put eagles on everything.”

“Yes,” I reply in a bored voice. “I suppose we do.”

“A bald eagle,” he says. “Like the French with their roosters.” This is announced with a surprising
amount of contempt, although whether he’s just trying to get a rise out of me or genuinely thinks
the poor bastards are completely featherless from the neck up is difficult to say. It’s the trolling vs
dumbass dilemma all over again. “In Italy we have a very impressive national animal,” he adds
smugly. “Il lupo grigio: the grey wolf.”

He throws me a sly glance as he says this, almost like he’s anticipating a passionate patriotic
tantrum in response to having my country’s mascot deemed only marginally more impressive than
a Gallic chicken. In turn, I suppose I really ought to be drawing my sword on behalf of America’s
bald eagles…only I can’t actually be bothered, so just give a rather aimless ‘yeah, what I can say –
fuck bald eagles’ shrug and resume doodling on my notepad instead.

Giacomo/Giorgio stares at me for a few more seconds then pushes his chair back; the feet make an
ugly scraping sound against the tiles that immediately sets my teeth on edge. “So many
Americans!” he says. I think he’s trying to sound like he’s joking, only he can’t quite manage it
and it just comes out as resentful instead. “They are even turning you into cover girls. I said to my
partner yesterday, ‘Why do they send us so many Americans?’”

A part of me now longs to swing round and announce, in suitably ringing tones, ‘I’ll tell you why –
it’s because your own police force is shit.’ Really, it’s kind of a shame that I can’t, despite the fact
that it would be needlessly childish and hostile (and, to be fair, not remotely true). Even so, it
clarifies that the last five minutes of bullshit have really been about the cover of the police bulletin:
or, more to the point, how annoyed he is that it was my manic-looking face which ended up on the
front of it rather than his. Internally I can feel myself sigh. Admittedly it’s far from the first time
that I’ve encountered someone like this; Sanderson, for example (RIP). Yet no matter how often it
happens, there’s nearly always a sense that they don’t merely dislike me but actively seem to hate
me; and that while a trivial thing like professional envy might be the kindling, the accelerant comes
from somewhere much murkier and rawer. I suppose I should be used to it by now: to being hated.
In the old days it used get really unnerving, and no matter how many times it occurred it was never
enough to quash the frail, hopeful part of me that just wanted to be liked and accepted and believed
that one day it might finally happen. Other people manage it, this part would forlornly say to itself,
surely it’s not that much to ask? In fact, the dynamic strongly reminds me of that chronic,
ambivalent nihilism I experienced when I was first getting to know you: the wretched sense that
you would inevitably catch on to the same wary mistrust everyone else seemed to feel and not want
anything more to do with me (coupled with a faintly hopeful optimism that maybe – just maybe,
just this once – it might not happen). Only it never did happen; and instead, your approval has
become a type of emotional armour that makes it easier than ever to shrug off whatever assaults
might come my way.

At the thought of you I immediately feel myself cheering up again so lean back comfortably
against my own chair then stretch my legs out in front of me. Giacomo/Giorgio has brought a take-
out cup of coffee with him, and I now notice he’s made the mistake of leaving it directly in front of
my notepad. I casually reach out to take hold of it then wave it at him as if proposing a toast.
“Thanks for bringing this,” I say. “That was kind of you.”

For a few seconds his face performs a series of contortions as the desire not to make a scene does
battle with an obvious urge to tell me to go and fuck myself (I sit there with my coffee and watch
its progress with interest). “You’re welcome, signore,” he says finally as the former evidently wins
out. Fed through a translator, the remark would almost certainly emerge as: you’re a little shit,
signore.

Fortunately I can see Price and Zeller are now making their way into the meeting room, so
promptly start waving them over in a way that makes it pretty clear that Giacomo/Giorgio would
be wise to fuck off while he still can unless he wants to subject himself to a further instalment of
The American Invasion. As he’s leaving I throw him a filthy look behind his back as a final gesture
of petty assholery, then promptly regret it when I realise Price has noticed. At the sight of it he now
raises his eyebrows then waits until I’ve turned round to face him before leaning over to steal the
remains of the coffee.

“That expression would turn milk sour,” he says. “What’s got into you?”
The FBI’s Most Wanted, I think with a rather deranged internal smirk. Quite literally. I suppose the
natural thing to do would be to fill them in about Jack’s briefing, only I don’t want to talk about the
copycat more than is absolutely necessary so as a distraction decide to relate my dumb
conversation with the detective instead – and who, according to Zeller, turns out to be called
neither Giacomo or Giorgio but Aronne. God knows how I’ve managed to get that mixed-up;
sometimes I think I’ve got dementia.

“Oh well,” says Price when I’ve reached the end of this (admittedly pointless) narrative. “You
know the expression: ‘Don’t hate me coz you ain’t me’. Or whatever it is the young people say.
Brian, do young people say ‘Don’t hate me coz you ain’t me?’”

“No,” replies Zeller. “No one’s said that since 2005. And even then it made them sound stupid.”

“Young people are stupid,” says Price cheerfully. “They always have been. And speaking of
which, how’s this for detecting? I have a deduction to share which neither of you two foolish little
lads would ever have imagined I’d make.” He leaves a rather theatrical pause and then, when it’s
obvious neither me or Zeller are going to beg for more information, announces triumphantly:
“Will’s gone and got himself a girlfriend.”

I have a sudden, insane impulse to announce I’ve got a boyfriend instead, just to see the look on his
face, but an admission of this kind is pointlessly risky – not least because of the effort they might
be inclined to invest in discovering who it is. “No,” I reply calmly. “I haven’t.”

“Of course you have,” says Price. “And I shall tell you why. Firstly, you’ve been looking
considerably less tragic than usual. Well, apart from just now, when you were scowling like one of
the gargoyles on the Santa Maria. But you actually smiled today. I could almost hear your facial
muscles creaking from across the room.”

“I smile all the time,” I protest. “Just, y’know…not at you.”

“Whoever she is, she’s also been buying you clothes,” continues Price, holding up his fingers like
he’s checking items off a list. “And, I might add, has considerably better taste than you do. She’s
also been going by European sizing rather than American, because that shirt is slightly too big.”

He pauses and stares accusingly at my shirt (which, rather inconveniently, happens to not be mine
at all as opposed to being yours). I give another shrug, this time with a little more irritation. “No,
it’s ancient,” I say. “I had it while I was still in the States.”

“Then who left all those hickeys on your neck?” demands Price. “It looks like it’s been gnawed. Or
are you going to tell us you have serpent DNA and your cervical vertebrae is so supremely flexible
that you put them there yourself?”

“Well, it wasn’t my girlfriend,” I reply firmly. “Which, like I said, I don’t actually have.”

“I predict that she’s extremely confident and sociable,” continues Price as if I haven’t even spoken.
“Feisty, one might say. Well-dressed, likes the finer things in life, and takes a great deal of trouble
over her appearance.”

Despite myself I can’t help feeling intrigued by this (even though describing you as ‘feisty’ is
admittedly a bit of a stretch). “That’s weirdly specific,” I say in the same casual way. “What on
earth makes you think that?”

“Because it’s the total opposite of you,” replies Price with obvious smugness. “Basic psychology:
people are invariably drawn to partners who have qualities that they’ve pushed away in themselves.
My own parents were the exact same way. My mother, God rest her soul, was a high-achiever with
a fetish for tidiness whereas my father was the most endearing layabout you’ve ever met in your
life. He fancied himself an artist and sat around in his ‘studio’ – really the attic, mind you – and
smoked pot all day long.” Price smiles fondly then waves his around to around to try and
emphasise the point. “He invented the meme of a stoner before the internet even existed. Of
course, my parents were also extremely happy together, which is the exception rather than the rule.
Very often the traits that draw us to a lover in the first place are the ones that drive us out of our
mind when we try to convince them to behave more like ourselves. So take my advice, and don’t
start badgering her to rough it in a tent with you while you go fishing. And don’t turn up at her
apartment in head-to-toe plaid.”

I smile slightly then run my fingertip across the cuff of your shirt without fully realising I’m doing
it. “Noted,” I say. “I’ll bear it in mind in the future.”

Price repeats the smug expression. “You know you’ll end up telling us eventually. You’ll want
someone to show her off to. After all, she must be rather impressive if she’s managed to make you
smile this much. And she can tell me where I can find a similar shirt to that one, because nothing
will ever convince me that you chose it yourself.”

As he’s speaking he leans across the table to get a glance at the notebook, rather like he’s
expecting the phantom girlfriend’s name to be scribbled all over it (possibly surrounded by little
hand-drawn hearts) so I cover it with my sleeve in a rather defensive, adolescent-type way. Then I
repeat the shrugging motion, mainly because I can’t think of anything else to do, before catching
sight of my watch and realising that by now I’m on the verge of running seriously late. Oh shit –
shit! I said I’d call you and I haven’t. I discreetly slide my phone out my pocket to fire off a text
before gathering together my belongings in a determined sign of getting ready to leave.

“Oh don’t run off so soon,” says Price. “We’ve only just got here…unless you don’t want to keep
your girlfriend waiting.”

“I was supposed to leave 30 minutes ago,” I say firmly. “You and Zeller were late, remember? And
Jack’s talk went on for ages.”

“Yes, poor old Jack,” replies Price. “He does tend to labour the point.” He settles back in his chair
and takes a sip of the coffee before wincing then replacing it on the table. “Ugh, stone cold. As
cold as a corpse.”

Zeller gives a hint of an eye-roll. “Nice analogy.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s another thing we can blame Jack for,” says Price. “The poor thing was
probably listening and lost the will to live as much as I did.”

“What, you were here for his briefing?” I ask. “I didn’t see you.”

“No, because I had the good sense to make an early escape; which you would have done yourself if
you’d not been so busy sitting here daydreaming while making love-sick calf eyes. Besides, Brian
got himself lost and I had to go and find him. It was very inconvenient – if I hadn’t lost the will to
live I would’ve disciplined him.”

“I didn’t get lost,” says Zeller with dignity. I’m about to chime in with an equally vehement denial
(mainly in relation to the calf’s eyes comment) but before I can manage it Zeller adds: “I told you, I
thought I saw someone moving around out back.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the
direction of the parking lot. “Obviously I had to check it out. What if it had been an intruder?”
“But it wasn’t, was it Brian? It was nothing.”

“Yes well, it could have been something.”

“I suppose it could have been one of our task-force sorelle,” says Price thoughtfully. “Most likely
driven delirious by Jack’s copycat monologue. Any more of it and I would have been reeling
around in the parking lot myself.”

“Sorelle is sisters,” says Zeller with a hint of smugness. “You mean fratelli.”

“Not necessarily,” protests Price. “Technically we might be brothers-in-arms, but there are still
women here as well. Ms Starling for example.” He pauses then gives me another beady look. “Is
she your girlfriend? Anyway, best not mention it to Jack, Brian. He’ll start insisting it’s Hannibal –
the poor man is paranoid enough as it is.”

My hand, in the process of replacing my phone in my pocket, now pauses very fractionally. “What
do you mean?” I ask, doing my best to sound casual. “I thought he’d stopped talking about that?”

“No,” says Price cheerfully. “No, he has not. Quite the opposite in fact. I’m afraid I blame you for
that, Will: seeing your gloomy little bearded face in the office day after day often will hardly be
helping his paranoia. You remind him of Hannibal, you see. Subconsciously he’s primed to think
that the two of you always come as a pair.”

“To be fair, you were a bit of a double-act,” adds Zeller. “It was always fairly unusual to get one
without the other.”

“Twins,” agrees Price. “Peas in a homicidal pod.”

“Okay, great,” I say. “Thanks for that.”

“Of course Jack won’t be mentioning his concerns to you,” adds Price. “He’s got it into his head
that it’ll make you paranoid as well. I told him you were made of stronger stuff than that, but he
doesn’t want to worry you. Although to be honest I don’t think he really believes it. It’s like me in
the café that time, do you remember? It’s not as if he’s actually seen Hannibal – he just keeps
thinking he has.”

I shuffle the remaining papers into my briefcase then close it with a sharp little click. “Maybe he
does,” I say grimly. “I suppose I can empathise with that.”

“I suppose you can,” agrees Price. “And I have rather more sympathy for your own position than I
do for Jack’s. But for what it’s worth, I think we’ll be seeing Michelangelo himself back from the
dead before we’ll be seeing Hannibal.”

He sounds so incredibly certain as he says this. It’s the kind of ease and confidence I haven’t felt in
months – and could very easily envy – because while it’s true you’ve never admitted to going after
Jack, you’ve never denied it either. After all, driving him out of his mind with imaginary sightings
before appearing in person for a suitably dramatic dénouement seems like exactly the sort of move
to appeal to you. I even wrote a paper about it once: The Seven Psychological Phases of Serial
Homicide. For an offender like Francis Dollarhyde it matched almost perfectly, yet just like most
similar things you managed to be the exception that proved the rule. Even so, while the majority
barely applied to you, there were still one or two items that would fit. The seventh phase, for
example: taking totems (although admittedly you ate yours rather than storing them), whereas the
concept of stalking appeared earlier on in phase two. Is that what you’ve been doing, then?
Tracking the prey prior to striking out? Unless you confirm it then it’s impossible to say for sure,
yet by now the likelihood seems too strong for me to plausibly keep denying. It’s ironic really.
Your fearlessness and disregard for consequence is outright dazzling at times, yet while I can find
it either captivating or terrifying depending on the circumstances, I still know it’s one of your
qualities I could never really bring myself to want to change.

On the way out my door I check my phone again. Oh Christ, I’m beyond late by now; apart from
Jack’s rented Toyota the lot is virtually deserted. Nearly everyone else has gone home already –
which is exactly where I ought to be. I should never have waited so long, should I? I should have
left ages ago. The sense of guilt at keeping you waiting adds an extra urgency to my step and
makes me forget my surroundings, focusing instead on getting back as soon as possible while
mentally scripting an apology for my thoughtlessness. I’m so absorbed I’m only vaguely aware of
the silhouette that’s appeared a few feet away, but while I notice it I still don’t really see it. It’s half
dissolved in the other shadows, and so unnaturally still it barely seems as if it could be anything
living. It’s both there and not-there, both abstract and real, and it’s only when it finally takes a step
forward and the light fully shines on it that I turn around. And I look.

And it’s you.

 Chapter 32
Chapter Notes

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For weeks now I’ve been anticipating a moment like this. I’ve been thinking about it. Planning it:
what I’d say and how I’d behave. I’ve done it while brewing coffee or eating dinner, last thing at
night as you’re sleeping beside me and first thing in the morning as the shower sluices my skin –
day after day of it, brooding and plotting for how I’d react when the moment comes that you
decide to make your entrance. And it’s only now, when it’s finally happened, that I realise how the
problem with all this mental planning was that it involved an imperfect cast of characters. A
version of you who was easier to predict and control; a version of me who was clearer with its
choices and steadier in its preference…and which ultimately means that this lengthy planning has
turned out to be utterly pointless and in the end I don’t do anything at all. I just stand there instead:
stand there and stare at you. To be honest I think I’ve partly been struck with how impressive you
look. The darkness has always suited you. It makes you look taller, somehow. More imposing. In
the moonlight your eyes are gleaming slightly; you look so animated. It’s been a while since I’ve
seen you like that, and it makes me realise how much I’ve missed it.

All of this happens in a few seconds – just the length of a heartbeat – but I watch your mouth
flickers into a faint smile and the sight of it is finally enough to jolt me back to life again and seize
hold of your arm. Instinctively I know there’s no point in asking you to go. If you wanted to you’d
have left already; you’ll go when you want to and not a second before. I therefore don’t waste any
time trying to reason or rationalise, and instead just give you a sharp tug away from the streetlight
until you’re swallowed up in the shadows again. Nearby is a large stone out-building – allegedly a
stable left over from the building’s 19th Century origins, but now used only for storage – and I
fumble rather frenziedly for my keys before pulling you inside it and locking the door behind us.
The relief at having you somewhere safe is briefly overwhelming, even though the sensation is a
deceptive one because the truth is that you’re not safe at all. Instead you’re in one of the most
dangerous places possible, although I don’t to need to ask to have it confirmed how utterly
unconcerned you’ll be about this yourself. Your sense of fearlessness has always been breath-
taking, but what a fine line it often walks towards recklessness. I suppose I have the opposite
problem, because I seem to subsist in a constant state of anxiety then have to force myself to do
things anyway. Does that mean I’m closer to genuine courage? Not the absence of fear, but instead
a determination to overcome it? Maybe it does, I don’t know. But I also know I’d never want to be
as gleefully transgressive as you are.

“What the hell?” I finally manage to say. My voice comes out as an angry hiss in the dark, despite
the fact there’s no one nearby who could possibly overhear. “What is this? What do you think
you’re doing?”

There’s a short pause; in the ghostly glow of moonlight I see your mouth flickering into the same
faint smile. “You were late,” you reply. “I wanted to know where you were.”

For a few seconds I just stare at you in silence as for an awful moment I think I might actually
laugh. It’s an explanation, I suppose, yet somehow it just seems so mundane for you. I was
expecting something grand and terrifying, spiced with a pinch of philosophy then seasoned by a
few of your darkly tortured metaphors. Ominous utterances about Jack and vengeance and destiny
– something like that – and instead you’re just standing there querying my whereabouts like an
irritated father at junior prom.

“You knew exactly where I was,” I finally snap. “I was here.”

“Indeed you were,” you reply. “I appear to have solved my own dilemma.”

I throw you a quick glance to see if this is your idea of a joke, but as usual your expression has
closed down without giving anyway away. Not that it matters – it’s clear that you didn’t only come
here to find me. You did it to make a statement and, knowing you, you’re almost certainly just
getting started.

“Why are you like this?” I say, despite knowing it’s a pointless question to ask. After all, you
just…are. You don’t need a reason. “You said you wouldn’t pull a stunt like this without
discussing it with me first. You promised.”

“And I kept my promise.” How calm you sound. If I wasn’t so used to you by now I’d probably
find it eerie; the way you’ve strolled right into the eye of the storm and don’t have a single shit to
give about it. “I said I wouldn’t confront Jack. And I haven’t.”

The ‘yet’ is unspoken but incredibly obvious, and the thought of the danger you’ve put yourself in
(for no reason at all) briefly leaves me silent as I struggle to decide if I most want to kiss you or
punch you. Then I take a deep breath before grabbing your shoulders in both hands and clinging
onto them as hard as I can. You’ll often be surprisingly tolerant of me shoving you around –
vaguely amused while fondly impatient – regardless of the fact you’re physically stronger than I
am and more than capable of stopping me if you wanted to. It reminds me a bit of a documentary I
once saw with a male lion, droll and long-suffering on the grass as a cub clambered all over its
back (and which, admittedly, is an analogy that does me absolutely no favours at all). This time,
however, you’re clearly not in the mood for it because you dart out to grab my own shoulders then
quickly spin me around until I’m facing the wall and you can wrap your arms around my chest.
They’re still alarming sometimes; these sudden flares of force. It’s as if most of the time you
deliberately hold yourself back around me, only to unleash it without any warning when you want
to prove a point. Of course I also know I could put up a pretty decent struggle if I wanted to, except
I don’t want to – not at all. The last fight was disturbing enough, and after so many recent fuck-ups
the absolute last thing I need is to get into a scuffle with the FBI’s Most Wanted while Jack’s
sitting the equivalent of half a block away. Besides, it’s clear you don’t really mean it. You’ve got
your chin propped against my shoulder now and even though I can’t see you I know that you’re
smiling.

“You’re impossible,” I say. I sound as if I’m talking to a five-year-old: an inverse of your

concerned dad routine from earlier. Oh well, fuck it – I suppose if you’re going to be completely
oblivious to the seriousness of the situation then I might as well be too. “Most of the world’s law
enforcement is looking for you and you’ve just walked straight into a police station.”

“On the contrary,” you reply. “You have escorted me into one by force.”

I finally give into the temptation from earlier and let out a stifled snort of laughter. Partly this is to
release some nervous tension but it’s also partly genuine; if for no better reason than your utter lack
of fucks to give about anything is outrageously endearing – and always has been. “Well you’ve
made your point,” I say. “So why don’t we just go.”
Your face is nuzzling against my hair now; I can feel a faint rustle of breath each time you exhale.
“Have I?” you ask. “Do you really think I’ve made my point.”

“You’ve certainly made a point,” I say, although deliberately don’t try to confirm what this might
be. There could be any number of points that you’re trying to make. How after all these years
you’re still in control? That you’re always one step ahead of the people pursuing you? That you
haven’t lost your ability to take me by surprise? God knows…it could be any of them, or maybe
none of them all. Maybe you did it for no better reason than simply to prove that you can. Without
fully meaning to I also realise that I’ve begun to return the pressure from where your face is
pressed against mine. I know this is technically a bad idea – the last thing I should be doing is
encouraging you – but by now I really can’t help it. You’re just so beautifully bold and reckless,
but most importantly of all you’re safe. It’s striking how quickly my stance on this has reversed
from earlier, but I think it’s because your presence has always helped me feel emboldened.
Somehow I’ll find a way to smuggle you out again, and nothing bad can happen to you in the
meantime. The door’s locked and then bolted from the inside – no one’s coming in to try and take
you away from me.

By this point you’ve got your palm curled around my throat, squeezing it at intervals with the
lightest amount of pressure. It’s possible this is meant to be vaguely ominous (old habits die hard,
after all) but I’m so used to you by now I don’t even pretend to take it seriously and just give a
small shove instead to make you let go. You laugh in response then immediately replace your hand
again, this time using the pressure to stroke rather than squeeze.

“You know, I thought I would feel resentful seeing you here,” you say, straight into my ear.

I laugh myself then give you another nudge. “Yeah,” I say sardonically. “I bet you did.”

Your lips are ghosting along my jaw now; briefly I close my eyes to focus on the sensation.
Despite the danger (or, to be honest, probably because of it) the whole scenario suddenly feels
intensely arousing. It’s the sense of togetherness, I think: two co-conspirators whispering in the
dark, tightly bound together in our own confederacy of two.

“So how did that work out?” I add. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t belong here,” you reply. I can feel you nodding slightly as if you’re trying to
confirm it to yourself, the motion very soft and rustling against my skin. “Even if you think you do.
Even you’d like to. Just imagine it, Will: all those colleagues of yours, blundering around as they
try to catch their killer. What would they say if they knew exactly what it was they’d taken into
their midst? Bringing a predator straight into the fold…the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

“Yeah,” I say drily. “I suppose they’d be pretty pissed.”

“Agent Graham…brilliant, beautiful, and busy establishing a private body count behind the scenes.
What would you do if I told them the truth about you?”

As your teeth scrape along my throat I feel my breath start to catch. “Be my guest, Dr Lecter. I
think they’d lose interest in me pretty quickly if you were the one delivering the news.”

You smile against my skin then promptly dig your teeth in again until my breath catches even
louder than before. “Not that they’d never believe it,” you add. “It’s rather unfortunate for them,
isn’t it mylimasis: such a fatal lack of imagination. It is dangerous to be a sheep who lacks the
insight to see the world through the eyes of the wolf.”

Your voice is practically smouldering as you say this, and it makes me realise that at least part of
what’s drawn you here is how much you love the idea of me being asked to help investigate the
very crime I’m responsible for. I reach behind me to tangle my fingers into your hair then give it a
gentle tug. “I suppose it reminds you of yourself,” I say. “Getting nostalgic, are you? For the good
old days?”

“Not especially. The best days of all are still ahead of us.” As you’re speaking you reach up
yourself, dragging my head to the side until my neck is fully exposed and provides clearer access
for your teeth and tongue. “This is an excellent choice of shirt,” you add. “I like seeing you in my
clothes very much. You even smell like me. Such obvious clues, yet still none of them are any
wiser as to who you really belong to.” There’s another pause as your mouth shifts to begin sucking
a bruise into my throat; I moan slightly at the sting then catch my lip between my teeth. “What
would you do, Will?” you say softly when you’ve finished. “What would you do if I brought Jack
in here right now? Would you watch as I killed him…would you want to help me?”

As soon as you say that I feel myself flinch. Of course the fact you’re asking at all feels like some
sort of test, but I already know the only way to pass it is with total honesty – even if it’s with
something you won’t want to hear. This isn’t a particularly pleasant thing to acknowledge, but if
the last few weeks have taught me anything it’s that being open with you is the only realistic path
for us to stay together. Besides, I’m tired of lying; both to you and myself.

“No,” I say.

This time you don’t reply. I suppose you’re disappointed, although surely you must have already
known what my answer would be? Even so, a part of me still wonders how happy you’d really be
if you got what you think you want. You’ve always been captivated by the darkness in me, but only
in terms of how it relates to the morality. And likewise, my fascination with your humanity has
always been prepared to tolerate the swathes of outrageous inhumaneness which surround it. You
focus on expanding my darkness while I attempt to cultivate your light, yet if we ultimately
succeeded in transforming the other I know neither of us would be truly satisfied. Our metaphorical
mirror would finally shatter, because you love my humanity while I love your monster and it’s
really as simple as that. I suppose Price was more right than he knew, wasn’t he? Opposites attract.

In the end your only response is to run your teeth along my throat again; you’ve done it enough
times by now that it’s starting to hurt, but somehow it doesn’t occur to me to ask you to stop. Then
I open my mouth to add that if Jack was going to harm you then I’d definitely harm him first before
forcing myself to shut it again and stay quiet. Saying that is a mistake; practically an open
invitation. After all, you’re more than capable of setting yourself up to be caught on purpose, and
the risk of something going wrong and losing you forever can’t ever be worth it for the sake of
uttering some empty words just to prove a point.

“Forget Jack,” is all I finally reply. “Nothing matters to me as much as you do. Nothing.”

Even as I’m announcing this I already know it’s not good enough. You don’t want to just matter
the most – you want to be the only thing that matters. Briefly I now close my eyes again, breathing
in the smell of gasoline and paint thinner as I focus on the feeling of your breath against my face.
Your hand is trailing along the hem of my shirt now, delicately siding beneath the fabric with a
single warm fingertip to skim against bare skin. Oh God, I think helplessly. You’re so dazzling and
audacious in how fearless you are, yet so many times it feels like you’re tempting fate to its
absolute limit: prodding and goading it until it finally loses patience and lashes out to prove that no
one is infallible, not even you. What happens on the day that your luck eventually runs out?

Abruptly I snap my eyes open again. “This was a mistake, I say. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“No?” Your palm is trailing down my chest now, lower and lower until you can dig the heel of
your hand against my groin and feel how hard I am. I groan slightly then catch my lip between my
teeth again. “Perhaps not,” you add. “Yet you still seem rather enthralled that I did. You can try to
deny it if you like my love, but I’m afraid your body is giving you away.”

Your hand now presses a little harder, grinding down in slowly sensuous circles, and I give another
stifled moan as my head tips back against your shoulder. You hum approvingly then swivel your
own head far enough to press a kiss against my temple. “You like the danger, don’t you Will?” you
add softly. “You like how wrong it is. Being surrounded by so many sheep has dulled your
instincts – you need me to help you rediscover them.”

“Maybe.” Your teeth promptly get applied to my neck again. “Ow. Yes. Possibly.”

“No,” you reply. “Definitely. Why else would you be feeling so…stimulated?” I shake my head,
impatient with myself at the difficulty in answering this question, and you replace your teeth with
your tongue for a warm damp swipe along the side of my throat. I can feel your fingers twisting
into my hair now, slowly suggestive yet achingly tight. “Take your clothes off,” you add, even
more softly than before.

I’m in the middle of another moan as you say this and it now promptly goes wrong and turns into a
sort of outraged squeaking noise instead. “Jesus,” I hiss. “Are you out of your mind? I can’t do
that.”

“Why not, beloved?” you say innocently. “Have you lost the use of your hands?”

“Don’t be so stupid.” I’m trying to sound dignified and dismissive, but instead end up more like the
annoying teaching assistant who everyone rightly hates. I can’t help it though, because calmly
proposing to bang like rabbits in a 19 th Century commissariato di polizia is quite the ‘fuck you’ to
reality. “I mean for God’s sake,” I add. “You want to have sex in a police garage?”

“Mmm,” you reply. “It would appear so.”

“With Jack literally next door,” I say helplessly. “Is this your version of a midlife crisis?”

“You said yourself that I should forget about Jack.”

I open my mouth to point out that’s not what I meant, only to find the words dissolve into another
small groan as you begin unfastening my belt. “We can’t,” I finally manage to say.

“I’m afraid I must contradict you there.” You pause briefly so you can stroke your tongue along the
side of my ear, very light and teasing in a way that makes me shiver. “Can is definitive: it implies
capacity. And therefore we can, if on no better grounds that simply being functioning adult males
in possession of…”

At this point I’m suddenly gripped by a hysterical urge to laugh. Oh God, I think, please don’t say
the word ‘penis’ – or any euphemism thereof. If I have to stand in an antique Italian police garage
and be informed that I’m in possession of a Functioning Adult Male Penis in that clipped
aristocratic voice then there’s a real chance it’ll finish me off entirely.

“In possession of…” you continue. Penispenispenis, oh my fucking God “…the right biological
imperative,” you add, having apparently decided I’ve suffered enough for one evening and it might
be better to take pity on me. “What you really mean, I suppose, is not so much that we can’t but
that we shouldn’t – which is a different matter entirely.”

With some effort I manage to sober up enough to give you a determined shove. “Okay, fine,” I say.
“We shouldn’t. Are you happy now?”

“I am not. Why shouldn’t we?”

“Oh Jesus, why do you think? It’s insanely risky.”

“On the contrary. The whole area is deserted – and even if anyone was nearby, the room is bolted
from the inside.” As you’re speaking you finish unbuckling my belt then begin to slowly slide it
off in a way that’s deliberately tormenting. “You would have been happy to before beloved, you
know you would. Yet again Jack’s company has been a bad influence on you.”

It’s clear you’re doing this on purpose, yet somehow the awareness of such an obvious ploy still
isn’t enough to prevent me taking the bait. “Hardly,” I snap. “And if you’re talking about the opera
then that doesn’t count. I don’t care that we’re in public; I care that we’re in a police station.”

You leave me to huff indignantly for a few seconds then drag your tongue along the side of my
throat for a second time. It feels so warm and wet and immediately makes me quiver again.
“You’ve lost your nerve,” you say.

“I have not.”

“No? Then prove it.”

“What, that’s your strategy?” I say as you start unbuttoning my jeans. “Seriously? That’s some
third grader bargaining power right there.”

“I’m afraid I’m unaware what that means.”

“It means I’m calling you an eight-year-old.”

“Are you?” you say placidly. “How incredibly rude.”

You’ve still got an armed gripped around me, although I’m not really sure why you’re bothering;
it’s kind of obvious by now that I’ve stopped making any attempts to pull free. I deliberately go
limp to prove it, allowing my muscles to soften and relax to make sure you get the message. In a
way it’s quite revealing of the hard-wired wariness we’ll still sometimes show towards each other
without even meaning to; mine, in terms of your capacity for violence, and yours in the belief that
I’m always only a step away from rejecting you.

“Yes,” I now tell you. “I guess it was. Is this the point you ask for my business card?”

“It is not,” you reply in a leisurely voice. “You may be right that I am being juvenile. Perhaps
you’d be happier if I left and allowed you to mingle with the adults again?”

You now let your other hand go still – ostensibly waiting for me to confirm one way or another –
and I give another groan then arch myself a little more firmly against your chest. I can feel your
erection digging into my back; fuck, you’re so turned on, aren’t you? You want this badly and the
obvious desire is starting to make me feel unhinged. In fact I don’t give a shit about proving
whether I’ve lost my nerve (especially because, in this instance, I suspect I probably have). But
what I do care about is proving that I’m infinitely more loyal to you than I am to Jack – and which,
from your point of view, is almost certainly what this particular stunt is mostly about.
“Did you bring anything?” I ask suddenly.

Behind me you make a regretful noise then gently nuzzle my hair again. “I did not.”

“Oh,” I say. I sound disappointed, although really it’s more surprise. Admittedly I’ve never carried
condoms around myself, even when I was single (especially when I was single), let alone sachets
of lube, but you’re so urbane I’d somehow expected you to be more prepared.

“It’s very remiss of me,” you say. Your nose is against my neck again now; you’re not smelling
me, exactly, more like inhaling – like you’re trying to breath me in. “My only excuse is that I
didn’t anticipate finding ourselves somewhere so secluded. Not that it matters. There are other
ways I can make love to you.”

“No, I don’t care.” I’m starting to sound a bit wild by now – your presence always manages to do
this to me. “Just use spit.”

As soon as I say that I feel you hesitate slightly; it’s obvious that you’re desperate to, although at
some point your longstanding pledge not to harm me has clearly kicked in. Finally you raise your
hand to brush the nape of my neck, the touch so soft and gentle it almost feels like a breath against
my skin. “Are you sure?” you ask.

“Yes. Of course, I’m sure.”

You wait a few more moments then finally lean forwards to press another kiss against my
cheekbone. “On one condition,” you say. “If I’m hurting you I want you tell me. That is an order,
Will – not a request.”

“Fine, whatever,” I reply. “I’ll tell you.” I think we probably both already know that I won’t. “Now
who’s being rude?” I add bossily. “Are you just going to shove me against a wall without kissing
me first?”

You give a low sighing sound then promptly tug my face backwards to meet yours. The tension has
been simmering for a while by now, but it’s only when our lips touch that something finally snaps
and we lose control of ourselves completely: pillaging each other’s mouths with sharp-sided kisses
which bruise and bite then roughly smashing our bodies together in a frantic attempt to be as close
as possible. There’s a metallic tang from where my lip has caught against your teeth but I don’t
even care; not at the sting of pain, and not when you deliberately lick across the tiny wound so you
can taste the blood for yourself. I just give a small moan instead as you stab your tongue into my
mouth, again and again until it seems to be lasting for hours – longer than I even want it to –
despite the fact my sense of urgency no longer has anything to do with getting caught. It’s like I’ve
forgotten Jack exists anymore and in the moment have grown as fearlessly wild and passionate as
you are yourself. At some point you’ve yanked my shirt out my jeans but attempting to undo the
buttons is taking too much time, and eventually we both lose patience with it and end up leaving it
where it is.

“Come on,” I keep hissing in between kisses. “Come on. Enough, already. What are you waiting
for?”

This time your only response is a growling noise, so deep and rumbling it sounds like it’s coming
straight from the base of your throat. It’s unnerving yet thrilling, and when you spit into your hand
to jam it between my legs I groan myself then catch my damaged lip in my teeth as a large slippery
thumb begins to work its way inside me. You slide it back and forwards a few times, helping me
get used to the sensation, then apply some more saliva before removing it completely and replacing
it with two fingers instead. I give another soft moan then bite down on my lip a bit more, trying to
ignore the initial sting as I force myself to ease into it. It’s still good, though. Really good; I can
feel the way I’m tightening then clenching round you, trying to get the pressure as deep as possible.
Each twist of your fingers seems to be making me harder and in the moonlight I can already see the
gleam from where I’m leaking pre-come all over the concrete floor. The stretch is uncomfortable
without being painful, although by now I’m so insanely turned on that even if it did hurt I’m not
sure I’d be able to care.

Behind me I can hear you unfastening your own belt as your other hand continues holding my hip,
your spine folded slightly as you do it to adjust for your extra inches of height. Your fingers are
splayed wide enough to stroke the scar on my abdomen, although it’s not clear if you’re doing it on
purpose. Are you? Probably you are…it seems like the type of thing you would do. I want to catch
your eye to let you know I don’t mind, but I can’t – and which is really the only thing I don’t like
about this. It’s strange to think about that, isn’t it? I wonder if it ever occurs to you too: how I used
to struggle so much to look you in the eye whereas now I find it impossible to look away.
Fortunately, you seem to sense my need for more contact (not really surprising; you’re always able
to tell) and begin softly murmuring something to me in a foreign language. This is deliberate – you
know I want to hear your voice, but without putting me under pressure to respond – so I sigh
contentedly, resting my whole weight into you as you spread my thighs wider apart and then step
in between them.

As the head of your cock pushes against me I moan again then arch my back, doing my best to
ignore the (increasingly obvious) fact that I’m still too tight for you to fit. I suppose it would be
easier if I took my jeans off – they’re still somewhere around my knees and forcing my legs closer
together than is fully practical – but somehow it doesn’t occur to me to pause for even the few
seconds it would take to kick them away. Apparently you feel the same, because you now make a
frustrated noise then drop down onto your knees, knocking my feet as far apart as possible so you
can drag the flat of your tongue straight across my ass. As you narrow it into a point to lick around
the rim I suck in all my breath then press my forehead against the bricks.

“Fuck,” I say between gritted teeth. All the air seems to be scouring out of my lungs by now; my
breath is so shallow I could almost pass out. “That’s…oh God.”

By now a warm, muscular tongue is sliding deep inside me and the sensation is so intense that for
a few fraught seconds I actually think I might come. I make a small wailing noise, hips rocking
helplessly against your face with each thrust until I feel you spit a few more time then get to your
feet again so we can make another attempt. Immediately I can feel myself clench without meaning
to, my body instinctively tensing at the thought of being breached and the pain that might result.
You make a soothing sound then use your fingertips to gently massage me open again before
beginning to push forwards until the thick, wet head of your cock is forcing its way inside. You
start off cautiously, attempting to smear the saliva as widely as possible, then finally take hold of
my hips so you can slide your entire length inside me with a long thrust.

I promptly go up on my toes, spine tightening and forehead pressed against the wall until I realise
I’m close to grazing the skin and your palm comes curling round to stop me. I can’t help it
though…I’m just so full of you. “Oh,” I say. It sounds weird. Feverish, almost: half a gasp and half
a breathy cry. “Oh, fuck. Please Hannibal, I…please…”

Behind me you immediately go still. I think the ‘please’ is misleading; my tone is so strained it’s
impossible to tell if I mean ‘please stop right now’ or ‘please slam me against this police wall and
fuck me within an inch of life’. To solve the problem I suck in all my breath then bite down on my
lip again before ramming my own hips backwards to meet yours. This time it hurts – enough to
make my eyes water – but I can tell how good the tightness feels for you because a deep moan rips
out your mouth as you breath in very sharply then let it all out in a long gasp. This is unusual.
You’re normally loathe to show any signs of losing control, even during sex, and it always makes
the moments you do feel incredibly satisfying. Admittedly it’s not quite as good for me: the
pressure of your cock feels hot and swollen, as well as far too dry, but it’s still not enough to make
me want to stop. It’s nowhere near enough. Instead I just buck my hips even harder as your palm
presses down above my waist, forcing my back into a tighter arch while your other hand curls
around my throat to push my head against your shoulder and hold me in place. I quickly grab your
arm then cling onto it, tight enough to make my knuckles gleam white in the dimness with tension.
Oh fuck…fuck. You feel so huge, almost more than I can take. The penetration is much smoother
than it was before, although with nothing to ease the stretch beyond saliva and your own pre-come
there’s no doubt it’s still close to being too much. I feel I’m being spread hopelessly wide, the
constriction of my jeans forcing me harder around your cock until it seems like every jolt of your
hips is insisting I provide more space inside of me than I actually possess. It still doesn’t matter,
though – all I can think of is how much I want to give it to you.

“Mano meilė,” you say roughly, your breath hot and damp against my neck. There’s a flicker of
emotion in your voice – well-disguised, yet definitely there – and I can sense without being told
that you really weren’t expecting me to agree to this. “Look how beautiful you are. I adore you,
Will. You overpower me.”

As my own breath ruptures in a jagged gasp I painfully wrench my neck around so I can search out
your mouth for a kiss. You respond with a clash of teeth and stabbing tongue, so fierce it almost
borders on aggressive and reminding me all over again what a fine line there always is with you
between passion and violence; the way you’d literally tear me into tatters and consume me if you
could. Your other hand is gripping onto my hipbone, the fingers nearly biting into my skin.
There’ll be bruises there tomorrow and I know I’ll run my own fingers over them in the shower, re-
imagining this moment then pressing down on them just enough to make them throb.

“My little wild thing,” you say softly when we finally break apart to breathe. “It’s taken so long to
tame you. You’d never allow this from anyone else, would you? No one but me.” I shake my head
rather senselessly and you briefly tighten your grip until I wince. “Say it.”

This is now starting to edge closer to a sense of ownership than I’m fully comfortable with – the
idea that I’m your possession to debase and desecrate in whatever way you please – yet I know a
contradiction would be hurtful for you and my awareness of this is enough to stop me making one.
Anyway, the uniqueness of your impact on me is undeniable; I don’t really mind admitting it.

“No one but you,” I gasp out.

You groan slightly yourself then slam into me again with a harsh thrust of your hips that’s forceful
enough to send my body pitching forwards. It’s as if your entire touch is pulling me apart. I make a
sound that’s close to a wail and you quickly press a hand over my mouth to stifle it. “Mylimasis,”
you say in the same soft voice. “My love. You’re mine now. Mine: you know that don’t you? It
took you years to learn it, but now you know. You belong to me.”

At some point you’ve wrapped your other hand around my throat, the touch light yet still managing
to whisper with a threat of violence. God, it’s obscene sometimes; how much I trust you. I nod
again from behind your hand and you give another sigh then stoke your finger along the edge of
my jaw. “Look at you,” you add. “So vulnerable, Will. I could do whatever I liked to you, couldn’t
I? I could do anything at all – and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

You’re really pushing things by now, but while I’m privately rolling my eyes at you I still don’t
feel any urge to pull away. I’ll probably give you a lecture about it afterwards (which you won’t
listen to) before I run out of steam halfway through and end up telling you that you’re a control
freak, and a godawful drama queen, but that I still love you anyway. Right now I think I just feel
more sympathetic than anything – it’s obvious the proximity to Jack has set you off, and if you
need some reassurance by asserting a sense of control then I don’t mind letting you have it.
Besides, there’s no doubt you’ve always got a kick out of the way I was never afraid of you.
Instead of struggling I just lean back against you to show that I understand why you’re being so
possessive and don’t intend to judge you for it. In response you let go of my mouth, and as your
hips speed up again I cry out even louder then drop my hand down between my legs to cover yours
as you take hold of my cock. The force and passion of it makes it difficult to breathe and my body
is coiling up so tightly; I’m already dangerously close to coming.

“Oh God,” I whisper. My other hand is braced against the wall, fingers scrabbling helplessly as
some kind of outlet for the tension. “God, Hannibal. It feels so good.”

I think we both know I’m not just talking about the sex. What I really mean is the forbidden
location we’re having it in; in other words, the freedom your presence gives me to surrender to all
my most immoral desires and twisted instincts – to know that something’s wrong, and should be
resisted, but then to take one look at you and decide to do it anyway. It’s always been like that,
hasn’t it? Why else would the process of Becoming grow so entangled with my longing to be close
to you; I always knew embracing these darker yearnings was the only way we could be together.
Meeting you has meant falling to a form of radical self-acceptance from which I’ve never really
recovered.

“So good,” you repeat softly. It’s almost as if you’ve read my mind; although who knows, maybe
you have? It would hardly be the first time. Having someone who can interpret me so accurately
creates a sense of closeness so intense it’s almost shocking, yet there’s also a powerful reassurance
in it too. It’s the fact that you want to understand me: you want it so badly, and you’ll never grow
tired of seeking it out. It’s a sign of care and devotion – the way that you’ll never lose interest in
trying to guide me through my own internal chaos.

“Yes,” I now reply, to show you that you’re right – that I have bad instincts – and that I don’t mind
indulging them if it means we can spiral down together. It’s what we’ve always done, after all: the
same plunge from the same precipice, hurtling in mutual descent while locked in each other’s
arms. Before our fight I know I’d have only lasted a few hours before trying to walk this admission
back again, but this time I know I’m not going to. Possibly it’ll be something to discuss in our not-
quite therapy sessions, or maybe I’ll keep it to myself, but either way I’m determined not to revert
to my previous strategy of attempting to deny that it’s there.

“No one’s survived you as long as I have,” I hear myself adding. “No one but me. Say it.”

“Beloved.” You give a low sigh then briefly bury your face in my hair again. “No one but you.”

“No one ever.”

“Only you – always.”

“Forever.”

“You were my downfall.”

I groan again then push back against you. “And your equal.”

“You’re my inspiration, Will. My sense and my reason.”

“I’m your conscience,” I say.

You groan slightly yourself, breath coming quick and uneven as you continue to rock into me.
“Then I’m your corruption.”

For a few moments you slow back down, pulling out nearly all the way until you’re just moving
the head of your cock inside me with a series of thick, hard jolts. I can feel you biting kisses into
my throat and jaw, waiting so long my whole body starts to quiver with the strain of it before
taking hold of my waist in both hands to tug me towards you as you slam straight back in. The
force of it drives the air out my lungs in a shuddering breath as I try to gasp out your name, blindly
grabbing for your hand again as your teeth drag across my throat even harder than before. The
roughness of it is enough to make me want to moan or cry, but I don’t – and as my cock gives a
violent spasm I just come instead.

By now I’m panting so loudly you have to re-cover my mouth with your hand, pressing me as close
to you as possible then kicking my feet wider apart as your hips rock into me with a brutally
relentless rhythm that hammers my prostate on each thrust and practically sets my nerves on fire.
Your mouth is directly covering my ear and I can hear you murmuring uncharacteristically obscene
observations about the way I look and the sounds I’m making: how much I want it – need it – the
way I love being fucked so hard, so wanton and shameless I'll break one of my main rules just so
someone can pound their cock into my needy little body. I make a growling noise in agreement
then bite down on your fingers, enjoying the way your voice is literally coiling into my head.

“You’re getting so tight, Will,” you say softly. “Mylimasis. You love this, don’t you?”

This time I just groan instead of replying. Oh fuck, fuck – I’m actually going to come again. I can
feel it, and clearly you can too. My fingers are still damp and slippery from the last time as I reach
down to thrust my hand in the same tempo of your hips, squeamishly aware that I’m using my own
semen to jerk myself off. My heartbeat’s roaring wildly in my chest and all I can hear anymore are
the ragged splinters of sound you seem to be forcing out of me as I get fucked: breathy and broken
and desperate, begging you to do it harder (please, please, please), then almost sobbing at how
good it feels as we hit a perfect rhythm and I’m frantically trying to chase a release that feels just
seconds away.

When the second orgasm eventually hits it’s much gentler and fainter than the first, my cock
twitching helplessly in my hand despite there being nothing left to come out of it. But it’s still
enough to make me clench down hard around you until your hips give a sharp stutter and you’re
pumping me full of your own come as a final display of ownership. I can feel it inside me, how
warm and wet it is, and it’s so good – too good. It’s too much. It’s as if I’m so filled by you in
every possible way that I can’t contain it all: can’t think, can’t be, can’t do anything except stay
where I am and take it, because nothing else exists in the entire world except the two of us.

“I love you,” I hear myself saying. My pulse is still pounding in my ears; or perhaps it’s yours?
Two hearts, beating the same molten blood. And so I say it again, then again; repeating it in an
urgent, fervent way as if it’s a mantra or an article of faith. “I-love-you-I-love-you-I-love-you.”

You murmur something ecstatic in a foreign language and when it’s finally over I collapse against
the wall again, tugging in a series of heavy breaths as you slump your weight against my back and
rest your cheek on my hair. I can feel the heat of your skin through my shirt and the pressure of
your mouth on my neck is so reassuring I almost don’t want to move. In fact it’s only when we’re
straightening our clothes and smirking at each other that reality finally reasserts itself and I
remember how much danger you’re in. Yet while it’s enough to make my entire body tense with
anticipation, as far as you’re concerned nothing has changed from earlier and (as usual) you don’t
seem to care.
“We should leave separately,” is all you’ve got to say about it. “One person is less conspicuous
than two.” As you’re speaking you frown slightly then lean over to start tidying my hair into place,
relaxed and oblivious as if we’re heading to the opera and you’ve decided I look too scruffy to be
seen in public. I raise my eyebrows and you simply smile then give one of your elegant little
shrugs. “I have no intention for Jack to see you with me for the time being,” you add. “It would
create unnecessary complications.”

Unspoken, but clearly implied, is that future complications are very much part of your plan, but for
once I don’t have any desire to call you out on it. “No, I want to come with you,” I say stoutly.
“Just in case you need back up. If anything goes down then we go down together.”

“I have no intention of ‘going down.’” Your mouth gives a small twist as you say this;
unbelievably, it seems as if the offensiveness of the slang term is bothering you far more than any
genuine sense of risk. “No one saw me arriving,” you add. “And unless I choose otherwise then I
intend to leave the same way.”

Briefly I catch your eye. “Unless you choose otherwise?” I repeat. The question in my tone is
obvious but you just you stare back in silence, supremely calm and controlled without giving
anything away. It’s like you’ve briefly slipped back into the version of yourself from several years
ago: coldly detached and clinical with none of the spectrum of emotion I’ve come to associate with
you since we’ve been together. In a way it’s like your new edition of the person suit. You’ve pulled
on a steely form of armour to navigate the outside world, whereas the version I see at home is so
much warmer and more human. But it’s hardly the right time to explain any of this, and eventually
I give up and simply reach out to straighten the collar on your jacket.

“Be careful,” is all I say.

This time you don’t bother responding at all, although I can’t say I really blame you. It was a
pointless a bit of advice. You’re always careful – or whatever counts as your version of it. In the
end I just sigh then give you a rather lop-sided smile.

“I forbid you from pulling another stunt like this,” I say. “I shouldn’t have done it; and I’m already
feeling guilty that I did. But…but I don’t regret it. I want to officially put that on the record.”

“Is that so?” you reply. In the moonlight I can see you smiling too. “And can I count your
confession as evidence for the prosecution?”

“Yeah, you can,” I say firmly. “So if I try to get self-righteous with you about it later, don’t let
me.” I give a small grimace, imagining the form of denial this would most likely have taken if our
recent fight hadn’t shaken me out of it. “I give you full permission to call me out for being a
hypocrite.”

For a few moments you stare at me in silence before abruptly tugging me forward to press your lips
against my forehead. “Mylimasis,” you say, your voice unusually soft and gentle. “I spent my entire
life waiting to find you. And you were worth every moment of the wait.”

For some reason I find myself absurdly moved by this. I’m not even sure why; it’s hardly like it’s
the first time you’ve expressed something similar. It’s as if the stress of the last few days are
making me more emotional than usual (for God’s sake). “Same,” I reply. And then, apropos of
nothing: “I love you. You make me want to be a more honest version of myself.”

I suppose the traditional form of this statement would be ‘a better version’, but I know that’s not
true so there’s no point saying it. You haven’t made me better – at least not in any accepted
meaning of the term – but you have made me more authentic. And you’ve made me happier…
happier than I expected, or even believed, that it was ever possible to be. You immediately start to
smile again, and I impulsively lean towards you then rest my forehead against yours.

“I know things haven’t been easy,” I say quietly. “But no matter what happens, I want you to know
that I choose you. Not Jack…not this.” I wave my hand around rather vaguely, gesturing at the
walls and ceiling as if asking them to stand in as a proxy for general law enforcement. “I chose you
before, and I choose you now, and I’ll keep on choosing you for as long as there’s ever a choice to
make.” Briefly I pause as I tighten my grip on your shoulder. For now and for always. Without
question and without regret. In a breath or in a heartbeat. “I want you to know that – that I’ll
never stop choosing you.”

*****

When you’ve finally left I wait behind for the agreed five minutes before slipping silently outside
myself. This interval is short, but seems long, and is also surprisingly agonising as I sit there in
tortured suspense that something terrible is just about to happen. I keep waiting for the horrified
shouts and yells (‘My God, it’s him, he’s come back’, quickly followed by the sound of gunshot)
but of course there’s nothing like that and when I eventually go outside the parking lot is just as
eerily deserted as before. Now I feel faintly ashamed of myself – like I’m somehow doubting your
ability to keep one step ahead of your opponents – although even as I’m thinking this I know it’s
not the real reason. There’s no question you could avoid them if you wanted to…it’s more a
question of whether you really do want to. For a few moments I remember that scene in the
alleyway in the days before Jack turned up; that sense I had of how much you wanted me in a
situation where I’d be forced to break my own rules and prove I really had crossed over onto the
same dark path as yourself. You’re going to do it one day…I know you are. It’s not a matter of if,
but simply a matter of when.

Wearily I now drag my hand through my hair. I’m trying to process how I feel about this, but as
with so many things where you’re concerned there are no easy solutions. It’s like the way I tried to
prepare for a moment like tonight, only to discover that no amount of planning was ever enough to
predict how either of us would behave. After all, I must have spent hours rehearsing various
scenarios of you turning up here and not a single goddamn one ever ended up with us having
ecstatic sex in a shed. Now I find myself starting to smile at the thought of it, even though I know I
shouldn’t. I mean, I really shouldn’t…oh God, I’m useless aren’t I? No wonder you always end up
getting exactly what you want. You’re like the ultimate tyrannical toddler while I’m the pushover
parent who can’t ever put their foot down and bring themselves to say ’no’. I try (and fail) to not
start smiling again then turn around rather gingerly, attempting not to wince too much from the
assorted aches and pains of the last half hour. There’s something rather satisfying about them –
leaving me dazedly punch-drunk by all the pleasure and passion which put them there – but
unfortunately it also causes a fatal lack of focus, because I now lurch round without looking and
succeed in barrelling head-first into that asshole detective from earlier.

For a few moments I just stare at him, blinking rather foolishly as surprise does battle with a
crushing sense of dismay at the bad luck of seeing him right now. Oh Christ, what’s his name
again? I can’t even remember. Not Giovanni or Giorgio…no, Aronne. That’s it: Aronne. I hold up
both hands, palms upwards in a gesture of apology, and he backs away from me as his face twists
into an expression of outrage that seems totally disproportionate to the relatively minor offence of
knocking into him.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” he says. The tone of this request is not remotely
sympathetic; it’s clear what he’s really asking is: you total freak, what the hell is your problem?
“Why are you stumbling about out here in the dark?”
“I’m not,” I say crossly. As comebacks go this is admittedly shit – considering I’ve literally just
stumbled into him (in the dark) – but his tone of voice is deeply irritating and makes me less
inclined to be polite. After all, I wouldn’t take Jack interrogating me like this so I’m certainly not
going to take it from him.

As I watch his lips draw back from his teeth with a blend of contempt and aggression that’s
incredibly unappealing. “That tall friend of yours,” he adds. “Mr Zeller. He thought he saw
someone out here earlier. Was that you too?”

Ironically it’s now obvious that what my tall friend Mr Zeller actually saw was almost certainly my
other tall friend Dr Lecter…although I’m hardly in any position to point this out. “Yes it was, as it
happens,” I snap. “I’ve just been…” Oh for fuck’s sake though, what could I reasonably have been
doing around the back of a police storage building? Taking a clandestinely forensic piss? “I wanted
somewhere private to make a call,” I say eventually, cursing the lameness of the excuse but unable
to think of anything better.

“Now?”

“Yes, obviously. There’s…there’s been a death in the family.”

Aronne raises both eyebrows in a distinctly sceptical gesture while I stand there and reflect on how
the only likely death in the family is going to be my own via epic public mortification. “I don’t
know if I believe that,” he says eventually. “You have not seemed particularly upset today.”

“I don’t care if you believe it or not,” I say irritably. “Why would I have any reason to lie about it?”
(Well…apart from one or two reasons).

“I don’t know,” he replies, which seems like a pretty accurate summation of his detecting abilities
right fucking there. “All I do know is that I find your behaviour to be odd. I find you odd. You are
very strange, signore. And very arrogant.

My first response to this speech is that ‘Strange and Arrogant’ is what I would call my terrible emo
band (if I ever had one), quickly followed by resentment that it’s a bit goddamn rich to say I’m the
arrogant one when he’s the person who thinks his opinions are so important that I’m expected to
just stand there and listen politely while he lectures me about what a massive dick he thinks I am.
Then I abruptly lose interest in the entire thing and prepare to move away, only to find his hand
crashing down on my shoulder to stop me.

“You have no right to be out here,” he says. “This is private property, and you are just a guest. You
Americans are all the same.” There’s a pause as his lip curls back to repeat the same snarling
gesture as before. “Always throwing your weight around.”

As he waits for a reply I find myself staring back at him, suddenly overcome with a childish urge
to laugh. Throwing your weight around, though…it’s such an odd, old-fashioned sounding term. I
wonder if he’s read it in a book somewhere? Of course there’s also the fact he’s a good 10 pounds
heavier than me, so if there’s any weight to be thrown around then he should really be doing the
honours…only I don’t suppose reminding him of this would improve my situation all that much.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I say in a sharper voice. “I’m leaving. Right. Now. I advise you don’t try to
stop me.”

His immediate response to this is to tighten his grip on my shoulder. “You are not going
anywhere,” he replies. “You are going to speak to your supervisore, and perhaps you will explain
to him why you think you are allowed to sneak about on our property?”
Considering everything Jack’s had to put up with from me over the years it feels a safe bet that he
won’t have a single shit to give about me rambling round a deserted shed (complete with phantom
phone calls to non-existent relatives). But while the substance of the threat doesn’t bother me, the
delivery of it does – a lot – because there’s no way in hell I’m submitting myself to getting hauled
up to Jack’s office by the likes of him.

“No, I don’t think so,” I say crisply. While he’s the only one of us who’s raised his voice so far the
flare of anger in my own is getting increasingly obvious. “Now take your hands off me. This is
your last warning.”

“This is your last warning,” he repeats, in a what I assume is meant to be an American accent. It’s
truly terrible (in fact, it’s so bad I’m half inclined to ask him if he wants me to wait while he has a
second attempt). “Will Graham is giving me my last warning,” he adds mockingly. “Who do you
think you are, signore? This is not your department. You don’t work here. Yet still you think you
can turn up and do whatever it is you please.”

“It sure looks that way,” I reply, blithe and obnoxious like the Patron Saint of asshole Americans
everywhere. As I’m speaking I pull back slightly, drawing enough leverage to roughly push him
off, although even as I’m doing it it’s obvious that I’ve lost his attention. He’s not even looking at
me anymore. Instead, his eyes have narrowed and then swivelled away entirely as they focus
intently on something just beyond my shoulder. Something…or someone.

I don’t even need to turn round to know it’s you. Because – of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?
You basically warned me you were considering something like this; I can’t really blame you for
the fact I didn’t want to acknowledge it. And which is why it’s only now, stranded here in the
moonlight, that I fully appreciate how your earlier appearance was little more than an aperitif and
that, as far as you’re concerned, the night is only just getting started.
 Chapter 33
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

What now follows is a long and exquisitely awful silence as I glance from you to Aronne then back
again, fantasising almost wildly about all the possible things that might be just about to happen.
Various scenarios are flashing though my mind as I stand there: kaleidoscopic and catastrophic,
black and blue and blood-stained, some frightening, some exhilarating…and all interspersed with
the same overwhelming tension that’s so intense it almost takes my breath away. I don’t ever
remember feeling so frantic as this in the past when confronted with you getting captured – but
then of course that makes sense, because in the past I was never so attached to you. Back then I
was less afraid, simply because I didn’t have such a strong awareness of how much I could lose.
Because to lose you now. Losing you now would be like losing a piece of myself; I don’t know if I
could even survive the separation. But either way you’re still poised to have your assumptions
proven right about me, because now that the moment’s come I know I’d kill him in a heartbeat if
there’s even the slightest chance of him threatening you. He’s nothing like my usual choice of prey
– in fact, in his moral values, is fundamentally the opposite – but that still won’t be enough to stop
me because I know that I will. I’ll do it, I silently message you. With my bare hands if I have to.
Are you happy now? You’ve succeeded, you’ve proved your point. I’m just as bad as you want me
to be.

Of course, the main thing all these fantasies ultimately depend on is whether or not he’s recognised
you, and that’s the one thing I can’t answer because it’s still too early to tell. Has he? I don’t know,
he’s not giving anything away. It’s such a strange feeling now as I wait for him to speak: this
person who I dislike so much, knowing that the next few words which come from his lips have the
potential to change my life forever. Instinctively though, I already know I’m willing to trust
whichever way you want to play it. I’m ready to follow your lead. If you attempt to deceive him
I’ll back you up, and if you reveal yourself – and me – then I’ll go along with that too.

As I watch Aronne takes a step towards you, and it’s this which gives me the grounding I need to
come roaring back to life again and quickly move forward myself. I probably look decisive, but the
truth is I’m tinged with a sense of chaos because it’s not like I’ve got a clear plan of what I’m about
to do. Effectively I’ve got nothing: no weapon to attack him, no authority to stop him…nothing
beyond the fierce, instinctive urge to protect and a certainty that if he wants to take you down then
he’ll have to go through me first. He glances round as I do it, and it’s only when I see his
expression and process the annoyance on it that I finally realise the worst hasn’t happened (yet)
and he doesn’t know who you are. I almost didn’t to dare to hope for this, but while my initial
response is a crashing sense of relief it’s quickly followed – deep down, somewhere I’m still not
fully ready to acknowledge – with a whisper of disappointment. The realisation of how badly a part
of me wanted a reason to attack him is disturbing without being wholly shocking, although it’s
already easy to imagine how delighted you’ll be when you find this out (because of course you will
find out, regardless of whether or not I choose to tell you). But either way now is hardly the time to
dwell on it, and I guiltily stash this part of me away to its usual hiding place until the time might
come to take it out again and examine it more closely. It doesn’t want to go though, I can tell. I feel
like if I closed my eyes I’d even be able to see it: teeth slightly bared, and with wildly, fathomless
eyes as dark and unfeeling as your own.

By this point I’ve moved and Aronne’s moved: chess pieces, shifting around on the board you’ve
made. The only one still motionless is you, and it’s now that you finally take a step forward
yourself to come prowling out of the shadows, moonlight dramatically spilling across your face to
illuminate each plane of bone. Your shoulders are pulled back, muscles flexing gracefully as if
you’re just preparing to pounce. Christ, you’re fucking terrifying when you want to be…it’s been
so long since I’ve seen you like this that I’d almost forgotten. That hidden part of me thrills at the
sight of it, promptly re-doubling its struggles to be let loose again and allowed to roam free. My
Dark Twin…that part of you I always see whenever I look in the mirror.

In response Aronne quickly straightens his own shoulders then faces you directly, eyebrows raised
in a rather defiant way. Admittedly only a few seconds have passed, although it still seems time for
him to have recovered himself (at least enough to have processed a tall, menacing stranger looming
into his face from totally out of nowhere). “Posso aiutarla, signore?” he asks.

“Sì,” you reply crisply. “Ho sentito la sua conversazione.”

Your voice is pitched lower than normal and I can immediately tell how angry you are. I know that
no one else would ever guess this though, simply because of incredibly calm you still sound. So, so
calm: blank and soulless in way that’s far more unsettling than obvious outrage could ever be. To
an outsider this is you with the disguise stripped off: the psychopath. The monster. I still don’t see
it though, not really. All I can see is you.

Aronne leans back a little then performs an awkward shuffling motion involving his hips and both
feet. Although the Italian is very rapid I can still follow enough to know you’ve told him you
overheard our conversation, and it seems he’s now understandably confused as to how long you’ve
been standing there.

“C’è un problema?” he eventually replies.

Yes, I think grimly. Yes, there’s most likely going to be a problem. Possibly he thinks the same,
because by this point he’s showing definite signs of being unnerved. I can just sense it; his voice
has grown subdued and his posture is slumping, the usual swagger seeping out of him like a badly
tied balloon. Even so, I’m certain he’s not aware of doing it. It’s not like you’ve done anything
obvious to threaten him after all: instead, it’s more like a deeply primitive instinct that he knows
something is wrong without being able to say what it is. Did I ever feel the same way around you?
It’s hard to say for sure. Possibly I might have done, although I can’t really remember. It’s like I
know you so well by now that – even with my levels of empathy – it’s sometimes hard to interpret
you through the eyes of a stranger. To me you’re such a deep-routed source of safety and comfort
that I occasionally need to remind myself that no one else would ever experience you that way.

“Sì,” you now repeat. “C’è senz’altro un problema.”

Your tone is still calm, yet also extremely authoritative, the same way I often remember you using
it in the past. The profiler in me never fails to be intrigued by this, despite being far past the point
of where I’d be able to analyse you as a case study – even if I wanted to (which I don’t). There’s
something undeniably fascinating about it though. I’ve always thought so. Cool, considered,
imposing, dignified: it’s all these things, yet it’s also fundamentally intimidating – despite being
difficult to say exactly what it is that makes it that way. Why is it? I’m not sure, it just…is. I
suppose there’s the visual deterrent of your height and musculature, but it’s also far more than just
that. Perhaps your obvious lack of fear? The imperishable self-confidence? The posture and
inflection, so indicative of courage and invulnerability? Or maybe it’s the very faint smile,
suggesting that the mere idea of someone presuming themselves capable of inflicting any kind of
harm on you provides you with an endless source of amusement. But whatever it actually is has
clearly driven a stake straight through the proverbial heart of Aronne’s resolve, because he now
takes a step quick back just as you stalk several steps forward. I can’t help thinking there’s
something instinctual about his retreat, something primal; impossible to articulate, but simply
signalling that the victim knows it’s facing a threat that’s too formidable to be managed
successfully. I feel that if a furious, snarling dog was present it too would sense the menace in the
air and grow subdued and silent – and likewise it wouldn’t fully understand why.

“Il suo comportamento è molto scortese,” you’re now saying. “Quello non è il modo di rivolgersi a
un visitatore.”

Aronne clears his throat then actually throws me a quick glance as if he’s hoping I might intervene.
By this point the Italian is getting too fast for me to be able to follow, although I know scortese
means ‘rude’ (oh dear) and ospite is ‘guest’, so it’s fairly safe to assume you’re lecturing him for
not showing sufficient respect to a foreign visitor. Oh shit, of course, that’s your play: the implied
degree of insider knowledge is inviting him to think you’re a police officer yourself (a very senior
one, obviously). In fact, knowing you, you’re probably busy bullshitting him that you’re some sort
of commissario, newly arrived from Rome to check on how the country’s most notorious case is
progressing. This is simple but admittedly rather nifty, and I give a small nod of approval at the
way you’ve devised such a convenient cover story at short notice. At the same time I’m also
throwing increasingly frantic glances toward the building at the thought of Jack’s inevitable
appearance, but just as before the entrance remains reassuringly empty.

Having concluded whatever the hell it is you’re lying to him about you now draw to a close then
neatly fold your arms across your chest. “Dovrebbe scusarsi con lui,” you add.

I recognise this as an instruction for him to apologise to me, although it’s clear he doesn’t want to
because he promptly repeats the earlier shuffling motion then throws me a distinctly resentful look.
“No, signore,” he replies in a way that’s so whiny and wheedling I actually feel embarrassed for
him. “Non capisce. L’agente Graham, è …”

Before he’s even finished you’re stepping forward again, only this time you let out a very low
snarling noise deep in your throat. It’s not even all that loud, yet he and I both visibly flinch at the
sound of it. It’s kind of skin-crawling; inhuman…not the sort of sound that a person should be able
to make. I can immediately tell how disturbed he is, and so am I – only for very different reasons.
I’m not frightened of it, or of you, but I am frightened at what it might be about to lead to. Oh God,
you’ve gone too far, I think numbly. You’ve let the mask slip; you’ve let too much of your real self
show…he’s going to know now that you’re not what you’re pretending to be. Instinctively I square
my shoulders, catapulted back in time to several minutes ago and the very real possibility I’ll have
to silence him – permanently – if there’s even the slightest risk he’s about to raise the alarm.

Aronne darts his tongue across his lips then turns back to me again. “Mi scuso,” he says. “Mi
dispiace molto.”

The words are practically tumbling over themselves in their eagerness to leave his mouth. He’s
even nervous enough to have forgotten to use English, because he suddenly seems to check himself
then adds: “I apologise, signore. Truly. I should not have spoken to you that way.” You slowly
swivel your head to stare at him and he clears his throat then hastily adds: “I should certainly not
have – how do you say it…pushed you around. Touched you.”

“Molto bene,” you say crisply.

The faint smile has returned to your face; somehow it manages to be even more unnerving than the
earlier displeasure was. Briefly I catch your eye then turn back again myself to face Aronne.
“That’s okay,” I say, attempting to sound as casual as I can. “It’s no big deal.”

Is it really possible he’s fallen for it? I suppose he might have done. The Italian police service is
even more hierarchal than the US one; almost more like the military in terms of excessive
deference to authority. And the idea of honour and civility are highly valued – I guess it’s not
totally implausible that discourtesy to a foreign guest would be frowned upon. For the first time I
find myself feeling vaguely grateful to ‘The Hero of the FBI’ (even though it’s still as cringe as
fuck) because at least my supposed status adds a certain credibility to the fiction you’ve managed
to spin. In an attempt to collude with it I now add: “There’s no need for this to go any further. I’m
not going to tell Jack.”

“Grazie,” he says. There’s an obvious reluctance in his tone; this time it’s more like the words are
crawling out and it’s clear how resentful he feels at having to accept any kind of favour from me.
“That is very good of you.”

“Nessun problema,” is all I say.

You smile again, teeth gleaming in the dark, and I watch in silence as you walk past me to go
straight up to him and loom into his space. This time your voice is deliberately lower so I’ve no
idea what you’re saying, yet as I continue watching I still instinctively know that I should
intervene. I should stop you, I know I should. I know. And yet – I don’t. Instead I just watch and
wait with the same stony silence until you finally turn round again and I can catch your eye for a
second time. They’re very intense, your eyes: bright-edged flints, the colour of dark amber. Staring
into your eyes is like staring into an abyss…and somehow I always see myself at the bottom.

Another small pause now follows before Aronne finally turns away himself and starts to slink off
towards his car, limp and dejected like all his earlier bravado has withered away in the crisp night
air. I don’t feel any desire to help him, though; in fact I’m barely aware of him at all. Instead I’m
marvelling at the scene that’s just taken place and how casually willing I was to participate in it. A
few short weeks ago such calm complicity would have been unthinkable: but that was before the
fight, and the sudden possibility of losing you, and before my internal world shifted dramatically
on its axis yet again and tilted even further in your favour. Not that this is surprising, I suppose: in
one way or another, I’ve always defined myself in relation to you. Just an old habit, dying hard.

You look so impressive in the moonlight, and as I carry on staring the same words from a month
ago begin to run through my head as both a threat and a promise: He who fights with monsters
should look to it that he does not himself become a monster. And when you gaze too long into the
abyss, the abyss gazes into you.

*****

To preserve what’s left of appearances I’m careful to make sure we leave the parking lot in
opposite directions. Even so, I still know I won’t be walking home alone and sure enough I only
make it a couple of blocks before you appear again out of nowhere and fall into step beside me. I
can already tell who it is without having to look so quickly dart out my hand to take hold of yours,
clinging onto it in a sort of death-grip as if to prevent you straying off again. The sense of relief
that things have ended the way they have – cleanly, peacefully – is almost indescribable, and even
now I can’t quite believe we’ve both got off so lightly. I can go to the office tomorrow and scrawl
in my notebook while Aronne is a huge dick to me and no one will ever be any the wiser.

For a few seconds we now just walk in silence, me rhythmically smoothing my thumb back and
forwards across your knuckles. “Just wait ‘til I get you home,” I say finally.

“Oh dear,” you reply. “That sounds rather ominous. I appear to be in some kind of trouble.”

“Damn right you are,” I say. Briefly I tighten my grip on your hand. “You’re grounded for the next
week. And no movies or video games either.” Then I give a bark of laughter, only to find it goes
wrong halfway through and turns into a sort of gasp instead. “Jesus, Hannibal, have you got some
sort of death wish? What the hell were you thinking?”

“I do not have a death wish,” you reply, despite it being obvious that I didn’t mean it that way.
Honestly, you’re so infuriatingly literal at times. I’m sure you do it on purpose to annoy me.

“Well, that’s good,” I say tersely. “I’m glad we’ve got that established.”

“But he had his hands all over you,” you add in a tone that indicates exactly how offended you are
by this. “And he was being unbearably rude.”

“I know he was – and I had it under control.”

“That’s as may be. But if you think I was going to stand silently by without intervening then I’m
afraid you are crediting me with greater levels of forbearance than I actually possess.”

“Oh, come on,” I snap. “You shouldn’t have been there at all. You said you were leaving.”

“I was leaving,” you say calmly. “And then I came back again.”

This is announced in such a ludicrously casual way that I find myself laughing for a second time,
even though I know I shouldn’t. I should be being the adult – stern and sensible while trying to
discourage you – but somehow I feel I’m far beyond that point by now. Besides, there’s no way
you’d listen to me so it’s not like it would do any good. In this respect it’s actually pretty
impossible to measure the amount of fucks you couldn’t give (mainly on the basis that science has
yet to invent a device capable of detecting such a miniscule amount).

“I’m getting too old for this,” is all I say. “And so are you.”

“Too old for what?”

“All this. The drama.” Internally I sigh to myself. Said to you: the biggest drama queen in the
known universe (and probably all the undiscovered ones too). “I’m telling you that I want a quiet
life.”

There’s a slight pause; if I concentrated hard enough I think I could probably feel the waves of
smugness radiating off you. “No you don’t,” you eventually say.

“Well…a quieter life.” I sigh again then give your hand another squeeze. “I want to go back to how
we were before.”

“Which is what?”

“I don’t know. Just…calmer, I guess.” I wave my hand around rather fretfully, trying to think of the
best way to express it. After all, surely our lives weren’t ever what could exactly be described as
calm? “Happier,” I finally conclude. “Less stressful. You know? The way we were before Jack
turned up.”

“Yes, Will,” you reply. “I agree with you there. So perhaps now you’ll understand why I am so
determined for us to be rid of him?”

Seeing how I pretty much set that one up for you there hardly seems any point in arguing about it,
so in the end I don’t even bother and just reiterate the same silent pledge that somehow I need to
find a way to keep you the two of you safe from one another (while trying to ignore the
inconvenient fact I’m still no closer to deciding how the hell I’m supposed to achieve this). It’s
frustrating to realise that after all these years I’m still having to referee between you and Jack,
although I guess it’s not really that surprising. After all, I’ve always been a device that you’ve used
to communicate your intentions to the outside world. The difference is that I’m far more aware of
the role, so while it can admittedly be frustrating it’s no longer terrifying or overwhelming in the
way it used to be.

I now give your hand another squeeze and you stroke your thumb across my knuckles in response.
“I’m starving,” is all I say. “Can we eat when we get home?”

“Yes, of course,” you reply. “Do you want me to take care of it or would you rather see to things
yourself?”

I tell you I’ll do it myself, which immediately makes you smile. This is because I’ve been using
our recent truce to act on my earlier idea of asking you to teach me how to cook, and while it was
originally more for your sake than mine I’ve genuinely surprised myself with how much I’ve
begun to enjoy it. Unlike you I can’t do it instinctively so need to follow the recipes with a level of
obedience which borders on neurotic, but none of that changes the deep satisfaction at producing
something edible at the end of it. You don’t bullshit me with false praise (and if something sucks
will never fail to say so) but you’re also extremely patient and seem to take a genuine pleasure in
watching me manhandle assorted ingredients while remaining on-hand with a steady supply of
advice. By this point I’m too tired to bother with a full meal, so eventually opt for chicken soup on
the basis that it’s reasonably quick and simple to prepare. On the other hand, the fact it’s being
prepared under your supervision means it can’t be too simple, so still ends up including such
unlikely ingredients as shitake mushrooms and goji berries…and the actual chicken is black.

“Silkie chicken,” you say when you see me grimacing at the package. “I’d suggest you reserve
your judgement until you’ve tasted it. The flavour is much subtler and leaner than traditional
poultry. It is extremely delicious.”

“You think everything is delicious.” I pause then give you a severe look over the top of my glasses.
“Everything.”

“Yes,” you say smoothly. “And I am usually correct.” As you’re speaking you lean over a little,
helping to guide my hand to cut the meat into finer strips. “They also happen to be somewhat
singular animals. For example, they are uncommonly docile, unable to fly, and are nearly always
polydactylous.”

“That means absolutely nothing. I’ve no idea how many toes a chicken is supposed to have.”

“The usual number is four.”

“And they have…?”

“Five.”

“Right,” I say. “Well…good for them I guess.” I slice the final piece of meat into a delicate black
wafer then put it to one side before transferring my attention to the pile of dates which you’ve left
out for me in a little ceramic bowl, plum and delicious. You watch in silence for a while then
finally push back your chair so you can stand straight behind me and gently place your hands over
mine to direct them.

“Use the paring knife,” you say. “It makes it quicker to remove the pit.”

Your cheek is pressed against mine now. It feels nice; very smooth and snug. I lean contentedly
into the touch then continue to follow your instructions, tongue protruding slightly between my
teeth with the effort of concentrating. You make an amused noise at the sight of it then place a kiss
against my temple.

“I was considering what you said earlier,” you add. “About wishing to reduce your sense of stress.”

“Oh yeah?” I ease one of the dates into a perfect incision and give a small grunt of satisfaction
before I can stop myself. “And what were your conclusions?”

“My conclusion was that we should seek out some more activities which might assist with that
goal. Something we could do together. Your film nights, for example, were a very great success.”

Considering how much you actively enjoy seeing me stressed I can’t help feeling surprised at this,
then promptly experience a guilty twinge as soon as the thought occurs to me. I can see how unfair
I’m being: even now it still seems I’m sometimes so hardwired to assume the worst of you. “Okay,
thanks,” I say. I swivel round and give your forehead a small nudge with mine. “That’d be great.”

“Do you have anything particular in mind?”

I put the dates to one side then retrieve a piece of ginger, frowning slightly as I try to devise some
suitable options. “I think I’d like to go sailing some time,” I say eventually. Then I remember
Price’s advice and find myself faltering; perhaps this would count as the equivalent of putting you
in a tent surrounded by fishing tackle? Oh well, surely it can’t hurt to ask? Anyway, it’s not like
you don’t constantly expect me to do all kinds of random shit. “I’d really like it if you came with
me,” I add. “I mean, you don’t have to, obviously…but I’d like it if you did.”

“Yes, of course,” you say smoothly (surprise number two). “Although that would take some time
to arrange and I was hoping for something more immediate. For example, the Bardini has a
retrospective of William Steig’s New Yorker illustrations which I thought you might like.” You
pause then press another kiss against my temple. “Seeing how you have been pining for America.”

Given your obvious resentment of my homesickness I find myself extremely touched by this.
“Thanks,” I say gruffly. “That was thoughtful. But you’d hate that – you know you would. You’d
be bored out your mind.”

“But we are discussing your preferences, not mine. Besides, after subjecting yourself to so much
opera I feel it’s the least I can do.”

I smile a bit at this then resume my manipulation of the ginger and microplane grater until you
finally take pity on me and lean round to help do it yourself. “William Steig…” I add almost
dreamily. “I haven’t thought about him in years. I used to love his cartoons when I was little.”

“You still are little, beloved.”

I laugh again then give you a discreet dig in the ribs with my elbow. “Again with the height jokes.
That one’s getting so old by now. You do know that, right? Old and tired…a bit like you.”

“Yes, I dare say it is. I’m afraid your overreaction is so reliably entertaining that I can’t help
myself.”

“It’s not even true. I’m barely shorter than you are.”

“Yes, William,” you say mildly. “You are a true titan.”

I give your ribs another prod then resume my attempt to plane the ginger into little shreds (and
which, despite using the same implement, seem to be irritatingly less precise than your own
version). “Well, anyway,” I add. “I did like them, they were very well-done. My dad used to read
them too.”

“Did he?” you reply in a thoughtful voice. “Somehow it does not surprise me that your child self
could derive such satisfaction from material aimed at adults.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say vaguely. “After all, he was mainly known as a children’s
author. He wrote the books the Shrek movies are based on.”

“The what?”

“Never mind.” I have another private smile to myself then begin to chop up the mushroom,
relieved to have finally found something that can be dismembered with relative ease compared to
everything that came before. “Even his adult stuff wasn’t all that sophisticated.”

“Perhaps not; I still doubt many of your peers would have viewed them the same way.” You reach
over to hand me the Santoku knife to save me having to get it myself then deliver another soft
nudge with your forehead. “William Steig…you appear to have yet another brilliant namesake
there, beloved. You have several don’t you? Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Blake…to name but
three.”

“Forget William Blake,” I say firmly. “I disown him. He is officially banned from the William
Clubhouse.”

“You are too severe on him, mylimasis. One could argue that without his influence we wouldn’t be
here at all.”

“I don’t care,” I say, giving the mushrooms a determined slice. “You’re not a William so your
opinion is irrelevant.”

“For that matter, is your given name William?” you add. “Or are you really a Will? I think I have
just assumed without ever actually confirming it.”

“No,” I say. “I’m really a William. I’ve always just gone by Will, though – ‘William’ from the old
German means ‘exalted protector’ and that always felt like a bit too much pressure.” You make an
amused noise then nuzzle the back of my hair again. “Are you a Hannibal or a Hanibalas?”

“I could be either. The latter is the correct form in Lithuanian, the same way that you would be
Guillaume if you were in France.”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t mind that to be honest. It sounds quite dashing: like Guillaume Dubois.”

“Indeed. Or the last person to successfully invade the British Isles: Guillaume le Conquérant. One
might even venture into a botanical strain,” you add in an exaggeratedly sincere tone. “Dianthus
barbatus: Sweet William.”

I groan slightly then use my elbow to give your ribs another small dig. “Ugh, that was appalling,” I
say. “You should count yourself lucky I don’t turn round and vomit over you.”

“It was appalling,” you agree happily. “You are quite right.”

I burst out laughing then twist round again to press another kiss to your jaw before breaking away
so I can begin transferring the ingredients into one of your huge cast iron pots. I used to think these
were over-the-top when I first saw them but I’m quite fond of them now; they always looks so
outlandish compared to typical pans, more like they should be bubbling magical brews and potions
than my own dubious concoction of black (flightless, polydactylous) chicken soup. While we’re
waiting you rustle up two bowls of rice – light, fluffy and anointed with the daintiest slivers of
green onion – and we finally pour out two glasses of Burgundy Chardonnay then take the whole lot
into the living room to eat it sprawled across the hearthside rug like bandits crouched around our
campfire. Despite my low expectations the soup turns out to be pretty good and I end up devouring
two huge servings before slumping down against your knee with my eyes closed. The heat of the
fire is making me drowsy, and I keep dozing off at intervals before jerking myself awake again
(accompanied each time by “What? I wasn’t actually sleeping”) until you finally get to your feet
and wordlessly hook one arm beneath my knees and the other round my shoulders so you can ferry
me off to the bedroom.

“Indulge me,” you say, when I immediately begin my usual reaction to being carried (which always
involves both arms, both legs, and bears an unfortunate resemblance to a cat being shoved into a
basket). “You know how much I like to have you in my arms.”

Admittedly I do know this; just like I know (but will never, ever admit) that I find it just the tiniest
bit thrilling to have a partner who’s so much stronger than I am that they’re able to hoist me around
so effortlessly. It’s also true that none of this changes how mortifying it feels whenever it happens,
but I still decide I’m going to be less of a dick about it than usual and obligingly stop struggling
before tucking my head beneath your chin. I even hook both arms round your neck as an additional
goodwill gesture, and you promptly look so happy about it I even manage to feel a little less self-
conscious than I normally would. Once we’re upstairs you tenderly help me undress then even lift
the covers up for me to crawl inside before sitting down on the edge of the bed to card your fingers
through my hair.

“God, this is actually getting embarrassing,” I say. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.
Maybe I’m coming down with something?...Did you give my Freak back to me?” I pause then
narrow my eyes at you. “I bet you did.”

“Nothing’s the matter with you. My medical opinion is that you are exhausted: you’ve had an
extremely wearing few days.”

“Yeah, but even so…” I pause then yawn so hard I nearly dislocate my jaw. “If you ever tell
anyone about this I’ll have no choice but to kill you.”

“Noted.”

“I couldn’t survive the public shame. It would be self-defence.”

You smile again then lean back down to smooth a few curls of hair off my forehead before
appearing to change your mind halfway through and returning them to their original position so
they tangle into my eyes. “Beloved,” you say softly. “You look delectable like this.”

“Okay,” I reply between more yawns. “That’s great. Just do me a favour, though – don’t tell me I
look edible.”

“I will not.”

“Thanks.”

“What adjective would you prefer in its place?” you add innocently. “Luscious? Appetizing?” You
pause for a few seconds then give me a rather malevolent smile. “Mouth-watering?”

“Oh Jesus, just…stop.”

“But you do. It is an objective fact. You can hardly blame me for being the bearer of bad news.”

“Well, I do blame you.”

“Have you never heard the expression ‘don’t shoot the messenger’?”

“Yeah,” I say sleepily. “I have. It doesn’t really matter, though – I’d probably just miss you again.”

This makes you laugh out loud before running an affectionate finger down my cheekbone.
“Mylimasis,” you say. “Get some rest, you really do look exhausted. And I promise that when you
wake up I shall do my best to wear you out all over again.”

I mutter something in agreement then affectionately take hold of your hand. I want to tell you how
relieved I am tonight ended the way it did, but somehow the words won’t come and the last thing
I’m aware of is your face over mine; eyes gleaming and your features grower dimmer and less
defined until my own eyes have finally fallen closed and I’ve slipped away into a deep, dreamless
sleep. It seems as if it last for days, although in reality I manage to jolt myself awake just a few
hours later, tense and disorientated as for a few panicked seconds I can’t remember where I am or
what I’m doing there. Then I instinctively reach out for you only to find the other side of the bed is
flat and empty. A quick look at my phone confirms why, seeing as it’s only 11 o’clock, but when
I’ve pulled on some clothes and gone downstairs there’s no signs of you there either. I frown to
myself, suddenly aware of missing you…despite the fact I only saw you a few hours ago (and that
this sudden surge of loneliness is almost as childish and cringey as having to be carried upstairs
and tucked into bed in the first place).

As I stand there I gradually grow aware of a strange, sour taste in my mouth so pad into the kitchen
for some water before making a rather half-hearted start on the dishes so you won’t have to do
them yourself when you get back. God knows where you are, although it’s also far from the first
time this has happened; every so often you’ll sometimes vanish without saying where you’re going,
and unless you choose to tell me then I’ll always make a point not to ask. Instead I’ll tend to scour
the local news for a few days afterwards, attempting to spot any hints of your activity in these
night-time excursions, but if you are using the time to be destructive then so far you’ve been
covering your tracks extremely well. Of course it’s also true that you’re far more likely to go
hunting if I’m with you, so it’s very possible that these midnight walks are nothing more than a
chance for some quiet time alone – something which I can both understand and relate to. I now
decide it would be nice to be there to welcome you when you get home, so stoke up the
smouldering remains of the fire then settle down on the sofa to wait. Your coat is still slung across
the back of it, which is odd – I suppose you must be wearing a different one, although it’s not
entirely clear why. Absent-mindedly I now tug it around my shoulders, partly because it’s so soft
and luxurious, but mostly because it’s yours and the sense and smell of you always feels
comforting. Oh Christ, this really is embarrassing…possibly even worse than the tucking-in. I can’t
help it though; I really can’t. It’s tense and restless to be sat here all alone, and for the first time in
a while I’m aware of a strong pang of resentment at you not being here when you’re needed.

Considering how much I’ve been bitching recently about having more independence this hypocrisy
immediately makes me feel guilty and I sigh at myself then wrap the coat a bit more snugly round
my shoulders. The motion causes a white slip of cardboard to fall from the pocket so I idly lean
over to retrieve it – only to feel every single hair stand up on the back of my neck as I realise what
it is I’m holding. Then for a few seconds I simply stare, dumb and uncomprehending as the full
enormity of what it means crashes over me. It’s ridiculous really – this incomprehension of mine –
but it’s been so long since I’ve seen you harvest business cards that beyond their use as a punchline
I’d almost forgotten all about them. Except there’s no doubt that that’s what it is: I can see it, feel
it, the way it gleams in the flickering light of the fire. There’s a vague trace of your cologne on
 it...it even smells like you. To revert to these old habits now though; to do it in a moment like this,
with Jack and Clarice, and Price and Zeller, and so many other overwhelming risks. Oh God, I
think numbly. You mad, beautiful, reckless monster, what have you done?

Mechanically I turn the card over to read the name and address, even though I can already guess
what it’ll be. And sure enough there it is, spelt out in neat little letters of suitably funereal black:
Aronne Giordano.

And it’s then that I have my answer and know exactly where it is you’ve gone.

Chapter End Notes

Ugh, I’m really sorry for yet another cliff-hanger my lovelies, especially as it’s so
similar to the last one. I promise these events have a wider pay-off for the
plot/character arcs (and isn’t just drama for drama’s sake) but I do appreciate how
frustrating it must be while reading as a WIP. This was only supposed to be the first
half of chapter 33, but unfortunately it got so long there was no way I’d have finished
it on time to post today so had to split it up into two parts :-( On the plus side, I
promise there’s no cliff-hanger in chapter 34! xox
 Chapter 34
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

In the end I find myself losing track of exactly how much time has passed. My phone’s still lying
on the nightstand, right next to my watch, and even if I could be bothered to go get them (which I
can’t) it’s not like it would make any difference. After all, when have you ever worked to someone
else’s schedule? You’ll take as long as you decide you want to and not a minute more or less.
Anxiously watching the clock won’t change that, and so I simply ignore it…along with the
thought, crouched blank and chilling at the back of my mind, that the wait could turn out to be
never-ending because you won’t come home at all. In fact, the idea of you getting caught is so
overwhelming that I can’t even pretend to take it seriously, instead just focussing on a mantra of
Total Confidence that tells me exactly what I want to hear. You’ll be fine, I chant grimly to myself.
Of course you will; you’re always in control of everything you do. It’s extremely persuasive (so
much so that I can deceive myself that I almost believe it) yet none of that prevents the painfully
deep sigh of relief which scours out my mouth the second I hear the door go.

The only light comes from the smouldering remains of the fire so when you first walk in it makes
you seem like a giant silhouette brought to life. As predicted you’re wearing one of your older
coats and your hair is blown slightly back from the wind with a small sheen of raindrops on your
face and shoulders. You also seem extraordinarily calm, although of course this isn’t surprising.
You’re always calm: there’s no real reason why you would be anything else. As you step fully into
the light I notice you’re smiling, but it’s only when I follow your gaze that I realise I’ve still got
your other coat draped around my shoulders like a cape. I shrug it off rather self-consciously and
you smile again then prowl towards the sofa so you can rest your hand on my hair.

“Good evening, my love,” you say. “Although admittedly ‘good morning’ would be more accurate.
I was expecting you’d still be asleep.”

I don’t reply and you trail a finger along my cheekbone before moving away again to drape your
coat across the back of the chair. I find myself watching you rather numbly, struck by a random,
pointless observation that this is a habit you’ve picked up from me. You always used to be so
fastidious about hanging your clothes and now you’ll strew them around almost as casually as I do
myself.

“I suppose the most civilised thing at this hour would be to go to bed,” you add as you’re turning
round again. “But I’m going to have a glass of wine first. Would you like one?”

For a few moments I just stare at you, oddly fascinated by how chiselled your face looks in the
firelight: planed and angled as a Pharaoh, and with the exact same Sphinxy smile. “Why didn’t you
tell me?” I say quietly.

Your hand, currently reaching for the door handle, immediately goes still. The pause is brief, but
it’s undoubtedly there – an extremely rare instance of you being caught off guard. “Because you
would have objected,” you finally reply. “And then you would have tried to stop me.”

Your voice is completely toneless; are you annoyed that I’ve worked it out? It’s honestly
impossible to tell. In the end I just give a rather humourless laugh. “Oh yeah,” I say. “I would have
definitely tried to stop you.”

“And you would have failed,” you say crisply. “There were no circumstances where I would have
changed my mind. The end result was always going to be the same – this way simply avoided
unnecessary conflict.”

“Hardly,” I snap. I’m not as seasoned as you are at concealing emotion and can already feel my
resentment starting to simmer up to the surface. In a way it’s a relief: an outlet for the pent-up
tension brewed across all those unknown number of minutes or hours I’ve sat here waiting. “You
must have known I’d find out eventually,” I add. “What did you imagine I’d say tomorrow when
he turns up dead?”

“Oh yes,” you reply. “I’m sure you will have one or two observations to make. But by the time that
happens it would have been too late for you to intervene. We need now only disagree about the
consequences.” I make an impatient noise and you shrug slightly in response; an elegant little roll
of one shoulder. “I dislike arguing with you very much,” you add. “So if there are to be any
conflicts at all, I would at least prefer it to be one rather than two.”

As you say this I find myself glancing upwards, strangely touched despite myself to hear you admit
this so readily. It’s rare for you to acknowledge finding anything difficult, and the simple
disclosure of disliking it when we fight casts you in a light of vulnerability that’s extremely out of
character. Of course, it’s also possible that you knew I’d think this (and are therefore saying it on
purpose to try and win me over) but right now I have a strong need to try to take you at face value.
Besides, I can still remember your expression that night in the kitchen – the blank desolation as I
kept on rejecting you – and the image of it makes me choose to believe that you’re telling me the
truth. In the end I simply give a low sigh then scrub my hand across my face. You promptly reach
out to re-adjust my glasses to their proper position; a habit so automatic it’s like you can’t stop
yourself, despite how jarring such an intimate gesture feels at a moment like this.

“Well, I guess you’re right about the last part,” I say finally. “It’s certainly too late to do anything
about it. But God, Hannibal – I really wish you hadn’t. A complication like this is the last thing we
need.”

“On the contrary,” you reply with excessive calmness. “I have removed a complication.”

“No,” I snap back, “you haven’t, because he had no idea who you were. Trust me, he’s not…” I
pause fractionally. “He wasn’t that good an actor. If he’d recognised you I’d have noticed it
immediately – and then I would have killed him myself.” I’m gazing into the fireplace as I’m
speaking, although I don’t need to see your face to know how happy you must be to hear this stated
so casually. “He wasn’t a threat to either of us.”

There’s a rustling sound which I assume is you giving another shrug. “Maybe not right now,” you
say. “But there’s no guarantee how long that would have lasted. He saw us together, Will. If he did
discover me later then I had no intention of you being implicated too.” I finally glance up again
and you catch my eye with one of your more malevolent smiles. “The fact he was so rude to you
merely accelerated my sense of enthusiasm.”

“Have you even heard yourself?” I say irritably. “You can’t have it both ways. It was only a few
days ago you were insisting it was safe to meet Clarice because ‘people see me so often without
ever realising exactly what it is they see.’ Why can’t you just admit you killed him because you
wanted to?”

You smile again then give a long, leisurely stretch with both arms. “Because I have never denied
that I wanted to,” you say. “The premise is pre-established, therefore there is nothing to admit.”

I do my best to look disapproving, but as the seconds stretch out ultimately just find myself
struggling with an absurd urge to laugh. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it: there’s simply
something inherently charming about your total disregard for any type of standard. In fact, if I’m
honest (which most of the time I’m admittedly not) I find it kind of liberating. You’re so
completely unashamed of how twisted you can be, and it’s like that darkly wicked part of you is
constantly tugging at my sleeve, whispering at me to come out to play.

The entire time you’re continuing to stare at me and as I finally catch your eye I find myself
remembering our conversation from several weeks ago: how caressing your tone was and the way
your lips slowly ghosted the side of my jaw. “God delights in shame and self-reproach,” you’d
said. “But the Devil will always celebrate the darkness and intricacy of who we really are.
Destruction, debauchery, the quest for power: the temptations he presents to humankind don’t
contradict our impulses, they merely complement and encourage them. What is the Devil’s
concern, after all, except with our ability to show faithfulness to our true character? Fidelity to our
most authentic self?” And as usual, of course, you were essentially correct. After all, who wouldn’t
want to dance with the Devil? In this respect it’s also obvious how you’ve begun to work on me
again in the past few days, murmuring though my chrysalis even louder than before in a renewed
attempt to push me further towards your point of view. You’d probably have done it anyway, but
since our fight I can at least understand why Jack’s presence has compelled you to approach things
the way you have – and that knowledge, in turn, makes it easier to not resent you for it. Our fight
felt so devastating at the time, yet it’s still been strangely clarifying. It’s like I’ve seen the darkly
vulnerable parts of you in even sharper focus and realised I still love them regardless.

In the end I just stand up then walk over rather awkwardly to put my hand on your shoulder. “I’m
glad you’re back,” I say. “I was worried about you. The risks you sometimes take…” I sigh then
shrug, briefly oppressed by the sheer enormity of it: that endless tightrope you never tire of
walking. “I just worry.”

“Your concern is appreciated,” you reply. “It is also unnecessary.”

Seeing how this is the type of thing you always say I can’t really find the energy for a suitable
response, so ultimately just repeat the same sigh/shrug combo as before. “I hope you’re right,” I
say. “I hope it is unnecessary.”

For a few seconds you just stare at me without replying. I can tell you’re frustrated; you actually
look quite tempted to start shrugging and sighing yourself. “It’s late,” is all you finally reply. “It’s
been a long day – for both of us.”

“Yeah,” I say wryly. “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“Indeed. Which is why I’m going to take a shower then suggest we both go to bed.”

I give another sigh (which, if possible, is even louder and more lavish than the others) then briefly
replace my hand on your shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.

“Of course.”

“You’re not injured are you? You look tense.”

“I am not remotely tense.”

“I meant physically.”

“I know, and you are still wrong.”

“Does your back hurt?”

“No.” You sound a bit impatient now although you’re still smiling; you always love it when I
make a fuss of you. “Not even slightly.”

“Well, I think you should have a bath instead,” I say firmly. “It’s relaxing. Good for the muscles.”

“Oh yes,” you reply, immediately looking pleased. “A bath is an excellent suggestion. I hope I can
persuade you to join me?”

I give a grunting noise that’s deliberately vague, but from the way your pleased expression starts to
broaden it’s clear you’ve chosen to take it as agreement anyway. To be fair I suppose it is, although
there’s no doubt that you’re the one who likes baths rather than me. I’m more of a shower person
myself – quick, functional, and done purely for the purposes of cleanliness than any attempt at
pleasure – whereas given a chance you’ll wallow for hours in steaming, scented water like one of
the Roman Emperors. Bathing with someone else is also something I’m struggling to get used to,
but your own enjoyment is so infectious that I still end up lying flat on my back while you lounge
around on top of me with your head resting cosily on my shoulder and your back pressed against
my chest. As positions go it’s far from ideal – your weight tends to get too heavy for me after a
while, and you’re so long you always run out of room and need to curl your legs around the taps –
but right now I’m feeling protective and the urge to hold you close is too powerful to ignore.

“You can’t keep pulling stunts like this,” I say finally. “Not without telling me first.” I’ve been
neurotically checking your skin for any signs of injury, despite not expecting to find any, and am
gloomily aware that I’m only doing it at all as a way to displace my more general fears about your
safety. “Remember how angry you were when I staged the Matteo scene to look like Il Macellaio?
Well, this is exactly the same type of thing.”

“It is not remotely the same.” You sound sleepy now; your voice has lowered into a sort of drowsy
rumble. It’s almost ridiculously endearing and I smile to myself then let my cheek rest against your
hair. “Unlike you, I have not inserted myself into Jack’s team.”

“Maybe you should have done?” I say wryly. “I’m sure he’d have been delighted to have you.”

“Indeed.”

“Speechless with joy.”

“Yes, his emotion would have been considerable. I’m sure it would have been a very touching
reunion.”

“I’m not going to ask you about it,” I add. “That’s your punishment. I know you’re desperate to tell
me what you did to him.”

“And yet you are going to hear the details,” you say in a leisurely voice. “You shall hear them in a
day or two from Jack.”

“Then I’ll hear them from Jack, won’t I? In the meantime you’re just going to have to gloat all by
yourself.”

“There are worst penalties,” you say smugly. “I have always found myself to be an extremely
rewarding audience.”

“Good,” I reply. “I hope you and yourself have a lot of fun together.”

Your only response to this is a massive smirk before you close your eyes again then tip your head
even further back against my shoulder until your throat is fully exposed. As a gesture it’s slightly
submissive – and therefore highly unusual – and I can’t help feeling charmed by it. Gently I
smooth a few strands of hair from your forehead then lean forward enough to press a kiss against
the nearest cheekbone.

“Look at you,” I say fondly. “You’re half asleep.”

“And why should that surprise you?” you ask without opening your eyes. “Even I am known to
sleep on occasion.”

“You should sleep in bed, genius. You’ll be more comfortable.”

When I start to move myself you let out a soft noise of complaint, although ultimately still get out
anyway before wrapping yourself in the robe I bought you then following me through to the
bedroom. Once there you seem to discover a fresh burst of energy and insist on lighting a ton of
candles then sitting next to me on the bed so you can towel dry my hair. At some point this has
actually become something of a ritual, and while I initially found it invasive and weird I’ve
surprised myself with how much I’ve learned to enjoy it. It’s hard to explain why; only that it feels
incredibly intimate in a way that’s simple yet meaningful, and I know if you ever stopped doing it
I’d feel a sense of loss at how close it makes me feel to you while it’s happening.

“You know, this is our last night in this bed,” you say when you’ve finished and I’m surreptitiously
raking my fingers though my hair to try and persuade it to resemble something less like a
horrifying ball of fluff. “It seems almost rude to let it pass uncelebrated.”

“That’s a bit of an existential dilemma for you,” I say. I’ve just caught sight of my hair in the
windowpane; it’s more than twice its usual size. “What do you do when you’re being rude. Does
that mean you have to murder yourself?”

“It means I have to make an atonement of some kind,” you say briskly. “Which, in this case, shall
require your assistance.”

I give my hair a final determined prod (just so it knows I’m not fucking around anymore and
absolutely mean business), followed by a quick glance at the discarded towel while wondering if it
might do double-duty as a Sex Towel in the event of neither of us being bothered to go back to the
bathroom for a fresh one.

“Yeah, I suppose I could help you out,” I say. “Although you’re lucky I got some sleep earlier.”
Then as soon as I’ve said it I find myself falling silent again because, well….it was lucky wasn’t
it? I might even say it was a bit too lucky. Almost suspiciously so. The metallic taste in my mouth,
the crushing sense of exhaustion from seemingly out of nowhere…

Something must be showing in my face because you now lean forward and gently take hold of my
chin in your hand. “Will?” you ask. “What’s the matter?”

I swallow audibly. “Tell me you didn’t,” I say.

“Didn’t what?”

“That you didn’t…” I glance up at you almost pleadingly from beneath my hair. Possibly I look a
bit unhinged but by this point I honestly can’t help it; I’m just so desperate for you to say no, of
course not – that you’d never do that to me, not ever again. “That you didn’t drug me,” I add in
something close to a whisper. “You didn’t…did you?”

For a few seconds you just stare at me. In the glow of the candlelight your eyes look as if they’re
gleaming. “I’m sorry my love,” you say finally. “Truly. But I can’t tell you that.”
What follows now is an agonising silence where I drag in a long, painful breath before finally
letting it all out again in a jagged sigh. “You bastard,” I say. My voice is almost vibrating with
anger; I barely even sound like myself. “I’m warning you Hannibal,” I add through gritted teeth.
“I’ve only got a few seconds left before I absolutely lose it, so if you’ve got anything to say for
yourself you’d better do it now.”

As I watch I can see your expression flickering slightly. “I do, indeed, have several things to say.
However, you’re angry – deservedly so – and I think you’re entitled to express yourself first.”

This time I just shake my head as both lungs empty all over again in a shuddering exhale. The fact
is I don’t trust myself to speak, because if I do I know there’s a serious risk of exploding with
something so harsh and hurtful that I’ll never be able to take it back. Even just a few minutes will
be enough to cool the initial edge of my anger and prevent it burning out of control: a smoulder
rather than the current raging inferno. I can see you studying my face, and at some level you seem
to understand this because you now lean forward and begin to speak again.

“I apologise, Will,” I hear you saying. “Sincerely. You might find this hard to believe, but I give
you my word that I intended to make a full confession to you. If you hadn’t guessed, I would still
have told you what I’d done.”

By now it’s clear that you’re a little more subdued than usual, although I suppose why wouldn’t
you be? You know how badly you’ve fucked up. “It was a very spontaneous decision,” you add.
“On rare occasions I remain prone to them, and they seldom work out well. This one in particular I
had cause to regret almost as soon as it happened.”

“Yeah, sure,” I hiss, unable to contain myself any longer. “If it was so spontaneous then why the
hell did you happen to have a sedative on hand to do it with?”

“Because they are always on hand,” you say gently. It’s like we’re a set of scales: you sinking
lower and calmer the higher I spiral out of control. “I’m still a doctor, Will. The compound on this
occasion was common Lorazepam and I didn’t make plans in advance to procure it. The last time I
gave it to you was just before I sutured that wound on your neck.”

I mull this over for a few seconds, decide I believe it, then give a rather terse nod. “Where did you
put it? The food?”

“The wine,” you say. Very briefly you catch my eye; I’d bet money you’re thinking that my
palette’s so shit you knew I wouldn’t notice the taste. “All I can say in my defence,” you add, “is
that time was of the essence, and I was opposed to wasting it with pointless conflict. Namely that
you would have tried to talk me out of it, and I would have listened to your concerns then still done
it anyway.”

“Yes,” I reply. “Very probably.” I’m speaking artificially slowly now, each word carefully
weighed and measured in advance to prevent an uncontrollable outburst. I don’t think either of us
can fully appreciate the amount of self-control it’s taking. “So rather than waste an extra hour or so
you thought it was better to knock me out?” There’s a slight pause and when I speak again I can
tell my voice is perilously close to breaking. “As if you haven’t done enough to me already?”

For a few moments you just continue staring, slow-blinking like a cat. “He was a witness, Will. He
needed to be removed.”

I’m not looking at you directly anymore, but from the corner of my eye I can see the way your
fingers have begun tapping a rhythm onto the side of your leg. It’s the type of restless, fidgety
gesture that’s extremely unusual for you, and I know without being told that it’s because you want
to reach out to comfort me and are frustrated that you can’t. It’s rare to see you struggling to resist
your impulses this way, but I still know that you’ll manage it– not least because you won’t want to
expose yourself to the shock of rejection when I inevitably shake you off. Then I want to snap that
all this could have been avoided by not letting him see you in the first place, but ultimately don’t
bother because I already know what your response will be. He was being rude, after all. He had his
hands all over you. What else, from your perspective, where you supposed to do?

“You said yourself you were going to tell me,” is all I reply. “So you didn’t prevent a conflict –
you just delayed it, then made it even worse than it would have been otherwise. You’ve achieved
absolutely nothing.”

As soon as I say this I can see your eyes flash. Probably I’ve gone too far now, but I honestly don’t
care. Instead I continue to glare at you, and for one of the few times ever you actually drop your
gaze first.

“It was not merely a question of preventing an argument,” you reply. Your voice sounds slightly
sharper than it was before. Yeah, you’re definitely pissed off; you think I’m being rude to you, as if
I could possibly care less either way. “That was inevitable, as you quite rightly state. It was also an
issue of safety: both yours and mine. If you are willing to listen then I can explain in more detail
what I mean.”

I draw in a deeper breath then let it all out again in a sigh so low it’s almost a snarl. “Go on,” I say.

There’s another pause; once again I can see the gleam from where your eyes are flickering over my
face. “Do you remember what I told you when Jack appeared for the first time?” you eventually
add. “I said that I had no intention for him to see us together until the time was right – and I meant
it. It has always been very important to me that your safety was not compromised. But then of
course you feel the same way about me, and therefore we are at an impasse. If you’d known where
I was going you might have tried to intervene. Do you understand? Your attempts to protect me
from myself could have led both of us into sincere and serious risk.”

“Okay, that’s great,” I reply in something close to a growl. “What you’re saying is that you didn’t
trust me not to mess up your plan?”

“It is not a question of you ‘messing it up’.” Unbelievably, even now, it’s like you can’t repeat the
slang phrase without wincing. “It is a case of contradictory impulses. We would have been
operating from very different motives: I because I thought he was safer dead, and you because you
thought it was safer for him to remain alive.”

I give a visible flinch of irritation and you quickly lean forward again. “Are you all right?” you say.

“Jesus, Hannibal, what do you think? Of course I’m not all right.”

“May I touch you?”

“No,” I snap. “You may not.”

For a few moments you look genuinely surprised at the rejection before your face shuts down with
an eerie, blank intensity that borders on frightening. There’s a certain glamour and ferocity to it
that’s only just concealed below the surface – hunger and dangerousness exuding from every coil
of muscle and hiss of breath.

“You caused all of this,” I say instead, refusing to be intimidated by the look. And then, because
I’ve already forgotten my earlier resolve not to mention it: “You let him see you in the first place.
Why go back to the parking lot at all?”

Your expression gives another small flicker. Jesus, you’re really angry; it’s obvious how much my
rejection has gotten to you. “Why do you think?” you reply.

I throw you a quick glance, intrigued by the query despite my irritation at the inevitable game
playing. But I’ve never been able to resist one of your challenges, and as you continue watching I
begin to frown to myself, turning the pieces over in my head before letting out another loud sigh as
they neatly slot into place. “Because you’d spoken to him before I turned up?”

“Correct,” you say crisply. “I already knew he was unaware who I was. I would not have allowed
you to be seen with me otherwise; I would have concealed myself instead, then confronted him
after you’d left.”

I laugh rather bitterly. “Yeah? Maybe you should have just done that anyway.”

Before I’ve even finished you’re waving this off with an imperious little move of your hand; so
aloof and arrogant that the simple gesture briefly makes me want to punch you all over again.
“And yet I did not,” you say. “Understand, Will, that I was not anticipating you to fling yourself
into Jack’s team again with quite so much enthusiasm as you have. In doing so you’ve made
yourself extremely visible – and therefore vulnerable – which limits our ability to work as a team.
Your willingness to associate with the FBI again has required a total rearrangement of my plans.”

“No, don’t you dare,” I say with obvious venom. “Don’t even think about blaming me for this.”

Your eyes quickly swivel down to where my hand is waving in your face. It’s obvious you think
I’m being rude – and deeply dislike it – but I refuse to be intimated and continue pointing at you
until your gaze finally tracks back up to my face again. “That is a false assumption,” you say
stiffly. “It is not a matter of blaming you. I am simply stating the facts.”

This time I just shake my head, my own eyes scanning helplessly from side to side as if seeking
solutions which stubbornly refuse to appear. “You were so angry with me,” I reply. “After what I
did…it’s been ages since I’ve seen you that angry. And now you’ve done something far worse and
I’m supposed to just accept it?”

My voice sounds numb now: flat and expressionless, like all the emotion’s been filtered away and
left behind a slab of nothingness. It’s deliberate though, I can see that. I know I’m doing it on
purpose. It’s because the anger is beginning to burn itself out and be replaced by something far
more lethal…sadness. Sadness means vulnerability, and despite all your encouragement to the
contrary this is still something I’m not fully able to expose myself to. I don’t dare, I know I don’t. I
don’t have the courage for it. The anger was a shield for the sadness to hide behind, and now it’s
been extinguished this numb resignation will have to do instead. Besides, sometimes I feel like the
only way we can really be together is if I continue to push it away. How could I even look at you
otherwise? How could I live with you, sleep with you…love you? If I ever acknowledged the full
extent of what you’ve done to me I’d probably be grieving every day for the rest of my life.

The entire time you’ve been watching me in silence and it’s now that you finally succumb to
temptation and begin to extend your hand. You do this very slowly, although when it reaches mine
it hesitates slightly before going still again. I notice it immediately and somehow this gesture,
despite being so small and insignificant, manages to strike me to my core. It’s incredibly rare for
you to show doubt about your own actions, and the fact you’re now so wary to touch me feels
almost unbearably moving. It makes you seem younger somehow; like I’m getting a glimpse of the
child you must once have been, yearning for affection and reassurance yet cautious to ask for it
because of the pain of being pushed away. I still can’t quite bring myself to offer my own hand, yet
this realisation is making me thaw and when you finally take hold of mine it’s easier than expected
not to shake you off.

“You don’t have to accept it,” you say. Your voice is unusually gentle and I can guess without
being told that my numbness is concerning you. You’d have felt more comfortable with my anger,
because by now you know me well enough to see the lack of emotion as a warning sign that I’m
seriously starting to struggle. “You are feeling very betrayed by me,” you add. “And I’m not about
to deny you that. As with so much else where you are concerned, it seems I have let my feelings
get the better of me – and it has led me to miscalculate.”

I give a short laugh that’s not entirely sarcastic. “Excuse me?” I say. “Are you actually admitting to
being wrong about something.”

This makes you smile. “After a fashion. You know better than anyone that I tend to repeat the
same series of errors around you – and will likely continue to do so until you have succeeded in
training me out of them. But as it is, I have a history of trying to do the best for you in ways which
don’t always compliment your view of what’s best for yourself; and that is exactly what has
happened here. Add to that my sense of protectiveness, my intense dislike of Jack…”

“Your godawful control freakery.”

You start to smile again. “Granted. Are there any other crimes you feel I have missed?”

For a few seconds I catch your eye. “Yes,” I say more seriously. “That you still think I’d ever
choose my old life over you.”

“That one can be expanded upon,” you reply in the same gentle voice. “I fear losing you generally,
whether at your own initiative or on someone else’s. The idea of your loss is intolerable, and it
leads me to act rashly.”

“Rashly,” I repeat. My voice has returned to the flat tonelessness of before; it’s almost as if the scar
on my abdomen has begun pulsing in sympathy. “Yeah. I know.”

Briefly you tighten the pressure against my hand. “With an important difference,” you add. “In the
past I punished you directly for my fear of loss, whereas now I direct my anger towards anything
that threatens us. Unfortunately, this means you may often become caught in the middle. As far as
this evening’s activities go then I admit I have been both very foolish and very fond.”

“You’ve certainly been foolish,” I say in my best Petty Asshole voice.

“Perhaps,” you say with another smile. “Of course, you must understand that my preferred result
would have been for us to visit Aronne together. But seeing how you’d have never consented to
that then the best alternative was to go myself while forcing you to remain somewhere safe in the
meantime. It’s a paradox, Will – I freely admit it. You are a strong, capable adult, with every bit of
cunning and lethality as I have myself. What you are most certainly not is a child; yet you are
every bit as precious to me as any child ever could be, and I’m afraid on occasion my misguided
strength of feeling leads me to treat you as one.”

I can already tell this is a veiled reference to your sister, and for a few moments grow aware of the
crushing responsibility of what it means to be the bearer of a collection of memories and emotions
as deep and complex as yours are. I remember you called me your muse once – another parallel to
that small, long-dead sister who still drives so many of your impulses – yet being a muse is so
often a difficult, demoralising role. They get fetishized by the artist and ignored by the audience
yet are still held to an impossibly high standard by both. I know I can’t ever live comfortably on
the pedestal you’ve put me on, yet the process of clambering off it is always impeded by your
insistence on lifting me back up.

Eventually I just sigh again then scrub a weary hand across my face while the other stays clasped
in yours. “I don’t feel you treat me like a child,” I say at last. “You’ve never infantilised me: quite
the opposite. Jack, on the other hand…” There’s a small pause so we can share a brief, mutual eye-
roll over Jack’s constant attempts to do this. “But yeah, I think I know what you mean. You want
to…preserve me.”

The word ‘preserve’ has such obvious culinary overtones that a few moments I’m struck by a
ghoulish urge to laugh. Possibly you think the same because you catch my eye again then give me
the ghost of a wink.

“If by that you mean I want to keep you,” you say, “then yes, you are correct. But to preserve
something is also to defend it, and that is also true. You’ve always had a certain innocence about
you Will; at least compared to the people who surrounded you. It’s one of the reasons you were
able to resist me for as long as you did. Yet the more time I spend with you, the more I find myself
wanting to help you protect yourself. I have been very careless with your safety in the past. Now it
seems I am prone to veering too far in the opposite direction.”

“No…” I reply slowly. “I wouldn’t really say that.”

“It’s good that you don’t. That means I am concealing my impulses better than I thought.”

I glance up sharply. “Except for tonight.”

“Except for tonight, indeed. An incident like tonight’s brings them to the fore.”

“At least you’re admitting it, I suppose,” I reply after another pause. “But this can’t happen again,
Hannibal. Do you understand me? It can’t – there’s a line and you’ve crossed it.” Now I just sound
exhausted; it’s like I’m cycling through some sort of checklist. The Stages of Grief: denial, anger,
bargaining, depression…I suppose that means I’m due for acceptance at some point, although I’m
not really sure how I’m supposed to get there. I sigh again then wearily drag my hand through my
hair. “I can’t keep living with you if you do things like this.”

For a while you just continue staring at me before tightening your grip on my hand again. “Listen
to me Will,” you say. “No matter what happens in the next few weeks, I want you to do something
I know you sometimes still find difficult – which is to trust me. I am not behaving as recklessly as
you think I am, and I not solely seeking my own gratification.” I glance at you again and you catch
my eye then add, with a rare flash of honesty: “Or at least only to an extent which can serve my
primary goal. Namely to keep us safe, and to keep us together. Because you and I, beloved: we are
the only two people who matter.”

“Which means…what?” I say cautiously. “Be more specific.”

“Which means that, to an extent, I am going to act independently when required.” Your own tone
has also changed by now – more deliberate and measured than usual – and I know it’s because
you’re so unused to having to explain yourself. Are you resenting me for it? Maybe you are…but
by this point it’s honestly difficult to care. “You felt forced to do the same by working with Jack
again,” you add “so now I am going to have to adjust to your decision.”

I promptly open my mouth to object and you give me a rather forlorn smile then hold your hand up
in a wordless request for silence. “That is not a reproach,” you say. “It is just a reflection that our
situation has altered and forced me to adapt accordingly. It doesn’t change that we are still a unit
which is working together – only that we are working in different ways towards the same goal.”

I repeat the same impatient sigh as before, this time accompanied by a fretful shake of my head.
“No,” I say. “I’m not okay with that. Not at all. You need to talk to me beforehand.”

“I will always talk to you.” For a few moments your gaze strokes across my face: eyes to lips then
back again. “I talk to you with an openness that I have never had with anyone else. I can also give
you my word that the way I behaved towards you tonight was a mistake which shall not be
repeated. However, what I can’t guarantee is that I won’t ever act on my own initiative. If a
situation demands it then I will do what I think is necessary without consulting you first – and
which, if you are honest with yourself, you must acknowledge is exactly what you’ve already done
too.”

“What, you’re seriously going to compare them?” My anger’s already starting to simmer again so I
take a few soothing breaths to try and coax it under control. “I didn’t consult you because I was in
the middle of nowhere with a dead body on my hands.”

“I wasn’t only referring to that.” Gently you run your thumb across my knuckles; a clear attempt to
assist with my attempt at calming myself. “But yes: you prefer to retain your independence and I
likewise wish to safeguard mine.”

“Not when it’s a decision that affects us both.”

“The death of Aronne does not affect you,” you reply in same calm way. “Or at least, only as much
as you let it. As I said, my decisions are guided by what I believe are in the best interests of both of
us, and sometimes you will agree with that and sometimes you won’t. But either way I am not
going to lie to you and pretend I am going to seek your permission for everything I do going
forward.” My eyebrows promptly descend across my forehead and you give a faint smile then use
your thumb to smooth the frown line away. “I know you would prefer that,” you add. “But I’m
afraid that what you want is impossible. I make all kinds of exceptions for you, Will; I still don’t
think you fully understand how many. But I can’t reinvent my entire personality to please you, at
least not right away. The only thing I can do is pledge an intention to practice – and over time you
might hopefully notice some improvements.”

It’s still too soon for my anger and resentment to have faded, yet somehow they’re not enough to
stop me recognising what an enormous compromise this is. It’s certainly more than you’ve
conceded before – probably more than you’ve conceded to anyone in your entire life. I attempt a
smile that’s distinctly sad and lop-sided then gaze at you for a few more moments before finally
giving into the temptation to sink forwards until I can rest my head on your shoulder. My posture is
far stiffer and colder than it would normally be, but you still react immediately by wrapping your
arms around me, fingers tangling into my hair as your other hand strokes rhythmically up and down
my spine.

“You’re not forgiven,” I say quietly. A part of me wants to pull away from you and there’s
something humiliating about the fact I can’t. It’s always been like that hasn’t it? No one’s ever
been able to comfort me as well as you can, even when you were the one who’d hurt me in the first
place. “I know you thought it was for good reasons,” I add. “But I don’t know how you could ever
think it was an acceptable thing to do.”

Your only response is to increase the pressure on my back. It’s like you don’t have a ready answer
– at least one which you think I’d be prepared to hear – and even as I’m saying it I can see what a
contradiction it is. After all, how many other things have you done to me that were (to put it
mildly) unacceptable, simply because in your mind they were either right or necessary? It’s too
much to expect you to adapt the same standards as a normal person…yet how much I sometimes
wish you would.

“Promise me,” I add in the same low voice. “Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again.”

There’s a soft rustling sound as I feel the brush of your lips against my temple. “I have already
promised,” you say. “But if you need me to repeat it, then yes – you have my word. Going forward
I shall always treat your body with the respect and autonomy it deserves.”

I pull back slightly so I can give you A Look. “I guess it’s too much to ask the same for my mind?”
I say wryly. “I suppose you’ve at least promised you’ll try.”

This makes you smile yourself. “I have the utmost respect for your mind,” you say. “I always have.
The difficulty is that the two outcomes tend to interfere with one another. My respect leads to
fascination, which makes me reluctant to leave it alone and grant it the sort of independence you’d
be happier with.”

I give my head another shake, because while there’s certainly some truth to this it’s far from the
entire story. “No, it doesn’t make me unhappy,” I tell you. “I like that you’re so engaged with what
I’m thinking. The only times I’m unhappy is when you do things like you did tonight.”

You give a soft hum of acknowledgement and I draw back further to gaze at you before bracing
both my hands against your chest so I can push you down onto the bed. I’m already aware of how
cowardly this is – a deliberate deflection from what’s getting increasingly painful and exhausting to
discuss – but I truly can’t help it. I need to communicate with you more simply now: a language of
the body in place of where all those impossible words should be. Silently I now begin to work you
free of your robe, tugging your arms out the sleeves then dropping it to one side so I can use the
belt to fasten your wrists to the bedstand. I do all this deliberately slowly to give you time to pull
free if you want to, but while you suffer the whole thing without complaint I can tell from your
face that you’re not entirely happy about it.

When I’m finally done I shrug my own robe off then lean back on my heels so I can look at you.
“Is this okay?” I ask. “Or do you want me to stop?”

Your mouth immediately arranges itself into one of your feline smiles. “Is asking you to stop even
an option?”

“You saying ‘no’ to something is always an option,” I reply solemnly. “If you really hate it you
should tell me.”

“I don’t hate it,” you say, although I can’t help thinking you probably do. Not because you feel
ashamed or intimidated, but because ceding control is extremely difficult for you and even a hint of
appearing submissive is always guaranteed to set you off. The fact you’re allowing it at all is an
enormous show of trust, and despite my continuing anger I can’t help feeling touched by it. You
also look intensely glamourous stretched out like this, and I know on a normal night I’d already
have been all over you. I’d have sucked you off while you were writhing beneath me, stretching it
out until you were frantic with the need to come before sitting on your cock so you could finish
inside me. It would have been just the right kind of tormenting – tugging each other’s strings to see
quite how far we could go – and both of us would have loved it. But this isn’t a normal night, so
instead I just stoke your arm for a while then settle down in silence with my head resting on your
chest.

“You’re exhausting,” I say quietly. Absurdly I keep waiting for your fingers to start threading
through my hair before remembering that you can’t because your hands are tied. “I don’t think you
can ever understand how exhausting you are for anyone who isn’t you.”
A long pause follows this remark, although it’s the sort of silence that feels thoughtful rather than
strained. While I’m waiting I wrap my arm around you then use my fingertip to gently stroke the
side of your bicep. “Perhaps,” you finally reply. “And yet you are able to keep up with me
regardless.”

I bark out a laugh that’s distinctly dark and humourless. “You think so?”

“I do. I would then go further and admit that not only can you keep up with me, you can overpower
me completely. So – what does that say about you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just a masochist…or maybe I’m just as off-the-rails as you are.” Briefly
I close my eyes, pressing my face against your skin as I quietly breathe you in. “Do you know why
I’m doing this?” I add as I open then again.

“I can probably guess. I think you want me where you feel I am under control.”

“Correct,” I say. “I’m not tying you up to hurt or humiliate you.” Not, admittedly, that either option
seems particularly possible to achieve even if I did want to. In this respect your total lack of nerves
or uncertainty is striking, especially when compared to how tense I felt myself when in a similar
situation a few months ago. Instead you’re just being so…you: staring up at me rather wantonly
then stretching and flexing your shoulders like someone with all the time in the world.

“All I want is a sense of you being contained,” I add. “Just for once. I want a sense of you being
safe…and where you can’t cause any trouble.” I smile slightly then give you a small nudge with
my forehead. “Although I suppose for full effectiveness then I’d have to gag you as well.”

You make an amused sound. “You may do that too, if you wish.”

“I don’t wish,” I say firmly. “I want to hear your voice.” For a few moments I screw my eyes
closed and bury my face in your neck before finally pulling upright so I can straddle myself with
one knee on either side of your chest. I wait a few moments to settle in, fingertips tracking patterns
against your skin while pausing every so often to allow for a light scratch of nails. “I want you to
tell me something about yourself,” I add. “Something you haven’t admitted before.”

Immediately you look intrigued; I knew you would be. “To you specifically?” you ask. “Or to
anyone?”

“Either. If you’d like, I’ll do the same.”

“I would like that,” you say. “Very much, in fact.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll go first.” I lean back a little further on my heels, enough to look at you directly as I
focus on how your eyes are gleaming in the dim light. “Sometimes I still feel afraid of you,” I say.
“I know you’d probably sensed it already, but…yeah. I do. How does it make you feel to hear
that?”

Unusually there’s no ready response, and I immediately have the sense that you take the question
so seriously you’re intending to devote every last shred of attention to answering it. “It makes me
feel several things,” you finally reply. “It is impossible to distil them all into a single thought.
Disappointment would be one of them; intrigue would be another. What it does not make me feel is
surprise. For you to experience me that way is regrettable, but it is understandable.”

“What about it intrigues you?”

For a few moments you just stare at me, flexing your shoulders to get more comfortable before
easing your legs up so you can snugly slot them against my back. “By its origins,” you say. “And
how that is divided between us. In short, I am intrigued as to how much of this sentiment results
from my own behaviour and how much stems from your own.”

This makes me smile slightly; you’re so sharp sometimes, it’s impossible to ever get anything past
you. “Yes, you’re right,” I say. “It’s both. There’s still an irrational part of me that’s afraid you
could harm me. Badly…the same way you did before. But what frightens me more is the idea that
I’d let you. Because I couldn’t bring myself to walk away. Because I couldn’t say no.” You make a
low sighing sound – just the faintest rustle of air between your lips – and I abruptly drop forwards
again so I can hide my face against your chest. “I was never very good at that, was I?” I add. My
voice is so quiet I can feel you straining your neck forwards to hear. “I could never just say no to
you.”

There’s another pause. All I’m aware of now is the sound of your heartbeat; strong and vital and
fully alive. Oh God, I should be walking away right now shouldn’t I? I know I should. After what
you did this evening? If there was ever a time to tell you ‘no’ it should be now.’ No, not this, not
ever again…

“Will?” you say, and your voice sounds so gentle. “Beloved; sit upright again. I want you to look at
me.”

“I can’t.” The words are muffled from where my face is pressed against your chest; I shift slightly
then give my head a small shake, despite knowing you can’t see it. “I can’t. Not yet. Just…just
give a me a minute.”

“Of course,” you say in the same tender voice. “You may have as many minutes as you wish. Only
don’t retreat into yourself, my love. I can tell that you want to – and I want you to resist it. You
have me here now and you I want you to use the time to speak with me. Tell me more about this
belief you have: what stops you from walking away?”

“Oh God, why are you even asking?” I say fretfully. “You already know.”

“I have my own theories, certainly, but I can’t presume to know. I want to hear it from you.”

I give another long sign then gift your chest with a small scrape of teeth before slowly sitting
upright again and scrubbing my hand across my face. The sudden flare of emotion seems to have
faded, at least for now; it’s almost a surprise to feel back in control of myself. You can be so
soothing at times when you want to be.

“What stops me?” I now reply. “Well, asides from the obvious…”

“And what is the obvious?”

“That I love you,” I say, annoyed by the interruption. “Obviously.”

“Yes,” you say patiently, “to you it is obvious, but you are skimming over it as if it is only an
incidental when it is at the very heart of the issue. After the way I have behaved towards you in the
past you should not love me. So – tell me what you think you’d lose if you walked away? If you
said ‘no’?”

This time I find myself hesitating, aware of a sudden struggle for the right way to express it. “I
suppose it’s because I have the same basic need as everyone else,” I reply at last. My voice is very
quiet now; it’s like I’ve been subdued by the solemnity of what I’m saying. “When a person meets
someone who understands them – who really understands them – then they never want to let them
go. They want to hold them close for the rest of their life.”

“Yes,” you reply, equally quietly. “That’s true, Will: because I do understand you. Sometimes it
feels as if I have spent the past few years attempting little else. It’s also why I’m able to love you
the way that I do – and why I know how to love you – because I understand you so entirely. What
you’re expressing is a very human need and not something of which you should feel ashamed. It is
a fine thing to be loved – to be revered, even – but it is a truly momentous thing to know that you
are understood. Forgiving me, and then staying regardless, is not a sign of your failed judgement.
It’s a sign of your need to feel accepted and recognised. To feel that you are truly seen.”

My eyelashes are getting perilously damp by now, so I quickly drop my face down to hide it. Then
all I find myself able to do is nod, because of course you’re exactly right. You do see me. What’s
more, you were one of the first – if not the very first – to never see me as an object of damage
which had to be solved or pitied or patched back together, but instead as a whole person. And that
was just for starters, because you’d ultimately see far more than just that, yet instead of repulsing
you it only made you want me even more. And in turn, I don’t think I’d ever really understood
how badly I needed that until it was on offer. To be really seen, despite there being so much at that
point I felt I could never possibly show.

“Listen to me my love,” you add. Your voice is a little firmer now; you can tell I’m getting lost in
myself so are doing your best to ground me then draw me back again. “You asked for a confession,
so let me offer this as mine: that I respect how you feel and can meet you in the exact same place.
Back in our former lives, for example. I knew you were poised to betray me, and I knew I was
letting you – just like I knew you were using my fixation with you against me. I knew it all Will,
but I let you do it anyway. I took advantage of your empathy while you exploited my desire: both
of us exposing and degrading ourselves, and both for the same reason.”

“Tell me more about your reason,” I say quietly.

“You’ve already described it, beloved, because it’s the same as yours. I couldn’t, and can’t, say no
and I can’t walk away; all because of your unique ability to really see me. I need that in my life,
Will. I need it just as much as you do.”

There’s another agonised pause until I finally nod, followed by a very soft ‘Okay then’. In fact,
sitting here now, I’ve been struck with an awful realisation that if this goes on much longer then
there’s a very real risk I might cry. Admittedly it’s not like you would judge me for it, but I know
I’d judge myself, and tonight’s already been disturbing enough. I mean it really has…I don’t think
I can take much more of it. It’s also rather ironic, because I always used to be so reserved whenever
I was around you. Do you remember that too; the way I used to be? I bet you do. It was always a
personal point of pride to never show you how distressed I felt. Compared to now it feels like
looking at a different person; someone flayed bare beneath your gaze by the force of their own
emotion. It’s as if love has softened me, stripping away defences I didn’t even realise I was using
until all the pain and rawness underneath are exposed. But while I know you see this as a good
thing I’m still not ready to view it that way myself, so in the end just run my hand across your chest
again then abruptly lean over to retrieve some lube as the ultimate (cowardly) way of changing the
subject. At the sight of it you appreciatively flex your neck then fold both long legs around my
back so you can pull me closer towards you.

“You know, it seems strange having you like this,” I admit as I’m leaning over you again. “You’re
never this vulnerable.”

“But didn’t we just establish I’m at your mercy?” you reply. “You need to extend your definition of
what being vulnerable is.” Then you catch my eye and add, in what’s an obvious attempt to lighten
the mood: “Besides, I am not particularly daunted by your feeble little knots. I’m confident I could
free myself in a moment if I chose to.”

I give the first genuine smile in what feels like years then lean over to tighten the belt (your head
promptly comes swivelling round so you can press a kiss against my wrist). “Don’t even think
about it,” I say. “You’re not going anywhere until I let you.”

“Is that so?” you ask, feigning surprise. “Does that mean I need to let you have your way with me
first?”

I smile a bit more then make a fumbling attempt to open the lube one-handed while leaning over
again to re-inspect the knot. The fact is, I suspect you could free yourself if you really tried –
knowing you you’ll probably calmly dislocate your thumb just to prove a point – and I don’t want
to give you any more excuse for a break-out than I already have done.

“You’re so turned on,” I say instead. You sigh with agreement, clearly past the point of being able
to hide it, so I spread your legs even wider apart then slowly slide my hand up your thigh before
drawing to a deliberate halt. “Admit it,” I add. “You love seeing me distressed. You always have
done. It excites you.”

“You excite me,” you say. “Your distress is incidental.” Your eyes are screwed closed now; the
first real sign that your rigid self-control is starting to crack. “But yes, since you asked, your
suffering has a certain quality of grace to it.”

“Tell me more about that.” I’ve begun to work two slippery fingers inside you and can’t help
gasping at how smooth and tight you feel; you gasp too then delicately arch your back to give me
better access. Your breath has really sped up and the effect is fiercely gratifying. Exhilarating,
almost: just watching you unravel and knowing I’m the one responsible.

“It’s like the École de Régnier painting of St Sebastian,” you eventually say. “Beauty and stoicism,
with a certain resignation dusted across the top.”

I promptly let my hand go still. “What do you mean?” I ask. “Be. More. Specific.”

As I watch you make a frustrated noise then catch your lip between your teeth. “The observer sees
that he has learned to be at peace in his conflict,” you finally say. “Just as you have. Enduring pain
while knowing one’s reward will be the pleasure of self-realisation.”

“Sebastian’s salvation was divine.” I give my hand a few more thrusts to make you moan again
then reach over to pour out more lube. Fuck, I think I might be even harder than you are. “So
where do you see yourself in this saviour narrative?”

“You mean am I likening myself to God?” You give a faint smirk, your legs starting to coil a little
tighter around my back. “The answer is no.”

I make a snorting noise. “Really? That’d be a first.”

You smirk even harder then begin to slide your right leg upwards until you can rest it against my
shoulder. “Certainly I am not. Sebastian was misguided and his martyrdom a wasted endeavour.
He should have sacrificed himself to more…earthly delights.”

Your back is arching luxuriously now, impossibly louche and elegant as your hips begin to rock
against my hand. Your tongue is pressed against your teeth and I can feel the tenseness of the
muscles in your abdomen as a small bead of sweat trickles down your temple. It’s obvious you’re
waiting for me to fuck you, and when I don’t make any attempt to you eventually open your eyes
again to give me a rather questioning look. I catch your gaze and hold it, listening to the sound of
your breath hitching as my other hand trails up and down your thigh.

“Beg me,” I say softly. “If you want it that badly, then show it.”

For a few moments you seem genuinely taken aback (the fact I’m still angry with you actually
makes this rather entertaining). “I want you more than I have words to express,” you finally say.
“When did I not? My life would have been decidedly smoother if I did not want you so badly.”

I can’t help smiling now. It’s clear you’re avoiding the request, but while I know I could make you
beg for real if I wanted to I don’t feel like forcing it. Letting me tie you up has already been a huge
concession, and I feel like anything more is getting closer to using sex as punishment than I’m fully
comfortable with. Instead I just roll my eyes to show I’m onto you then slowly spread your legs
even further apart. God it’s going to feel incredible, I know it is: normally I’d use my hand to guide
myself in, but I’m so hard by now it’s not even necessary. You give a sigh of relief as my hips slide
forward so I sigh too then shift my waist back until I can admire the sight of you stretched open
around me, the skin glistening sensuously in the candlelight from where it’s been smeared with
lube. Then I push in a little deeper before slowly pulling away again, enough so my cock nearly
slips out and only the head is teasingly pressed inside you. The rhythm is slow – deliberately
torturous – and despite the feline poise it’s clear your self-control is dangerously close to snapping.
I can already see how your fingers are clenching; the flicker of muscles around your eyes and
mouth.

“Maybe I should just leave you lying here,” I say softly. As I’m speaking I push your legs against
your chest; they’re so long there isn’t really room for them while I’m leaning over you, so you end
up hooking them both across my shoulders instead. “Keep you on your back and fuck you until you
come from it. Are you going to let me do that?”

As I rock forwards deep and hard you close your eyes and let out a contented little rumbling noise
deep in your throat. “I don’t think I’ll be able to help myself,” you finally manage to say. “You feel
so good, beloved.”

“So do you.” For a few moments I hover my face over yours, leaning down until I’m close enough
to catch your lower lip between my teeth for a gentle tug. “You feel amazing.”

“Tu tokia graži,” you say quietly. “Will. Mano meilė. I only have a single request.”

“Oh?” I ask. “Is that so?” It’s the type of tone I remember using whenever the dogs were playing
up, and the awareness of doing it with you makes me feel vaguely ashamed. “You think you
deserve a request?” I add in a softer voice.

You give a faint smile. “Possibly not…But I would like to have it all the same.” You’re staring at
me now, the gaze so deep and soulful that I finally can’t stand it any longer and have to look away.
“If you prefer then I will beg you for it.”

When you say that I pull back a little, surprised in spite of myself at how deeply earnest you sound.
It must be something important to make you so serious – image of plugs or collars unhelpfully
come to mind – but while I already know I won’t let you, I’m still intrigued as to what it might be. I
raise my eyebrows in a questioning way and you gaze straight up at me then repeat the same faint
smile as before.

“I want you to let me kiss you,” you say. “I feel as if I have not done that for a very long time.”

Immediately I can feel myself smiling too. “It’s only been a few hours.”
“I know, beloved. Yet it feels so much longer.”

“That’s okay,” I say gently. I’m aware that the angry part of me wants to refuse you, yet somehow
it’s getting easier by now to ignore. “You don’t have to beg for that.”

As you continue gazing at me I begin to lean forwards again, nuzzling your jaw with my forehead
then opening your mouth with mine so I can slip my tongue inside. The kiss is surprisingly tender –
a soft, slow slide of lips while I stroke the side of your cheek – and when it’s over I hear you
murmuring my name as your spine flexes into a sharper arch. Fuck, I can actually feel you getting
tighter round me; it’s obvious how close you are to coming. To help you out I sit upright again so I
can curl my palm around your cock, pausing a few seconds to savour the weight and thickness of it
in my hand before starting to move back and forwards with short, firm strokes. It’s the type of
touch that normally drives you wild, but instead you make another soft growling sound then
attempt to shake your head.

“No, not yet,” you say. “I want to touch you first.”

“You want me to untie you?”

“Yes.”

I run my thumb around the head of your cock, slowly smearing the pre-come until I feel your
quiver. “Yes what?”

Your eyes immediately open and I get a quick flash of frustration beneath your lashes before they
snap close again. “Yes please.”

You sound incredibly pissed off and I frown at you for a few seconds before finally giving into an
urge to laugh. “Seriously?” I ask. “That was pitiful. You can do better than that.”

To your credit you promptly start smiling too. One of several improvements you’ve shown in the
past year is a willingness to not take yourself quite so seriously, and acknowledging your own
colossal ego is one of the most endearing signs of this. “Please Will,” you reply in a much softer
voice.

You’re being very pliant now, but while it’s pretty convincing I know it’s just an act – no matter
how much you flutter your eyelashes at me, there’s still a 100% chance you’ll jump me the second
you get untied. But I also know that I don’t really care anymore, so just give another thrust to make
you gasp again before leaning over to unfasten the belt…at which point (exactly as expected) you
virtually pounce off the pillow to smother me with long limbs and cheekbones before picking me
up like I weigh nothing and flipping me onto the mattress with my hands pinned down by yours
and my legs spread open by the sharp points of your knees. I start laughing again at how
predictable you are, but when you go in for another kiss I immediately let you, despite the fact
we’re both so uncoordinated it’s more like of a frantic clash of mouths while snatching gulps of
each other’s air.

When we finally break apart you just stare at me with gleaming eyes and a slow smile – visibly
hungry and predatory beneath the silence – so in return I stop squirming and lie peacefully still
instead. Your breath on my throat is as hot as a brand until I finally feel firm, warm palms begin to
roam across my body: caressing the curves of my shoulders, sliding round to skim across my chest,
then stroking across my stomach and waist where the skin is warm and slippery with sweat. After
that you cover me with your whole weight to press me into the bed, but while it’s uncomfortable I
know the sense of ownership is reassuring for you so decide to tolerate it without complaining
until you finally move again to kiss your way down my spine.
After how overwrought everything else has been this feels surprisingly nice: intimate in its
simplicity, with your lips extremely warm and soft. You take your time with it too, slowly gliding
downwards without missing a single vertebra, until stopping completely when you get to my waist
so you can retrieve some nearby pillows to push beneath my hips. I tense myself in anticipation,
faintly embarrassed by how my thighs have started quivering, then follow it up with a low moan as
your face begins to bury its way between my legs. It’s true I’d already guessed that you were going
to eat me out, but somehow the expectation does nothing to make it less intense. It’s just so wet and
warm and slippery; your tongue unfeasibly muscular as it spears me open while your hand moves
downwards to slide along the length my cock. My legs start trembling even harder with the strain,
so you make a murmuring noise of admiration then grab hold of them to stop me squirming away.
The entire time the thickness of your tongue continues to move, prolonging the sensation with
every thrust until I let out a helpless wail and clench down tightly like I’m trying to keep it buried
as far inside as possible. The whole thing is making me almost painfully hard, and when I feel you
starting to suck at the rim my cock gives a violent twitch like I’m just about to come.

“Oh fuck,” I finally gasp out. “Fuck, Hannibal.” In response you stroke my cock a bit harder before
letting go entirely so you can use both hands to spread me wider open; it helps your tongue to push
in even deeper and I make a breathy whining sound then bury my face in my arm. “I like that…” I
add helplessly. “Oh God, I really like it.”

You plunge your face back and forwards a few times then finally pull away to stroke along the rim
with a single fingertip, slowly smearing the saliva without ever actually pushing inside. “I know
you do,” you say softly. “Look at you, mylimasis. Look at this beautiful body.”

“It’s yours,” I reply – then promptly feel like punching myself, because in terms of fuelling your
possessive urges this is probably the worst possible thing to say to you. Not that I can exactly take
it back again…and besides, it’s not like it’s entirely untrue.

“Yes,” you say in the same soft voice. “I know it is, Will. I knew before you did.” Your other hand
is running along my thigh, firmly nudging my legs apart as your finger keeps swirling in
increasingly suggestive circles. It’s so intense; I can almost feel the way the muscle is quivering
beneath your touch. Possibly you can feel it too because you give another soft humming noise then
lean over to stroke my hair. “You’re getting so relaxed, beloved,” you say gently. “Do you want to
feel me inside here?”

“Always,” I manage to say. My voice has dropped so far by now, barely even a whisper. “You
know I do.”

As the pressure of your finger increases I make a small mewling sound, swaying in a stuttering
motion as I grow intensely aware of how much pre-come I’m dripping onto the mattress. “That’s
it,” you say in an even gentler voice. “Good boy. You’re so responsive, aren’t you my love? You’re
breath-taking when you’re like this.”

You stroke my hair for a few more moments then crouch down yourself, both of us watching as my
cock gives another twitch and a bead of clear fluid spills out the slit. In fact, I’m fully expecting
you to ask me to beg (which, after everything else you’ve done this evening I intend to meet with a
hearty ‘fuck off’) but ultimately you don’t and just retrieve the lube from where I left it to slick us
both up instead. I don’t make any attempt to help you. I think I feel a bit delirious by now: wrung-
out from the emotional strain as I prop myself on all fours while my head droops between my
shoulders, my skin so warm and damp it makes the sheet feel artificially cold. It’s like my strings
have been cut and I almost lose track of what I’m supposed to be doing until you give a tap on my
hipbone to get my attention.
“Wrap your legs around mine,” I hear you say. I swivel round to throw an irritated what-the-fuck-
is-this glare from over my shoulder, so you smile at the sight of it then lean down to help me
manoeuvre myself until I’m resting on my hands with my legs hooked around the base of your
thighs as you continue kneeling behind me. It’s surprisingly comfortable; somehow I didn’t think it
would be. You wait until I’ve settled down again then give my hip an encouraging stroke.

“That’s right,” you say approvingly. “That’s perfect. Now take your pleasure, beloved. Move
however you want to.”

It’s true I’m still feeling tired, but the idea of riding you like this is intriguing and I can already feel
my weariness starting to dissolve at the thought of it. Slowly I now begin to ease myself
backwards, gasping as the head of your cock nudges against my ass and I feel the tight ring of
muscle clench in anticipation. Oh God it really is tight and it’s going to give way any second…any
second now it’s going to happen. “Fuck,” I say breathily. At this angle the penetration is intense, so
I initially move with caution; partly for my own comfort, but mostly because I know it’ll be
driving you half-insane with impatience. Only gradually do I start to pick up speed, using the
leverage I’ve got from gripping your legs to fuck myself on you harder and harder. Shit, you feel
huge like this; I’m not even sure how I’m able to take it. It’s deep, too – about as deep as you can
possibly go – with the thick width of your cock slamming into my prostate each time I shift my
weight to grind my body against yours. The freedom to set the rhythm feels incredible as I arch my
back, offering you as much of myself as I can before muttering another sharp ‘fuck’ beneath my
breath at the sense of how my ass is opening up wider for you as I bounce my hips on your cock.
Regardless of how badly you behave in other ways, I know this is something I’ll never get tired of:
how you always make me feel like an object of desire rather than something damaged and broken.
Then I force my back into a sharper arch and continue to move, moaning loudly as I work myself
against the impossibly hard length. Desire has taken over now and there’s no sense of restraint at
all, just warmth and responsiveness as you slide so smoothly in and out of me.

“Oh yes,” I gasp out. You’re leaning over me now to get a better view and I know you’ll be smiling
to yourself – you love the way my vocabulary self-destructs whenever I’m being fucked. By this
point I’m trembling violently, my head thrown back as your fingers wind themselves into my hair.
“You feel so good,” I say. “Oh God, fuck…fuck. I’m getting close. I think I’m going to come.”

My ass is tightening so much around your cock it makes it seem unfeasibly large, so when you lose
control and thrust your hips it’s enough to make me spasm all over again as a deep ripple of
pleasure runs through my entire body. I pivot my own hips in response, trying to get the angle
exactly where I need it, then let out a low moan as you take hold of my waist to haul me back even
harder against you. For a few seconds you press your palm against my abdomen, attempting to feel
the vibrations from where you’re pounding into me, then murmur a snatch of something rapturous
in a foreign language before dropping forwards so you can drape yourself across my back. Your
fingers are tangling with mine as you nose my throat then growl against my hair, and it’s good – it’s
all so good. In fact it’s good enough that I know I’m not remotely ready for it to end…which is
why the moment I feel I’m close to coming I pull free of your grip then tackle you onto the bed so I
can climb on top of you to fuck you again myself. You’re smiling as I do it – relaxed and
affectionate in a way that makes you look softer and far younger than you actually are – so I swipe
your jaw with my tongue, tasting salt and sweat, then grab a handful of hair to tug until your throat
is exposed.

It seems you’re happy to accept the change of position, although when I get close to coming for a
second time I’ve barely time to catch my breath before you’re rolling me onto my front again then
sinking your own cock back inside me. A few minutes later I knock you onto your back then do the
same to you – at which point it seems we’ve descended into a kind of game as to who’s going to
‘lose’ by coming first. Even so, it’s clear there’s no dominance or control in it. Instead, it just feels
like a mutual, loving endeavour to try and make the other one feel as good as possible. In a way it’s
a relief. The night’s been too intense already and there’s something about touching and smiling
while flinging each other around like two kids wrestling that’s unexpectedly soothing. It’s as if
beneath all the angst and drama this playful interlude has helped us reconnect to just how much we
like each when we’re not trying to crawl inside the other’s head.

Ultimately it’s me who comes first (loudly, messily and in a pulsing stream which spatters all over
the sheets) although only because you end up cheating and pretty much force an orgasm out of me
by sliding a finger in my ass at the last moment to rub against my prostate. I dissolve across the bed
straight after in a crumpled heap, although I’m still so slicked-up and stretched wide that it’s easy
for you to lie behind me to push inside me for a final time. From the way your hips are bucking it’s
clear you’re desperate for a similar release: brutally hard, gracefully fast, yet also raw and primal –
animalistic, almost – with a movement that’s shot through with the heady urge to claim, consume
and own me. It’s like being on fire…like falling. I can immediately tell when you come yourself
because it’s so hot and gushing when it happens that it’s honestly like I’m being pumped full of it.
Afterwards you use your tongue to push it as far inside me as possible before we finally end up
tangled together in a sweaty jumble of limbs, my back pressed against your chest with your arm
wrapped around me to form a snug cocoon. Eventually I lean down to lightly scrape my teeth
across it and you make an inconvenienced noise then give my hair an affectionate nudge.

“I’m really glad we’re moving tomorrow,” I tell you. My voice is hoarse from all the panting; I
sound almost as gravelly as you do. “It feels like a fresh start. I need that, you know? After
everything that’s happened recently…I really feel like I need it.”

There’s a pause before you give me another nudge with you chin. “I understand,” you say. “And all
I ask is that you remember what I said – that no matter what happens going forward, you do your
best to trust me.”

I sigh slightly then stop nibbling your arm so I can press a rather melancholy kiss against it instead.
“I can’t just give you my trust, Hannibal,” I say. “You have to earn it.” You make a soothing noise
in response and I sigh a bit louder then briefly tighten my grip on your hand. “You’re on your last
chance,” I add. “One more stunt like tonight and we’re done.”

There’s a rustling noise as I feel you press another kiss against my hair; I think we both know I
don’t fully mean this, no matter how much I might wish I did. “I hate the fact Jack came here,” I
add fretfully. “Things were so much easier before.”

“I know my love. Yet he did come – and now we need to navigate our responses to it.”

There’s another pause as I try and fail to feel accepting of this. “Yeah,” I eventually reply; even to
my own ears I sound incredibly grudging. “I guess.”

“It’s beyond the point of guessing now, Will. But who knows, perhaps it may still prove to be for
the best? After all, he represents unfinished business: and anything which is unresolved is rarely a
force for good.”

I give a rather gloomy laugh then tip my head back far enough to nudge against your jaw. “To be
honest I preferred pretending he didn’t exist,” I say. “You know how fond I am of living in denial.”

“Yes, indeed; at times you have made a certain art out of it. Yet acceptance is always more
illuminating.”

“Not at the moment,” I reply in a more serious voice. “Nothing feels illuminating, Hannibal.
Nothing. At the moment everything…it just feels so dark.”
 “Does it?” you say gently. “Then in that case allow me to repurpose my metaphor. Because you
should embrace the darkness, Will: both your own and all that which surrounds you. Darkness is
concealment and authenticity. The darkness is where one’s life can truly be lived.”

“But it’s also overwhelming.” I feel uncomfortable admitting this – such a sign of weakness as it
seems – but I’m past the point of pretending something I no longer believe to be true. “It felt that
way in the past and it’s starting to feel that way now.”

“Y-e-s,” you say carefully, “perhaps it does. But there is also an important difference between then
and now.”

For a few seconds I increase the pressure on your hand. “I know there is.”

“That’s good, mylimasis– I’m glad that you know it. Because in the past you were facing the
darkness alone whereas now you have me to guide you.” There’s another pause, this time followed
with a soft rustling noise as your lips skim against my temple. “And one thing you can depend on is
that I will not abandon you for a second time. It’s true that the darkness can feel full of fear, but
never forget that your self-discovery began there. It’s where your freedom is, my love. For both of
us; for you and me.”

“I know,” I repeat, and this time my voice sounds slightly calmer. “I know.”

You kiss me again then tighten your grip even further like you’re trying to keep me as close to you
as physically possible. “There’s also a wonderful symmetry in it,” you add softly. “It’s like Neruda
observed, because I love you as certain dark things are meant to be loved. I love you in that perfect
space between the shadow and the soul. Do you understand, Will? Because whatever else you
think lives in the darkness, it won’t be enough to overpower that. I promise you, beloved – it will
never, ever be enough”

Chapter End Notes

Credit goes to Portia de Rossi for inspiring the dialogue in this chapter with her quote
that: “It’s good to be loved, but profound to be understood”. ‘Neruda’ is the Chilean
poet Pablo Neruda (and apologies to him for altering and re-purposing his beautiful
lines!). Finally, if anyone was wondering, this is the painting H refers to. I’m afraid I
couldn’t find who the artist is, but if anyone knows please let me know and I’ll update
the chapter with their actual name xox
 Chapter 35
Chapter Notes

Enormous thanks to the wonderful DD_cookmelonger for creating some stunning

fanart for Ch 29, which you can feast your eyes on here (and which, I think we can all
agree, is a far better version of that statue ;-D)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Unlike last time, I don’t sleep in the spare room. It occurs to me that this would be a justified thing
to do – a form of punishment and making a point – but deep down I know I don’t really want to, so
ultimately discard both these thoughts and simply end up staying where I am. It still takes a while
to decide though, and the entire time I’m brooding about it you just lie quietly next to me and
watch the emotions flicker across my face. It’s very obvious that you want us to touch again, yet
seem to understand that if it’s going to happen then it needs to be me who initiates it. It’s also true
that I’d like to (and that my reluctance feels slightly absurd considering we’ve only just had sex)
but my head still feels heavy and aching, and the awareness of what’s caused it has led to a wave of
tension that makes it hard to curl up beside you the way I normally do. To be honest I’d be happier
if I could, but I just can’t. Not after what you’ve done…it’s too soon to pretend that everything’s
normal. For a while we just stare at each other in silence, eyes gleaming in the dimness across the
stretch of pillow, until I finally turn over to perch at the edge of the bed; deliberately rolling out of
reach each time I think you’re going to touch me, then eventually falling asleep with my arm flung
out as a kind of barrier to keep you away.

Unsurprisingly, I end up dreaming about you. You’re standing in front of me, very poised and
sculptured in your long dark coat, although after a while you start to turn round again and begin to
move. There’s a bright flare surrounding you, so at first it seems you’re walking towards a
spotlight, but then I look harder and see it’s the lights of squad cars – and what you’re really doing
is walking towards the police. They’ve all got their guns trained on you and when you notice you
slowly raise your hands in the air, extremely calm and unafraid. I scream at you to come back and
for a few seconds you seem like you’re about to tilt your head, turning round to gaze at me the
same way you did in real life, before Jack suddenly appears to stand between us and blocks your
view. Please don’t go, I keep begging you. Don’t leave me. I don’t know how to live without you.
As the police open fire I wake up panicked and half-crying and for a few hideous moments think
it’s actually real until I feel a long arm winding around my shoulder.

“Beloved,” I hear you saying. “It’s all right, you’re safe. You were having a nightmare.”

Your voice sounds very gentle; possibly you’re feeling guilty (or at least as close as you ever come
to it). Not that this surprising, I suppose. You know this is your fault. I let out a shuddering breath
then drag my hand across my face: the fear is starting to ebb away, but I can already feel self-
consciousness swooping in to take its place. It’s humiliating, really. I don’t like anyone seeing me
like this – not even you.

My hair’s so damp with sweat it’s tangling into my eyes and you now twist your arm round a little
further so you can smooth it away. “Would it help to tell me about it?” you add.

I quickly shake my head so you stroke my hair for a little longer then silently push me back onto
the pillow to check my temperature, which is the first thing you always do when I have nightmares
(and which I respond to in the same way I always do, namely to lie there grumbling and rolling my
eyes around). By this point you know my body so well you can do this just by holding your hand
on my forehead, and once you’re satisfied there’s no signs of fever you give a satisfied nod then let
go of me so I can struggle upright again.

“Fine, I suppose?” I ask.

“Absolutely fine.”

“Yes, well, I could have told you that myself.”

In the darkness I see your mouth fold itself into a faint smile. “You would always tell me that,” you
reply. “Regardless of whether or not it was true.”

“Says you. I practically had to tie you down to get a thermometer into your mouth.”

“Says me. It appears we are as bad as each other.”

“No,” I say firmly. “You’re far worse.” I sound annoyed but I know I’m not – not really. Instead I
feel vulnerable and in need of comfort, and no one has ever been quite as good at supplying that as
you are. Besides, your concern and care are so obvious that it’s making me more inclined to be
forgiving. “You’re also controlling,” I add in a softer tone. “Less of a doctor and more of a nanny.”
I catch your eye then let out a subdued snorting sound. “A Nannibal.”

“Oh yes, very good,” you say. “I suppose a moment of silence is now required as tribute to that
particular triumph of wit?”

“Oh come on: that was worth at least two.”

“It shall have none,” you reply. “Which is exactly what it deserves.” I repeat the snorting sound
and you smile at me again before taking advantage of the pause to pull me closer towards you until
my head is propped against your shoulder. Your touch is gentle yet somehow still possessive; it’s
obvious how much you must have missed the contact during the night, even if you’ll never admit it
directly.

“I am sorry Will,” you now add. “Truly. It gives me no satisfaction to have caused you this much
turmoil.”

“Yeah,” I say gloomily. “You really screwed up.”

“I did,” you agree. “At least regarding you.” And then, because you can’t ever admit to being
entirely wrong: “Aronne, on the other hand…as far as he is concerned then things have worked out
extremely well.”

I hunch my shoulders into an irritable shrug. “Well, I’ll guess we’ll have to see about that,” I say.
“Won’t we?”

“We will, indeed” you reply in your usual calm way. “And no doubt sooner rather than later.”

“No doubt,” I say pointedly. “And speaking of which, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided it
would be better if I go into the office this morning. I want to be there when the news breaks.” I
shrug again then give a rather dark, humourless laugh. “Some damage control may be required.”

“But we’re moving to the hotel today. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”
“Of course I haven’t,” I reply with a hint of triumph. “Part of your punishment is to sort it out
yourself.”

As soon as I say this your expression acquires a look of true incomprehension that’s almost enough
to make me laugh out loud. Your response to facing any kind of consequences for your behaviour
is always unintentionally hilarious. Truly meme-worthy, in fact, in how fast you’ll go from sowing
(Hahaha, fuck yeah! Yes! ) to reaping (Well this fucking sucks, what the fuck?). In this respect it’s a
sign of how badly you know you’ve messed up that you don’t even try to talk me out of it. Instead
you just stare at me a for a little longer before giving a soft sigh of resignation as your fingers
twine into my hair.

“How are you feeling now?” is all you reply. “Any calmer?”

“About what? The nightmare, or…” There’s a small, strained pause: now it’s come down to it, I
realise I don’t even want to say it out loud. “The other thing,” I add, rather lamely.

In the darkness I can feel your finger running down my cheek. “Either.”

“The nightmare is fine,” I reply. “It’s just that: a nightmare.” Of course, it’s not fine (not at all) but
I can’t face getting into any of that right now. “The other thing is…yeah. That’s still a problem.
And it’s going to take me a while to work through it.”

“I understand,” you say.

You sound very sincere, although I don’t really think that you do. I don’t think you can; you don’t
have enough empathy for it. I suppose it’s a rather twisted sign of how far our relationship has
progressed that you’re prepared to acknowledge my feelings about it rather than immediately
dismiss them as irrelevant, the same way you would have done in the past. Your fuck ups (and
also, in fairness, mine) are so devastating when they happen, yet it still feels undeniably positive
that they’re becoming a way to help us grow closer. After all, it’s true I have a sense of you
observing my reaction to what you’ve done – cool and detached, like a scientist examining a
specimen on a slab – yet there’s also no doubt that you’re closer than you’ve ever really been to
allowing yourself to feel it.

This realisation is compelling and, the more I think about it, the more it seems that last night’s
scene created a similar surge of emotion that our fight did: a shred of time where all the intellectual
games were briefly put aside and for a few hours we were just two hurt, fallible human beings
trying our best to relate to each other. We still haven’t had enough experience of that, have we,
even though we’ve been just about everything else. We’ve been adversaries, sparring partners and
partners-in-crime; lovers, fighters, accomplices, each another’s motivation, ruination, salvation…
the match and the gasoline. But we’ve rarely practiced being people; people who want to live
together and love one another, the same as anyone else. It’s as if we focussed so much on the
extraordinary that we forgot the mundane, day-to-day grind of making a relationship work. Even
me, who’s been married before and knows better than you ever could how hard it is to make a
space in your life then accept another person into it.

This entire time you’ve been watching me and you now run your fingers through my hair again.
“You’re thinking so hard I can almost hear you,” you say. “Would it help to discuss some of it
aloud?”

“Probably,” I admit. “Probably it would. Only not right now. Maybe in our…whatever you want to
call them. The Not Therapy sessions.”

“Of course,” you say. “But don’t feel you have to bear it alone until then. I know you’re still angry
Will, and you should feel free to express that if you need to.”

“Oh don’t worry about that,” I reply. “I intend to express my anger constantly.”

“As you should,” you say fondly.

“You and my anger are going to be spending a lot of time together.”

“Excellent. In time I hope we shall grow to become the best of friends.”

“I additionally intend to nag you,” I say with grim satisfaction. “This will also be done constantly.”

“You do that anyway beloved,” you say airily. “When you wish to be, you are a perfect shrew.”

I start to laugh despite myself and you smile back then manage to coax me even closer until my
head has migrated onto your chest and you can fully wrap your arms around me. “That seems even
worse than a mongoose,” I add.

“I suppose it is,” you reply in a thoughtful voice. “Mongooses are decidedly impressive creatures.”

I reach out to give you a prod. “They’re not remotely impressive.”

“They absolutely are.”

“No, they’re absolutely not. They’re just large murder weasels.”

“If you insist.”

“I do insist. And now I’m an actual shrew?”

“Indeed you are,” you say happily. “Be honest, my love: you cannot deny that you have always
been delightfully bad-tempered. In fact, it was one of the first signs I knew I would find myself in
trouble where you were concerned.”

“How so?”

You make an amused sound then tangle your fingers into my hair again. “Because such rudeness
would have been unbearable in anyone else. In your case, however, it was unaccountably charming.
I could never bring myself to resent you for it.”

“So my shrewishness was my secret weapon?”

“Hmm, it would appear so.”

“Defeated by shrewishness,” I say. “That’s rather embarrassing for you.”

“I do not deny it. Fortunately for me, I have learned to be gracious in defeat.”

“Gracious.” I lean across to give you another light dig in the ribs. “Yeah, right.”

“By which you mean wrong,” you reply. I make another snorting noise and you press your lips
against my forehead then adjust your grip until you’re able to stroke along my shoulder blades. For
a few moments we then just lie there in companionable silence as you palm glides gently back and
forwards. “You are a little horror,” you eventually add. “Your rudeness is unparalleled.”

“Yeah, well,” I say without bothering to open my eyes. “At least I’m not shew-whipped.”
“Is that so?” you ask. “I have no idea what that even means.” You sound genuinely aggrieved and
when I give a rather manic cackle you kiss me again then renew the stroking a little harder than
before. “It’s good to hear you laughing,” you add. “But I know you’re still tense. I can feel it. Your
muscles are knotted all along your neck and shoulders.”

“After what’s just happened?” I say gloomily. “Of course I’m tense.”

“I think you could do with more rest.”

“Probably.”

“Will you be able to get back to sleep?”

“Probably not.”

You make a regretful noise then run a finger across my cheekbone. “That’s unfortunate,” you say.
“Would it help if I read to you for a while?”

I automatically open my mouth to say no, only to find myself hesitating at the last minute as I
realise it’s actually quite a tempting offer. This custom really started in earnest when you were
teaching me Italian, but at some point it’s shifted into more general material, and you’ll happily
read yourself hoarse working though journal and newspaper articles – even entire novels – simply
because you know I enjoy it. It’s strange really; your voice isn’t remotely made for soothing, yet
somehow I almost never fail to be comforted by it. Even so, I’m still not quite ready to let my
guard down that much so in the end just shake my head.

“It’s all right,” I say. “Thank you though – I appreciate the suggestion. But I think I’m going to get
up.”

Beneath me I feel you shift slightly; I can already tell you’re disappointed. “You need more time,
don’t you?” you say.

There’s another small pause. “Yeah,” I say eventually. “I do.”

“I understand,” you reply…which means we’ve now gone full circle to you insisting on your
understanding while I lie there and secretly doubt it. Having said that, I still believe you’re trying
to, and that in itself makes me happy. Finally I give your jaw a small nudge with my forehead.

“I can’t just let go of this,” I say. “Not right away. You need to let me sulk a bit longer.”

You hum softly with agreement, so I kiss you on the nearest cheekbone to show you’re not entirely
unforgiven then struggle upright and stetch both arms above my head. Considering what an early
riser you are I’m fully expecting you to get up with me, and of course you do; shaving next to me
in the bathroom mirror in a companionable way while I’m rummaging around for my toothbrush,
then following me downstairs to prepare some frittata while I get ready to brew the coffee. Eating
breakfast is a habit you’ve continuously failed to train me into but I still make a point of sitting
beside you while you have yours, eventually even thawing out enough to allow myself to be
tenderly hand-fed a few pieces of it. Afterwards I turn the radio to a station that plays old rock and
pop music, and you remain so intent on making things up to me that you don’t even complain
about it. Tainted Love immediately comes on and I find myself nostalgically tapping my palm
along on the counter to the bassline.

“What a classic,” I say…then regret it almost straight away, because this is the type of statement
that it’s almost impossible for you to take at face value (But there is nothing classic about it. Why
is it a classic, Will? Define ‘classic’…) until I want to tear my hair out, or simply wish for the
sweet release of deafness so that I’d never have to listen to you, or Tainted Love, ever, ever again.
In desperation I eventually end up dragging a stack of packing crates into the centre of the kitchen
to start shovelling books into them: officially to distract you, but also (deep down), because I’m
starting to feel guilty at how we’d planned to do the move together and I’ve now backed out at the
last minute. In this respect making other people feel bad on behalf of your own fuck ups is a kind of
superpower that you have, because the fact I’m going to the office at all is entirely your fault. Not
that you care: you’ve already pulled out your best Sad Bullshit face at least twice this morning, and
even now are probably busy practicing it behind my back. Out of curiosity I now glance round to
check, only to discover that you’re not doing anything at all beyond lounging against the counter
with a cup of coffee and wearing one of your favourite smirks (I say ‘one of’ because you actually
have a whole collection of them, adapted for every conceivable occasion).

“You know, you could always help,” I say pointedly. “Most of these are yours.”

Your sole response is to smirk a bit harder and then raise your cup as if proposing a toast. “But you
are doing such a good job without me,” you reply. “Besides, I am conserving my energy. There
will be a lot to do once the moving truck arrives.”

I pause from stacking books together just so I can roll my eyes at you. “Okay then, old man,” I say.
“Conserve away.”

“On the contrary,” you say smugly. “You should be relishing the chance to assist me. Seeing how I
am so old and decrepit: it means you can indulge your saviour complex to your heart’s delight.” A
brief pause now follows where the eye-roll/smirk combination gets repeated even more
enthusiastically until I finally return to the boxes and you retrieve your iPad from the countertop
and resume scrolling down the screen. “I should also warn you that this scene is destined to be
repeated,” you add. “Because I don’t intend to remain in this hotel for long. The location is very
inconvenient.”

“Yeah, well,” I say vaguely. “You know my feelings about it.”

“I know. And aside from the issue of Jack, it was never my intention to remain in Florence
indefinitely. At some point I want us to have a home of our own – and you have always favoured
somewhere more rural.”

I immediately glance up, my face taking on the same wistful expression it always has whenever
this gets mentioned. “I thought you didn’t want to live in the country?”

For a moment you just stare at me as your own expression starts to soften. “I didn’t,” you say. “At
least at first. But now I have you to take care of as well as myself; my own preferences are no
longer the deciding factor.”

I put the books down for long enough to give you a long and very genuine smile. “Thank you. I’d
really like that.”

“As would I,” you say fondly. “And at some point it will happen; given enough time, I’m confident
I can obtain the right documents.” The faint emphasis on ‘obtain’ indicates that what you really
mean is forging these, and I can’t help smiling again at how fastidious you always are in your
approach to illegality. “But that time is not now,” you add in a brisker voice, “so in the meanwhile,
here we must remain.”

Another pause now follows as you continue scrolling, emitting soft little sighs at intervals at what I
presume is a growing irritation with the hotel’s crimes of inconvenience. “You realise we are going
to be spending all our time in cabs?” you eventually add.
“Then why did you choose it?” I ask in my best Smug Bastard voice.

“Because it is discreet,” you say crisply. “Which is something you were very insistent that you
wanted. Having said that, I should still have shown more foresight by arranging access to a
motorbike. They are by far the quickest way of getting round the city.”

“That sounds needlessly complicated. And by the way – in America it’s called a motorcycle.”

“What a tyrant you are,” you reply with obvious amusement. “In case it has escaped your notice, I
am not actually American. But by all means, if it will please you: I wish I had obtained a
motorcycle, the same as I did the last time I was here.”

I’m preparing to stack a fresh pile of books as you say this and I now pause very briefly before
carrying on. “Oh?” I say, ultra-casual. “I didn’t know you used to actually own one.”

“I did, yes. It was extremely useful.”

“What make?”

“A Thruxton.”

“Oh right – nice. They’re British aren’t they?”

“They are.” You pause yourself then repeat the same fond smile. “I suppose if I still had it then
you would have tried to rebuild the engine by now.”

For a few seconds I fall silent again, arranging Russian paperbacks into a careful row one after the
other. “So…what did you wear when you were riding it?” I ask, even more casually than before.

“Biking leathers, of course. The same as most people do.” There’s another pause as you give me a
look from over the top of your cup. “You appear unaccountably fascinated by this.”

“Hardly.”

You now lean forward slightly then narrow your eyes. “Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“I think you are.”

“I am not!” I say in something close to a shriek.

This time you just give the most godawful smirk before leaning back against the counter and
stretching your legs out in front of you. “If you insist, beloved. I suppose it must be all the exertion
that’s making you look so…flustered.”

“I am not flustered.”

“Are you not? What terminology would you prefer then?” For a few moments you catch my eye
while your smirk (if possible) grows even broader. “Hot and bothered?”

“Oh God, just shut up.”

“Do you wish to straddle my saddle?”

“I hope that wasn’t meant to be a joke,” I say in a withering voice. “Because it is without a doubt
one of the lamest things I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“Yes, you are quite right: I see now I have misjudged the situation and your interest in my
motorcycle was only ever…technical.”

“I have zero interest in your motorcycle,” I reply with maximum pompousness. “In fact, I have
negative levels of interest, because it doesn’t actually exist.”

“Yes, my love. Whatever you say.”

I put the books down on the table then turn round to give you an indignant look (which, as with all
similar looks, manages to bounce off without any obvious effect). “Do you know what else I say?”

Your mouth is starting to twitch now, the same way it always does when you’re trying not to
laugh. “That is a false premise,” you reply. “It doesn’t matter what I want, because you clearly
intend to tell me anyway.”

“What I say,” I add severely, “is that I am retiring my saviour complex and you can finish this
packing off all by yourself.”

You give another horrendous smirk then follow it up with a long, leisurely sip of your coffee.
“Truly, beloved?” you ask with fake surprise. “But I thought we had established that my energy
levels need conserving?”

“Tough,” I say. “Anyway, it’s good for the elderly to remain active.”

I follow this up with a smirk of my own then deliberately turn my back on you – at which point you
revert to one of your ninja-type stealth moves to silently prowl up behind me then grab me round
the waist. I burst out laughing and you laugh too then lean across to nuzzle my hair with your
cheek.

“Mylimasis,” you say. “I shall miss you today: very badly. I would much prefer to have done this
together.”

“Well, whose fault is that?”

“It is Aronne’s fault,” you reply. “Clearly.”

I laugh again then shuffle round inside your arms until we’re finally facing each other. “It won’t be
for much longer,” I add. “You know that don’t you?”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I meant what I said. We both know we’ve got issues to work on, and that’s far
more important than anything Jack could ask from me. There’s just a few more things I need to
arrange to cover our tracks and then I’m done.”

You stare at me without replying and as I gaze back it occurs to me that you don’t fully believe
what I’m saying. Not that I can really blame you. After all, it would hardly be the first time I’ve
declared an intention to leave my old life behind only to walk right back to it a short time later.
Briefly I tighten my grip on your hand to show that I mean it and you give a faint smile before
finally leaning towards me to press our foreheads together.

“Do you remember what I told you before,” you ask. Your voice sounds unusually gentle now;
very quiet and contemplative in a way that’s rather out of character. “About trusting me? Do you
think you can do that?”

“Yes,” I say slowly. “Yes, I want to…but sometimes you make it so difficult.”

“I know,” you reply in the same soft voice. “Yet you still remain willing to try?”

This time there’s no hesitation as I raise my own hand upwards to cover yours. I suppose after last
night I should be feeling more cynical than ever, yet somehow it seems like the opposite is true.
It’s as if the wrong you’ve done has been outweighed both by your regret at doing it and your
willingness to admit the failure…one of the very few instances in all the time I’ve known you of a
genuine expression of remorse for the past combined with a pledge to do better in the future.

“Yes,” I say, and I know that I’m telling us both the truth. “I might not always manage it, Hannibal
– but I can promise I’ll never stop trying.”

*****

In the end I leave the apartment just as the moving trucks are pulling up outside, then proceed to
spend the entire journey in a state of grim anticipation as I obsessively rehearse the best way to
respond when I get the news about Aronne. In this respect I’m aware my acting abilities have
rusted recently from lack of use, so have kept to my strategy of not asking you for too many details
in the hope I’ll find it easier to convincingly fake surprise if I go in without a full awareness of
what happened. A part of me now wonders if this lack of preparation was a mistake, but I know it’s
the link with you that’s causing me to scrutinise myself so closely. With Matteo it was simpler
because only I was involved, but Aronne means keeping you safe as well and somehow it feels less
of a strain to be believable if I ‘find out’ at the same time as everyone else. Fretfully I now begin to
gnaw at my thumbnail, attempting once more to imagine the scene when the news finally breaks. I
know my former self would have been able to take in their stride with minimal effort, but I feel so
disconnected from this world by now. Can it really be less than two years since I left it behind me?
Logically I know this is true, yet it seems like so much longer that somehow I still struggle to
believe it.

Needless to say all this planning is incredibly tedious, as well as somewhat stressful. But to add
insult to injury it also turns out to be totally pointless, because within five minutes of arriving at
the station it becomes clear that no one’s even realised the stupid bastard is missing. It’s ironic,
really. The impression you gave was that he’d be found fairly quickly, but it seems this might
actually be a rare instance of you giving the police too much credit because beyond someone
wandering in with the occasional ‘Qualcuno ha visto Aronne?’ his absence barely seems to register.
His empty desk is right across the room from me and looking at it now feels like a silent form of
reproach, as well as a reminder that’s something wrong: a missing tooth in an otherwise
immaculate mouth. Eventually I decide I can’t stand it anymore and head down to the cafeteria so I
can get some coffee then sit and brood over that instead. Only this turns out to be yet another plan
that’s doomed to failure, because Clarice follows me in a few minutes later then proceeds to sit at
my table to bombard me with questions about the Macellaio copycat that I’m not remotely in the
mood to answer. Oh God, this is all your fault. I shouldn’t have been here at all, should I? I should
have been with you – the only place I ever really want to be.

By this point I’m on the verge of a full self-pitying stupor when distraction finally arrives courtesy
of a text from Clarice’s phone. She gives a small frown as she looks at the screen and I find myself
noticing immediately then leaning in towards her. It’s based in concern, I suppose, although is
admittedly fairly absurd: she’s not even that much younger than I am, but I still find myself
slipping into a protective, fatherly type of role at times. It’s also quite hard to admit to myself,
especially since our fight, but deep down I know it’s yet another re-enactment of Abigail.
“Everything okay?” I ask.

Clarice glances back to me again then smiles. “It’s fine,” she says. “Just a message from Abioye.”

“Who?”

“One of the other trainees.” I must look a bit blank because her smile now broadens slightly. “He’s
the one who did all that transcription last week for Mr Crawford. His first name is Jamal.”

“Oh yeah,” I say vaguely. “I know who you mean.” To be honest I haven’t paid much attention to
any of the trainees, although I think I can picture him now: tall and broad-shouldered with a
disarming smile and a laugh that was surprisingly merry and infectious to come from such a
masculine body. I remember noting that he was unusually good-looking – and how positive it felt
to finally feel comfortable acknowledging other men as attractive – before completely forgetting all
about him again.

“He’s asked me to go to dinner this evening,” says Clarice. I raise my eyebrows and she hastily
adds: “Only to discuss the case. But…well, you know how it is. I feel like I should tell him no.”

Of course, I know this is the absolute last thing I should be paying any attention to, but by this
point my crusty old Dad Mode has already been thoroughly activated – and there’s no denying that
I’d much prefer to think about this then Aronne, Matteo or the copycat killer (which
inconveniently happens to be me). “Do you like him?” I ask.

“I do,” replies Clarice in her usual calm way. “He’s very good company. But I told Mr Crawford
I’d stay late tonight to work with the translator. Besides, Jamal is a colleague.”

“Yes,” I say slowly. “That’s true. And I know my official line should be that dating a colleague is a
bad idea – which it definitely can be. But it’s also not impossible. Jack would have to move one of
you to a different department, but other than that…” I shrug slightly then take another sip of
coffee. “Agents marry each other all the time.”

Clarice starts to laugh then wrinkles her nose at me in a way that’s unintentionally endearing.
“Slow down there, Will,” she says. “He didn’t even pitch it as a date. Just a business dinner.”

I laugh too then repeat the same shrugging motion. “Yeah, but I guess what I’m really saying is
that it’s never too early to learn how to balance your job with your personal life. I made that
mistake myself – a lot – and looking back I wish I hadn’t. Your work is important, but it shouldn’t
be the only thing.”

As I’m speaking I see her eyes briefly flick downwards to where my wedding ring used to be.
Someone’s clearly been filling her in about Molly by now (Price seems the most likely culprit for
this; it’s hard to see Jack giving much of a shit either way) but while the assumption certainly fits
my argument I’m already overcome with a powerful urge to correct her. I can’t help it really; I’m
just so tired of having to constantly deny your existence, and one thing I’ve been wanting for ages
is the chance for another person to simply be a witness to what we have.

“I’ll be honest with you,” I add. Well…not very honest, but enough to get the point across. “This is
something that’s really been on my mind lately. You see, last year I met up with someone that I
used to know. We hadn’t spoken in years – not since college. And then we just, kind of, bumped
into each other in the street.”

Clarice makes a whistling sound. “After so long? That’s quite something, Will. You must have had
the shock of your life.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. For a few moments I find myself reenvisaging the scene in the alleyway: that
fraught, painfully ecstatic reunion. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw him.”

“So how was that? You must have had so much to talk about.”

“There was a lot,” I say. “You see, when we first knew each other we’d had an intense friendship.
Very intense…too intense. The whole thing ended extremely badly.”

“What went wrong?”

“Everything.” I shrug again, followed with a rather rueful smile. “He wanted much more from me
than I was able to give him. I didn’t understand myself very well back then and, I don’t know – I
guess I just wasn’t ready. We both ended up walking out on each other and for the longest time I
thought we’d never see each other again. But then we did…and it’s been wonderful.” For a few
moments I go quiet, briefly struck by a renewed sense of how wonderful it really was. Although
how could it not be when you’re such a wonder yourself? A mad, bad, beautiful force of nature.
“It’s changed everything,” I add in the same earnest voice. “And it’s been like getting a second
chance to be happy.”

Clarice gives me a gentle smile, clearly decoding all the unspoken significance behind the
simplicity of the words. “I’m glad to hear it, Will,” she says. “You deserve that. I know you’ve
been through a lot.”

“Thanks,” I say, aware of how I’ve started to smile too. “But, anyway, the reason I’m telling you
all this is…actually, I guess there’re two reasons. Firstly, is that you shouldn’t make a habit of
putting your work ahead of your wellbeing. I mean it, Clarice: the Bureau will take everything from
you if you let it.”

For a few seconds I now fall silent again, almost imagining I can hear your voice: I don’t care
about the lives you save; I care about your life. Then I take a deep breath and let my next words
come out in a tumbling rush to avoid any chance I’ll change my mind and try to snatch them back
again: “The second is that I’m leaving the taskforce,” I add firmly. “I haven’t told Jack yet, so I’d
appreciate if you could keep it to yourself, but yeah.” I smile again then raise my cup in a parody of
a toast. “I guess I’m retiring for a second time.”

From her expression I can tell her initial response to this is disappointment, although she’s also
considerate enough not to rain on my proverbial parade by showing it. “Because of your friend?”
she asks.

“Yeah,” I say simply. “Because of him.”

As I’m speaking I find myself thinking back again to the pain of the last few weeks: how you keep
getting things so wrong despite an unprecedented effort to do it right, like I’m watching you in real-
time as you wrestle with yourself to become more human. I wonder what she’d say if she knew I
haven’t even told you yet? It’s ridiculous, really; such an important decision and I seem to have
made it on a whim, wildly and impulsively without even fully planning to. Not that it matters
though, because none of that changes the fact that the choice is the right one. I’ve made my point
about staying independent, and the way I went back to Jack because I wanted to makes it
additionally fitting that I leave him the same way. I think I’ll tell you when I get home; our first
night in the new hotel. It’s already easy to imagine how delighted you’ll be.

“This time I want us to stay together,” I add, and I know I’m speaking as much to myself as to her.

Clarice smiles again. “It’s clear how much he means to you, Will. You look so happy when you’re
talking about him.”

“He does,” I say quietly. “He means everything.”

Her smile broadens and I promptly find myself growing awkward at the way I’ve managed to steer
this into deeper emotional territory than I originally planned to. “Please keep that part to yourself as
well,” I add in a lighter voice. “I can already picture Price falling down a ‘Will’s got a boyfriend’
rabbit hole.”

“Oh no, surely he wouldn’t?”

“He would,” I say firmly.

“Actually, what term do you prefer? I’m aware I keep calling him your ‘friend’. It seems a bit
euphemistic.”

This is now so reminiscent of Matteo that it’s hard to resist an urge to grimace. “I don’t know,
really,” I say. “Partner I guess.” And then, because I appear to be on a roll by now and can’t quite
stop myself: “And by the end of the year, hopefully husband.”

“Oh Will,” says Clarice. She actually claps her hands together; one of several youthful gestures
that sneak through every now and then and never fail to be incredibly charming. “That’s
wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Yes,” I say happily. “It is.”

“So, tell me more about him then. What’s his name?”

“Robert,” I say without hesitation. My bullshitting fluency is now growing so rapid it’s vaguely
alarming, although this one seemed obvious as it’s an alias I’ve heard you use yourself. I think it’s
based on the name of one of your uncles – although knowing you the preference is more likely to
be from practical than sentimental reasons, and you’ve almost certainly got some existing ID in
that name.

“And what does he do?”

“He’s an artist,” I say, before deciding I’m getting carried away and should probably rein it in a bit.
Clearly such discretion is the more sensible option, although as soon as it occurs to me I’m still
aware of a deep reluctance to follow it. Talking about us as a couple is addictive – even a fictious
version – and it makes me realise how much I’ve been yearning for the opportunity. I can’t help it,
no matter how stupid it is: I just want someone else to see the reality of us being in love. “Mainly
commercial,” I now force myself to add. “Nothing you would have heard of.”

“No, that’s really interesting; you need a lot of talent to be a professional artist. Are we likely to be
able to meet him?”

“I doubt it,” I reply, deliberately casual. “At the moment he’s still in America – he was only ever
here on vacation.”

“Ah. That really is a long-distance relationship.”

“Yeah, it’s tough,” I say, sighing heavily in what’s supposed to imitate romantic stoicism. “But we
get by. I’m flying back myself soon so we can spend some time together. Although to be honest,
even if he was here I wouldn’t introduce him to the team. They never formally met my wife, either.
I like to keep my private life separate from work.”
It now occurs to me that I’m advertising myself as the type of person who goes out their way to
collect both a wife and a husband (and then proceeds to be morbidly anti-social with both of them),
although if this strikes Clarice as odd she’s too polite to mention it. Instead she just smiles, then
leans across the table to give me a friendly pat on the arm.

“It’s great news, Will,” she says. “I’m really happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll be missed, though – I can’t pretend that you won’t. It’s been a real honour to get the chance
to know you.” I make an awkward grunting noise and she smiles again then reaches down towards
her purse. “I’m not going to put you on the spot and ask you for your email address,” she adds.
“But if it would be possible to give you mine? You don’t have to get in touch if you don’t want to
– I won’t be offended. But if you ever did…well, I’ll always be happy to hear from you.”

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll warn you though, I’m not the greatest correspondent.”

My tone is sincere, but I can already feel myself doubting that it’s going to be possible. Of course
it’d be nice if it could be; but at some point she’s going to grow more curious about the identity of
the artistic boyfriend/partner/husband, and while it’s one thing to do some long-distance
bullshitting with Mr Havisham about my love life I feel far less comfortable doing the same with
her. The fantasy of her being someone to confide in about how happy I am is just that. A fantasy.
And as long as we’re together then it’ll always be that way: your entire existence an enormous
secret that I’ll need to commit the rest of my life to keeping.

In the end I just open my mouth, preparing to tell her I’ve enjoyed getting to know her too, but
before I can manage it there’s a loud crashing noise from the end of the cafeteria as Jack comes
barrelling through the door. For a few seconds he pauses, neck swivelling from side to side like a
hound scenting the air, before lowering his head as he starts to bear down in our direction. He
looks less like a dog now and more like a bull – hulking and purposeful, sights set on the
proverbial red flag – and from the expression on his face it’s clear that something incredibly
serious has happened. Oh God, I think grimly, here it is. My sole consolation is that not much
acting ability is going to be required. After all, it’s not like I really knew Aronne; not beyond a
casual see-you-in-the-office type of way. No one would expect me to be particularly upset.

By now Clarice also seems tense as we silently wait for Jack to arrive, both of us wincing slightly
at the way the chairs are screeching on the lino because he’s striding too quickly to bother pushing
them aside. His face is unbelievably bleak and when he reaches our table I can tell he’s out of
breath. Emotion or exertion? It’s hard to see how it could be the former, although he’s not the most
energetic person in the world so the latter doesn’t make much sense either. Perhaps he’s just been
pounding around the station, frustration brewing over at his inability to find me? It would be nice
to think the explanation was something so simple, yet deep down I know that it’s not.

“Starling,” Jack barks out. “Go back to the incident room.” Clarice glances up at him, presumably
waiting for specific instructions, and Jack shakes his head in a restless way that’s extremely out of
character. “Now,” he adds. “I need to talk to Will.”

Clarice murmurs a polite ‘Sir’ then gathers her belongings together with brisk efficiency before
vanishing out the door. I find myself wistfully staring after her as she’s leaving, struck with an
almost painfully powerful urge to be able to follow and simply walk away too. Soon, I promise
myself…because surely it will be? One day soon I’ll be able to leave all this mess behind me; just
walk my way towards you then walk away together, onwards and upwards and hand-in-hand,
without ever once looking back.
 Jack now stands and waits until the door has swung closed before finally turning back towards me
again. His face is taut and strained – haunted, even – and at the sight of it I feel the first stirrings of
genuine alarm. “What is it Jack?” I say sharply. “What’s happened?”

“Everything,” snaps Jack. “Ask me what hasn’t happened.” He shakes his head again then draws a
deep breath in an obvious attempt to get his temper under control. “Why the hell didn’t you answer
your phone?”

I swipe my hand towards the table; irritated, despite myself, by the sharpness of his tone. “I was
having lunch. Jesus, Jack, give me a break: I’m not even supposed to be in work today.”

Jack gives a grudging nod in acknowledgement of this then reaches out to clap a hand on my
shoulder. “Well, you’re okay,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

“What are you talking about?” Annoyance is battling confusion now; it’s getting hard to tell
anymore which one is strongest. “Of course I’m okay.”

This time Jack just sighs even louder, then instead of replying simply pulls out Clarice’s empty
chair and heaves himself into it. I watch in silence as his hand extends across the table, finally
coming to a halt as it rests itself on my arm. “I wanted to tell you this in private,” he says in a
gentler voice. “The whole office is in a goddamn uproar and I need you to try to stay calm. You
wait down here with me and when you’re ready we’ll go back up and face it together.”

“What?” I say.

Do I already know? Perhaps. Perhaps I knew from the moment I first saw the look on his face; a
look he’s only had a few times in his entire life. It’s a look that signals something unimaginable has
happened and who else is there, really, who defies imagination? Who else except you? So that’s
why I remain strangely calm – almost as calm as he wants me to be – as he tightens his grip on my
arm then utters the words I’d sincerely hoped I’d never have to hear from him again.

“It’s Hannibal, Will,” he says, and it’s obvious how much he doesn’t want to believe it. “We think
he’s come back.”

Chapter End Notes

Hope to see you all soon, but in the meantime wishing a wonderful Christmas to
everyone who’s celebrating, and a very happy holiday season to those who aren’t. All
my love to you, Fannibals, and here’s hoping for a somewhat less apocalyptic 2022
xox
 Chapter 36
Chapter Notes

Huge hugs and thanks to the very talented Pufosenie23, who’s made some beautiful
art for the story that you can feast your eyes on here. <3

Also, sorry to shill so shamelessly for a different story, but anyone who’s read my
Secret Diary fic should check out this amazing video which was very kindly made for
it by DrLecterWillSeeYouNow. It will make you LOL very heartily, go ‘awww…
Hannigram’, then finally raise a solemn glass to Scott Thompson (who’s not afraid to
show that he ships it just as hard as the rest of us xD)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Upstairs the incident room is in a state of suspended animation: an aura of shock and eerie
uncertainty where everyone’s trying a bit too hard to look calm in a way that only manages to make
them seem more panicked. In fact the sense of dread is so powerful that the air is nearly crackling
under the weight of it, causing people’s limbs to move in the jerky mechanical way of puppets with
broken strings while their voices come out in suspenseful whispers like they’re afraid the wrong
person might overhear them. As if they think you’re listening, I think grimly; because of course this
is the real reason for the jerky limbs and the frozen faces. It’s been so long since one of your
scenes that I’d almost forgotten their capacity to instil horror and shock amongst even the most
hardened of investigators, yet right now the evidence for both these things is so clear that it might
as well be bagged up and labelled along with the forensic samples. Exhibit A: The power of fear.

Looking back on it I think my first impression was that the office resembled an ER after a major
accident, but now I’ve spent more time here I’ve decided it’s more like a War Room from an old
black and white movie: breathless panic concealed beneath a pretence of control which only needs
the smallest tug to make the frayed edges unravel. I suppose this means I’d be entitled to unravel
from the strain of it too…except of course I can’t, because I know our safety depends on me not
succumbing to the same force of feeling as the rest of them. So in the end I carefully push my own
unease to one side then walk over to Price instead, uncomfortably aware the entire time of how
loud my footsteps seem in the otherwise quiet room. In fact the quietness is adding to the general
air of menace, because even the ravages of an Il Macellaio murder would still see the team more
animated than this. The silence, in contrast, feels stilted and unnatural and fills me with a sense of
foreboding that’s as profound as it’s entirely expected. No one else can instil fear on this scale, I
know that now. No one except you.

Price glances up at the sound of my too-loud footsteps and I swallow slightly then force myself to
catch his eye before asking in a terse, emotionless voice: “You sure it’s him?”

Price looks just as strained as everyone else does and as I watch he falters briefly then turns
towards Jack, almost like he thinks he needs his permission to speak the unspeakable. “As sure as
we can be,” he replies.

From across the room Zeller promptly drops a glass. It smashes onto the floor with a defeated
splintering sound, and while it isn’t especially loud it’s still enough to cause everyone’s head to
swivel round in alarm as if the sad little shatter is a herald of further catastrophe. My head swivels
too until I catch myself and manage to readjust my expression to a more neutral one then
determinedly turn back to Price again.

“How sure is that?” I ask.

Price’s shoulders have arranged themselves into a hunch and he now reaches up to rub his neck
from where the tension of it is clearly starting to hurt him. “You’ll understand when you see the
photos,” he says, and the thread of weary resignation in his voice is unmistakable. “It took Jack,
Zeller and I less than 10 minutes to agree.”

“It’s a tableau?”

Price swallows then gives a very slight flinch. “It’s a tableau.”

“And there’s no chance it’s another copy-cat?”

“No,” says Price bluntly. “I understand why you’d hope it might be, but no – there’s no way. Aside
from the fact it’s years later and on the other side of the world, there’s only one person who could
have done this.” For a few moments he pauses, drawing in a long breath through his nose then
letting it all out again in a shuddering exhale. “And he’s just left us the mother of all calling cards.”

In the resulting silence I feel as if everyone is staring at me. “Right,” I finally reply, because I
know by now that I must. I don’t have a choice, not really. What else can I say?

“There’s only minimal trace evidence,” adds Price. “But I’m not holding my breath that we won’t
be able to eliminate it. In a way that’s a sign in itself; it’s why I always hated Ripper scenes.” He
pauses then gives a small wince, obviously aware that there are far more compelling reasons to
hate them. “He never leaves anything behind.”

This refusal to use your name is striking and I now find myself wondering how conscious it is. It
seems like an attempt to create some sense of mental distance – which, ironically, is the exact same
thing that only a few days ago he was mocking Jack for. I suppose in a weird way it reminds me of
one of Hunter’s novels: that moment of triumph when the maverick cop no one took seriously is
finally proven correct. Except that Jack doesn’t look triumphant. He looks stressed and strained and
sad. He looks like someone whose worst nightmare has finally come true; someone whose ghosts
have returned for a fresh haunting. Because really, isn’t that what you are to him? He wanted you
to stay dead and you won’t.

Price has now begun to stare at me again, his expression a cautious blend of sympathy and
concern. It’s the sort of discomfort people often show towards the bereaved and it’s obvious that
he doesn’t really know what to say to me. He also looks profoundly unnerved; possibly because
he’s begun worrying that you might come after him. Not that there’s much I can do about it. What
could I even say? It’s not like I can lean over to put a comforting hand on his shoulder: Don’t worry
pal, trust me – he really couldn’t give a single shit about you. And besides, even if I did he
wouldn’t believe me, because right now we’re not really dealing with you at all. Instead, it’s a
phantom version. It’s the one who went over the cliff and who I sometimes still see in my
nightmares: the one who smiles and lies and who’s coldly cunning and lethally cruel. The
psychopath. The monster. It’s the one who’s causing Jack to look the way he does, even though it
doesn’t even exist anymore except in textbooks and websites or as a memory which lingers in the
darkest parts of other people’s imaginations. Because this is the version who operates on a different
level of inhumanity, and the fact I can never reveal I know about the existence of the other means I
can’t reassure Price, or Zeller, or anyone at all, and instead simply stand here and pretend I’m as
afraid as they are. Except, of course, I am afraid…just not for them, but for you.
“Remember that bingo card of mine?” says Price finally. “Well…you can probably guess what
wasn’t on it.”

I give a small, lop-sided smile. “Yeah, I probably can.”

“You’ve heard who it was he killed?”

This time I just nod. Jack told me himself in the canteen, although I was so freaked out by the
announcement about you that I briefly forgot I was also meant to be surprised with the news about
him and ended up totally overdoing it as a result. Mainly there was a lot of repetition from one of
us to the other (“Aronne is dead.” “Dead?” “Yes, dead.” “He’s dead?”) until Jack seemed on the
verge of a total breakdown (and possibly tempted to bellow Yes! Fucking dead! at high volume,
followed by a Monty Python list of euphemisms for illustrative purposes: he is no more, he’s
ceased to be, he’s expired and gone to meet his maker, bereft of life he rests in peace, he is an ex-
person…) Then he’d got so far as adding “He’s been murdered” at which point I’d chipped in with
“Murdered?” and we seemed doomed to repeat the whole thing (He was murdered. Murdered?
Yes! Fucking murdered!) on an eternal loop. The whole thing was admittedly quite excruciating,
although fortunately it was also convincing, which is all it really needed to be. In fact, if anything,
it was a bit too convincing: he kept giving me the type of looks you always give me before you
check my temperature because you think my brain might be on fire again. At the memory of it I can
feel a fresh wave of exhaustion coming on so scrub my hand across my forehead; not least because
everyone else seems to be making similar gestures so I feel like I might as well do it too.

“How are the Italian team taking it,” I add finally. If I’m honest I don’t really care, but I’m not sure
what else to say anymore and this somehow feels like the type of thing I ought to be showing
concern over. As so often happens when you’re not here, there’s also a strong sense of playacting a
different persona; a fake, hollow version who pretends to be interested in questions like these. As
soon as I leave I know I’ll shrug it off immediately, discarded as casually as a piece of unwanted
clothing until I can be with you again and, therefore, truly myself.

Price gives a shrug. “Mixed. I don’t get the impression he was very popular: it’s more like shock
than sadness, if you know what I mean.” I nod my head to show that I do and Price sighs in
response in a way that’s almost as loud and lavish as mine was. “In terms of Hannibal, not all of
them where fully aware who he was.” He pauses then winces slightly. “Who he is. Although of
course they do now – and you can probably guess their reaction.”

“It’s the same as what everyone’s reaction will be,” adds Jack to no one in particular. By this point
he’s managed to adopt the same fraught façade of calm as everyone else and it makes his voice
sound unnaturally slow and strained. “The Chesapeake Ripper and Il Macellaio in one city – plus a
copycat too, just for the hell of it. It’s the ultimate worst-case scenario.”

Seeing this is fairly undeniable I decide I don’t have anything much to add to it, so just end up
repeating the same weary shrug as before. Unfortunately the movement also catches Jack’s
attention, because he now turns round to stare at me with his eyes slightly narrowed before putting
his hand on my shoulder to guide me towards the window away from the others. His intention to
speak in private is obvious and I can already feel my heart sinking at the thought of what he might
say. I mean it really does; it’s as if the sick plunge of dread has the capacity to transcend metaphor
and manifest as a defeated plummeting sensation deep in my chest. I can’t help it though, because
the absolute last thing I want is to talk to him anymore. Instead, I just want to go. I want to go back
and be with you, because no matter how angry you’ve made me there’s still a contradictory sense
of how much better I’ll feel when we’re together. After all, you won’t have a single shit to give
about any of this. You’ve pulled the pin out the hand grenade and will now simply stroll away to
admire the chaos you’ve created without even a shred of unease for the consequences. To be
honest, it’s that I need right now as much as anything else; a dose of your authentic calmness as
opposed to the unnatural, panicked kind that currently saturates the station.

“I suppose you don’t need me to tell you how serious this is?” Jack says once we’re alone. As this
is too obvious to require a reply I just sigh instead, so Jack sighs too then runs his hand across his
face. “We need to get you a security detail,” he adds. “The sooner the better. You’re not leaving
the building until something’s been sorted.”

Seeing I’d been expecting this I find it’s fairly easy not to look too visibly dismayed about it. Even
so, the internal twinge of dread is deeply fierce and real. “No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not.”
Jack’s eyebrows promptly descend down his forehead like two ferocious furry caterpillars and I
hold up my hand in a wordless request for silence. “I don’t want that,” I add in a firmer voice. “I
think it’s a bad idea.”

“And how,” says Jack with exaggerated patience, “how exactly is getting you protection a bad
idea?”

“Because,” I reply with equal patience, “if I’ve got police trailing me then Hannibal will know
immediately.”

Jack opens his mouth then closes it again, face twitching the entire time like water coming up to
the boil. “For God’s sake Will,” he finally manages to say. “Have you lost your mind? If you’re
seriously suggesting you use yourself as live bait then I’m putting you on the first plane back to
America myself.”

“No,” I say, “you don’t understand.” My tone is very composed and I can already tell that it’s
provoking him. In fact, it’s similar to how I always get more irritated when you respond to my own
anger with Zen-like levels of calm…somehow it’s quite reassuring to know that I’m not the only
petty asshole in the world. “It wouldn’t be like that,” I add.

“It wouldn’t be like that,” repeats Jack. The sarcasm is weaponised is a way that’s unusual and
makes it clear how much the strain of the day is starting to get to him. “So what would it be like,
Will? Or did I just hallucinate the fact that the last time the two of you were together he sliced you
open on a warehouse floor?”

As soon as he says this my face twitches and Jack notices the distress and emits a loud grunt in
response that somehow manages to be both concerned and condescending within a single sound. If
the grunt could speak it would already be starting a lecture by now; if it had hands it would be
pointing them right in my face. Didn’t think that through, did you? the grunt would say. Now listen
to me, you silly little shit. Only it’s impossible to explain the true source of my discomfort, so
decide to wave a mental two fingers at Jack (followed by two more for his grunts) and instead lean
a little further forward to show him I mean business.

“That injury was his equivalent to flipping a coin,” I say, my voice deliberately low and intense.
“Don’t you remember how precise it was? There was always a 50/50 chance I’d pull through.”
Then I’m about to add That was his design before changing my mind at the last minute, because
I’ve got enough problems in this conversation without the Cringe Irony Police rocking up halfway
through. Of course there’s also the fact that my chances were 100% – likewise by design – but
fortunately Jack doesn’t have the medical expertise to know that.

“So…what?” snaps Jack. “What does that even mean? That he’s not going to come back to finish
the job?”

“It means I beat the odds,” I reply in the same low voice. “He told me as much at the time, which
also means he’s not going to target me now. It would be going back on the bargain and he would
consider that…rude.”

Jack’s sole response is another one of the grunts, although I can tell I haven’t lost him completely
because this time he doesn’t try to contradict me. “Hannibal won’t come after me unless I give him
a reason to,” I add. “But what he most likely will do is try to make contact. On the other hand, if
I’ve got a police presence 24/7 then he’ll avoid me completely and we lose our best chance…”
Even now I find myself faltering slightly. Christ, it’s almost impossible to say, even when just
playing a part. “Our best chance to catch him,” I force myself to add.

Jack attempts another grunt then seems to change his mind and lets it mutate into a kind of weary
groan instead. “I don’t know Will,” he replies. “I’ll admit, I can see the sense in what you’re
saying. But it seems like taking one hell of a risk – and taking far more on faith than I’m happy
with. That plan relies on Hannibal playing fair.”

“He does play fair,” I say heavily. “He just doesn’t play by the rules.”

Jack’s grunts, previously on the decline, now stage a sudden comeback and let rip with such
extravagance that one of the trainees turns round from across the room to stare at him. “Are you
serious?” he says.

“I’m completely serious.”

“Well so am I: and what you’ve just described is a distinction without a difference.”

“Not really,” I reply. Hmm, it’s actually quite enjoyable being the smug, self-righteous Calm
Asshole when the other person is losing all their shit. No wonder you do it so often yourself. “He’s
always had a moral code,” I add. “It’s just not the same as anyone else’s. Do you think I’d ever
suggest this if I wasn’t sure?”

Jack quirks an eyebrow. “Honestly, Will? When it comes to Hannibal, I’ve no idea what you
would do.”

While I know he doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, this is edging a little closer to the truth than
I’m comfortable with and for a few seconds it takes some genuine self-control to keep the façade of
calmness fully in place. “I know I wouldn’t risk my life,” I say simply. “But for this to work, it’s
vital I’m not publicly linked to the search for him. If he hears that then he’ll consider it a challenge
and all bets are off.”

“You really are serious aren’t you?” says Jack wearily. “You’re going to walk out of here,
completely unprotected, and just hope for the best because of some twisted agreement with
Hannibal Lecter?”

“It might be twisted,” I say. “But it’s one of the best chances we’ve got.” I pause then shrug; from
the outside it appears I’m deep in thought, but really it’s to give me time to summon the willpower
for what I know I need to force myself to say next. “I mean it Jack,” I add, desperately trying to
sound sincere. “Put a surveillance team on me and the whole things falls apart. But let me be the
person he approaches first…and I start getting the leads I need to take him down for good.”

*****

It’s getting dark by the time I finally reach the hotel and when I drag myself into the lobby the very
first thing I see is you. I’d already asked you to wait for in the room for me, but I’ve been gone so
long you must have got bored because there you are on one of the sofas: immaculate in a navy
blazer and open-necked shirt while exuding the same casual elegance you always manage to have
without ever appearing to try. My instinct is to run across the tiles towards you, yet for a few
moments I simply find myself frozen in place. It’s bizarre, but after the day I’ve had a part of me
half expects the entire place to start dissolving in horror, lights flashing and doors slamming like a
scene from a movie. My God, it’s him, someone should shout. Call 911 right now! Then the music
would swell before the scene cuts to Jack sprinting towards a squad car while the whole audience
leans forward in their seats. Except of course this is real life, which means nothing happens at all.
No one shouts. No one calls for help. And even if they did it wouldn’t be 911 since this is Europe,
not America, and no one here knows who you are. Because they really don’t, do they? It’s actually
kind of remarkable. The most attention you get is the occasional admiring glance; a sideways scan
from someone who’s noticed the handsome, stylish man waiting alone in this expensive hotel
before passing by to get on with their day and forgetting all about you.

This entire time I’ve just been stood here staring and it’s as if you’ve sensed my presence because
you suddenly glance up and look right at me. Your expression promptly softens into a smile, and
the pleasure at seeing me so incredibly obvious that for a few moments I actually feel guilty at
how angry I am. There’s just something genuinely touching about it; how simply and wholesomely
happy you are. It also means that instead of walking over to you I stay where I am, because I know
I’m about to smash that happiness and a part of me wants to preserve it for just a little bit longer
before snatching it away. I’m there for so long that in the end you have to get to your feet so you
can approach me yourself; each movement lithe and graceful, and looking so utterly at home
amidst all the opulence that I have a sudden pang of self-consciousness at how scruffy I must seem
in comparison. It’s an absurd thought to have at a moment like this, but I honestly can’t help it. I
just know I must look like utter shit in contrast to you: tired and careworn, with my jacket creased
from being forced to sit too long in it and my hair tangling chaotically into my eyes.

It only takes a few seconds to reach me, but it’s still enough time for my expression to give away
what’s happened because you now don’t make any attempt to touch me. Instead I can see your eyes
briskly scanning my face, attempting to gauge exactly how furious I am.

“You’re late,” is all you say.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I guess so.” My voice sounds incredibly tired; tired and toneless. I thought I’d be
angrier than this, but now it’s come down to it I’ve realised I’m not. “I’m late because I just spent
nearly an hour convincing Jack Crawford not to put an FBI escort on me.”

You immediately raise both eyebrows. “Did you?” you ask. Unbelievably, you seem as if you’re
bored. Although maybe you are? After all, as far as you’re concerned Jack and everything he
represents are boring; almost terminally so. Nothing but rules and laws and consequences…
tedious, provincial things that only normal, small-minded people would care about. As I wait you
run your eyes run across my face again and then add in the same casual way: “Aronne, I presume?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “Aronne.” I draw in a deep breath then hold it for several seconds before letting it
all out again in a long, low exhale. “You’ve finally done it, haven’t you?” I say blankly. “All these
months…and now you’ve finally done it.”

For a few moments you just stare at me; as usual, it’s impossible to tell what you’re thinking. “Yes,
I have,” you say. “Clearly.”

“Yeah,” I repeat in the same toneless voice. “Clearly.”

“And I appreciate that you have questions about it. However, here is not the place to discuss them.
I suggest we go up to the room.”
You sound brisk and business-like now, putting your hand on my shoulder as you’re speaking to
steer me towards the elevator. It’s irritatingly familiar from Jack’s behaviour earlier and I find
myself giving my head a restless shake before jerking it in the direction of the entrance. “No,” I
say. “I’ve already been inside for hours.”

“You mean want to go out?” You sound slightly incredulous, but instead of answering I simply
spin round on my heels then stalk off towards the door. You hesitate for a few moments then
reluctantly follow behind me, but while you’re clearly not thrilled by the suggestion I can already
tell you’re not planning to complain about it. Not that you’ve got any real reason to: the evening is
pleasantly warm and the hotel grounds unusually attractive even by your standards, including an
ornamental lake fringed with Cyprus trees, a sinuous driveway that curves like a snake through the
pampas grass, and even a few marble statues glowing in the moonlight as pale as ghosts. After a
few minutes of wordless trudging, we eventually end up by a wrought-iron firepit overlooking the
lake and for a while just sit there in silence as I watch how the flames cast flickering shadows
across your face.

“I wish you hadn’t done it,” I finally say. There seems something rather sad about this, because in a
way it’s motto for so much of our previous lives together…all those many things I wish you’d
never done. “This isn’t the way I wanted it to go.”

Slowly you turn round to stare at me; the flames make your eyes gleam in a rather unsettling shade
of red. “I know, Will,” you say.

“It’s the one thing I’ve always asked you not to do. To not draw attention to yourself…how many
times have I asked?” Briefly I back glance up again so I can look at you directly. “Does that even
mean anything to you?”

This time you don’t reply at all; probably because you know I won’t like whatever the answer’s
going to be. Eventually I just sigh then run my hand across my face again. “We’re never going to
agree about this,” I add heavily. “Are we?”

Of course the word ‘this’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting here, because I know I’m not just referring
to Aronne. I’m not even referring to Jack. What I’m really talking about is the conflict in our
general approach to handling things: your preference for spectacle and drama vs. my own for
practicality and pragmatism. God, it’s such a wide chasm to breach isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder if
we’ll ever be able to manage it. I know you understand it though…you don’t need it explaining.
You can translate the ‘this’ for exactly what it is. No matter how difficult you are in other ways,
there’s always something so calming to be with someone who can interpret my thought processes
as precisely as you can.

“Possibly not,” is all you reply. “It’s going to be very interesting to discover how we find a
compromise.”

There’s another pause. I can smell the lake from here: how pungent and musky it is, like spiced
grass. “I told them I’d help them catch you,” I now add, because this still feels like too big a
betrayal not to mention. “I’m so sorry – and I hated doing it. But I needed to contain things.
Anything else would have looked suspicious. And it was all I could think of to stop him putting
surveillance on me.”

“I understand,” you reply, although I’m not really sure that you do. “Given the circumstances you
had few other options.”

“I know,” I say wearily. “But I’m still sorry.” I suppose this should be your cue to apologise
yourself for putting me in that situation to begin with, but of course you don’t. Not that I really
expected you to. “Why Aronne, though?” I ask instead. “Of all people, why him? And why now?”

“I did it now because Jack’s wish to be close to you aggravates me,” you reply in your usual
leisurely way. “The situation has persisted too long; I find myself impatient to do something about
it. And I did it to him because he was…suitable.”

“Suitable?” I lean forward slightly, my voice starting to rise with incredulousness. “He just
grabbed me for like, a second. You didn’t do it just for that?”

“It would appear I did,” you reply with almost devastating calmness. “It wasn’t enough to merely
kill him. He needed to be made an example of.”

“But he didn’t…” My frustration is really starting to simmer now and for a few seconds I just
shake my head as a silent way to channel it. “I mean, God, Hannibal. It was nothing.”

“No,” you say sharply. “It was not nothing. He had his repulsive hands all over you. And the tone
of voice he used – the contempt. That someone like him would dare to speak to you that way…”

“In other words, you lost control of yourself,” I snap. “Didn’t you?”

“That is not the description I’d choose myself,” you stay stiffly. “But by all means, you may call it
that if you wish.”

It’s obvious how offended you are and I can’t help feeling slightly guilty, despite the fact none of
this is really my fault. “When you said you wanted me to trust you,” I add in a calmer voice. “Is
this what you meant.”

You immediately turn round again; enough for me to catch another gleam of eyes from beneath the
shadows of your brow bone. “Partly,” you say.

I wait for you to continue, but this time you don’t. Clearly you’re in one of your more enigmatic
moods, which means I’m now going to have to prise every last bit of information out of you.
“Okay,” I say cautiously. “So why didn’t you warn me beforehand?”

You dip your head to acknowledge this is a fair question then simultaneously stretch your arm
along the back of the bench so you can brush it along my shoulders. “I suppose for the same
reasons I didn’t inform you of my plan to pursue him,” you say. “It would have led to pointless
conflict. Besides, anticipating a meeting with Jack while knowing such news was about to break
would have been an undue strain for you. While I’ve no doubt you could have kept your
composure, it seemed better to spare you the burden of it.”

While there’s undoubtedly a shred of truth to this, I’m not ready to let you off the hook so easily so
just give a disdainful sniffing sound instead. It’s not like I even totally buy it; you absolutely could
have told me if you’d wanted to. Primarily I think you just enjoy acting in ways that no one can
fully anticipate, the same way you’ve always done. It’s admittedly rare for you to still pull such
psychological sleights-of-hand with me, although if the last 24 hours have proven anything it’s that
this is a habit you’ve not been fully able to break.

Beside me you now give another stretch, lean and predatory as you bask in the warmth like a huge
jungle cat, and I find myself remembering your words from last night: I can’t change my entire
personality to please you. The way you’ve behaved for the past year makes you seem altered
beyond recognition, and it takes moments like this to highlight that fundamentally you’re still the
same person you’ve always been. But that’s still the person I promised I’d love and accept
regardless, and it’s my awareness of this which is helping my resentment to fade. After all, the last
time you pulled a similar stunt with Sanderson I attacked you for it, whereas now I feel less
consumed by anger than I do with concern. If anything, it’s just reinforced my previous decision
that it’s easier to learn to accept you as you are than it is to exhaust and demoralise the both of us
by trying to make you change by force. I suppose it’s our metaphorical mirror all over again, isn’t
it? The one where I see you and you see me. Two different concepts of two separate ideals: both of
us urging the reflection to conform to our versions of the ‘right’ thing until we retreat into our
corners to take refuge in our beliefs about ourselves, unable to tolerate the protests from the other
side of the glass.

As if reading my mind you now reach up to slowly run a finger down my cheek. “You’ve gone so
quiet,” you say. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I give a slightly rueful smile. “That I should be mad at you,” I reply. “That I should punch you in
the face, just like I did the last time.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because you’d flatten me.”

You make an amused sound then lean over to nudge my hair with your forehead. “Debatable.
What’s really stopping you?”

“Because it wouldn’t solve anything,” I say quietly. “And because I don’t want to. I don’t want to
hurt you…not anymore.”

You give a low, rustling sigh then move your arm again so you can wrap it a little tighter around
my shoulders. “Likewise,” you say.

“But you have,” I can’t help adding. “I’m still the collateral in all this. Who’s the one that’s been
left feeling threatened by it – me or you?”

I’m only really admitting this because of our pact to be more open with each other, but even as I’m
doing it I can feel myself wincing at how vulnerable and pathetic I sound. It’s also rather ironic,
because I never felt anything close to this level of strain regarding Matteo. Back then it was easy to
be the calm competent one who could take it all in their stride, and it’s striking how different
things are now that you’re the one I believe is at risk. It’s like I can summon a level of care and
protection towards you that I can’t quite manage for myself.

“It is certainly not my intention for you to feel that way,” you reply. “But the fact you are shows
that your attachment to Jack – and everything he represents – still remains intact.” As you’re
speaking you raise your hand again to gently stoke a few strands of hair away from where the wind
is tangling them onto my forehead. “I understand, Will. Those sorts of ties are not easily severed.
But as long as you’re bound by them you will never truly be free.”

“Seriously?” I say. “Don’t even think about pretending you’re doing this for my own good. God,
talk about déjà vu. Haven’t we already had this conversation?”

“We have. Only it was never resolved. Which is why we’re having it again.”

“In other words, you’ve learnt absolutely nothing from the past few years,” I say pointedly. “You
can’t just mould me into something I haven’t chosen to be.”

“Naturally not.” You give me a rather eerie little smile. “All I can do is whisper though your
chrysalis. I’m afraid that is a lesson you have also failed to learn, beloved – that I am never going
to lose interest in trying.” I repeat the same sighing noise and you smile again then run your finger
idly down my cheekbone for a second time. “My imago,” you add. “Do you remember the first
time I told you that?”

This time I just nod, because of course I do; if I closed my eyes I could probably re-create the way
you looked when you said it. The way you sounded. The set of your mouth and the tone of your
voice: An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our
lives. It’s one of those moments that’s always stayed with me; one of the many threads of our
mutual tapestry, woven together both good and bad.

“Our current conversation has brought it to my mind,” you eventually add. You’re really staring at
me now, eyes flickering across my face like you’re trying to interpret what I’m thinking. “The term
was popularised by Freud, but it really applies to biology. An imago is the stage an insect assumes
at the climax of its metamorphosis: the process of development before it emerges from the
chrysalis in its final, most glorious form.”

Briefly I snap my head up so I can look at you directly. “Okay then,” I say, each word laden with
careful emphasis. “So what about you, then? What’s your final form going to be?”

Unusually there’s no reply and before I’ve even finished speaking I can tell I’ve struck a nerve.
Not that this is surprising: you love to ruminate on how much you think you’ve changed me yet are
rarely willing to acknowledge the fact that I’ve changed you too. You’ve always been that way, and
it’s one of your very few weaknesses: how relentlessly you’ll probe at other people’s psyches, only
to grow aloof and evasive when the same perception gets shone in your own direction.
Unfortunately I’m too tired to really delve into it, but I’m still intrigued by the concept and make a
mental note to pursue it later. Then I just stare at you for a few seconds – only to ruin the whole
attempt at dignified silence by letting out an extremely loud yawn.

At the sight of me you give a small smile then gently twine your fingers into my hair again. “Look
at you,” you say fondly. “You’ve had a long day, my love. Come back inside with me now. Let me
take you to bed.”

“No,” I say. “In a minute. I like it out here – I feel like I’ve been indoors forever.” I yawn again
then on a sudden impulse reach down to take hold of your hand. You immediately return the
pressure, tenderly stroking your thumb back and forth across my knuckles. “I saw Clarice today,” I
add in a quieter voice. “Just before the news broke about Aronne. Do you want to know what I told
her?”

“I do, yes. What did you tell her?”

“I told her I was going to leave the taskforce.”

This time there’s a slight pause before you reply. “Did you?” you finally ask. “And what was the
reason you gave?”

“The truth,” I say simply. “I told her I’d met someone and he was more important to me than the
work with Jack. I said that I loved him and that he made me happy; happier than I’ve ever been.
That I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.” I give a small, rather humourless laugh. “She
thinks your name is Robert.”

This time there’s another, longer pause as your fingers move rhythmically over mine. “I suppose
that’s an improvement on last time,” you finally reply. “Didn’t you tell that neighbour of yours that
my name was Hannah?”

I laugh again, this time a bit more sincerely, then lean further in against your shoulder. You’ve
already tightened your grip and it’s easy to see how moved you are by what I’ve just told you. The
irony, of course, is that now I can’t possibly leave without a risk of raising the alarm – although if
that’s made you regret your actions I know you’ll never admit it. Most likely you won’t even
recognise it as such, because as far as you’re concerned you don’t make mistakes. Instead there are
twists of fate, or unknown variables, or else other people will behave in a way that’s stupid and
senseless; anything except admit that your own judgement could turn out to be wrong.

For a while now we just sit in silence again, my head slipping further down your shoulder as
drowsiness begins to overtake me. It’s actually pretty nice; more like the lazy, comfortable kind of
tiredness that comes from feeling safe and warm and cared for than the fretful exhaustion from
earlier. “You know, I really like this,” I say sleepily as I gesture towards the firepit. “We should get
one when we have our own house.”

For a few seconds you press your lips to my temple and then tighten your grip even further. “We
should,” you reply. “And then, one day in the future, we shall be sat around this firepit of ours and
we will remember this moment. We will recall how strained and disagreeable we were before we
smile about it together then turn the page to forget the whole thing. What I did last night may seem
so momentous to you now Will, but it’s merely another moment in time. Just like all the ones that
came before it.”

“Yeah,” I say wistfully. “I guess.” The way you describe it makes everything sound so simple and
there’s something intoxicating in how badly I want to believe it. It’s always been that way with
you: the allure of beautiful lies over plain truths. “I wish you would talk to me, though” I add in a
more restless voice. “You’re still being so secretive. Why not just tell me what you’re planning?”

“Well, the reason for that is straightforward,” you reply. “And it is that I don’t have clearly fixed
plan. And the reason for that is because what happens next depends on your choices, not mine.
You are the author of this particular narrative, Will – I am giving the pen to you.”

“Oh come on,” I say. “That’s not an answer and you know it. I’m warning you, Hannibal: don’t
keep pushing me. You won’t like it when I push back.”

“It’s unfortunate my answer dissatisfies you,” you reply in a gentle voice. “Because I’m afraid I
don’t have a better one. Understand, mylimasis, that I’m acting for you, and because of you, and
with you constantly in my mind. If I was here alone then my behaviour would have been
dramatically different, yet instead I find myself guided by your own decisions and preferences at
every single turn. Every action I make I find myself questioning how you are going to respond
when you discover it. Your presence both restrains and emboldens me.”

It now occurs to me that this is your way of acknowledging what I asked you earlier about how
your closeness to me has changed you. It might not be much in terms of my previous question – so
abstract and enigmatic as it is – but it’s still something, and at the sound of it I can feel my
resentment starting to fade even further.

“Then I guess we’ll have to figure it out somehow,” I finally say. “Won’t we? We’ll have to figure
it out together.”

“Together, indeed,” you reply. “Always.”

It’s really getting dark by now, the sky studded with stars and ragged clouds as a misty sliver of
moon slips between them. I suppose we should be heading back soon. There’s still time to get
some food and inspect the hotel. Settle down in a new room. Sleep in a new bed. But I still don’t
want to move, because it feels so safe and restful here and I’m not quite ready to let go of it yet. So
instead I simply lean back against your shoulder as you lower your head down to rest against mine,
 sheltered by the sense that right now it’s only you and me with the flicker of firelight. Peace,
calmness, and the sound of silence…just enjoying the togetherness.

Chapter End Notes

Lol, I recently reread The Silence of the Lambs and while the original imago quote
refers to “an image of the parent” they changed it in the show to “an image of the
loved one”. Hmmm…I WONDER WHY THEY DID THAT?
 Chapter 37

When we finally walk back to the hotel it’s in the same comfortable silence as before: your hand
wrapped snugly in mine and our steps in perfect rhythm without even trying. I know I’m not really
angry with you anymore. Frustrated, perhaps – but no longer actively resentful. Considering what
you’ve done it’s not like you even deserve it, yet in a way the forgiveness is more for my sake than
yours. If nothing else, it seems I’m finally learning how exhausting, stressful (and ultimately
pointless) it is to expect you to behave in ways that are safe or predictable, only to turn round
afterwards and blame you when you inevitably refuse to be either. It’s quite sobering, really.
Perhaps all I was ever doing over the past few months was setting us both up to fail? In this respect
a conversation from our former lives has started running through my mind, and the memory of it
has made me realise how both of us were closer to the truth about ourselves than we even realised
at the time. I’d told you that you couldn’t reduce me to a set of influences because I wasn’t the
product of anything; that I’d given up the concepts of good and evil in favour of behaviourism. I
was trying to undermine you (nearly always a mistake) but even then I couldn’t let it go and had
ended up invoking your destructiveness as evidence that you were evil yourself. I suppose most
people would have flinched at that, but naturally you didn’t care. Evil is just destructive? was all
you’d replied. Storms are evil if it's that simple. Because, of course, it’s not that simple is it? It
never was…Not anywhere close.

The previous crowd has thinned out considerably by the time we reach the lobby, which at least
means I can be a bit less agonised at the thought of someone spotting you. It also means I’m more
inclined to pay attention to the actual hotel – and which now strikes me as being lavish to the point
of absurdity, complete with glossy wooden floorboards, a whole quarry full of marble, and gold
leaf painted onto pretty much every surface for as far as the eye can see. It’s the sort of luxury I’d
have once admired from a distance in films or magazine covers, but while I’ve grown more used it
to since we’ve been together I still feel like it’s something I’ll always struggle to fully connect
with. You, on the other hand, show no such hesitation and promptly stride off to start berating the
receptionist in brisk Italian for failing to provide a second set of key cards (while I hover next to
you squirming and letting out the occasional bleating noise that’s supposed to translate as ‘Oh
God, it doesn’t matter, I’ll just use yours’). Actually I’d prefer to have yours – mainly to limit how
easily you’re able to leave the room without me – but it’s possible you’re thinking the same thing,
because you just grow more devastatingly polite in direct proportion to the receptionist getting
more flustered and apologetic while making it clear you refuse to move until it’s been sorted.
Apparently there’s been some sort of fuck-up with their booking system, and in the end we’re there
for so long that a random kid wanders over and tries to strike up a conversation with me. It’s clear
she’s been attracted by my American accent as she now starts bombarding me with tormentingly
dumbass child questions about whether I know any cowboys, and have I ever seen Mickey Mouse
in real life, while I just stand there giving the most horrendous fake smiles and wishing I could find
a way to discreetly drop-kick her across the marble back to her parents again.

Behind me it seems you’ve managed to obtain the correct key cards (fucking finally…anyone
would think they’d been carving the bastard things by hand) as you now reward the receptionist
with a crisp ‘grazie, signore’ before turning round to present me with mine. The child, who appears
to be my new best friend, immediately pipes up with “Is that man your boyfriend?” – at which
point you raise both eyebrows then stare down at her to announce “Yes” in tones of such dignified
severity that she looks ready to burst into tears. My drop-kicking fantasies promptly come rushing
back full force, but fortunately you decide to activate Charming Bastard mode and stoop down to
her eye level instead so you can start telling her about the princess in a nearby oil painting (despite
the fact it’s one of the Medicis, and therefore almost certainly some kind of Medieval psychopath).
It’s something I’ve noticed before with you, but you’re surprisingly good with children; you always
speak to them as if they’re tiny adults. Of course you’re also not doing it out of kindness
(obviously) as opposed to avoiding unnecessary attention, but either way it seems to work because
she cheers up almost immediately and heads back to her parents wreathed in smiles without giving
any signs of making a scene.

“So you’re my boyfriend now?” I ask once she’s out of earshot.

“Yes,” you say, “it would appear so.” You swivel round very slowly then give me one your best
deadpan stares. “Do you wish to be my girlfriend in return?”

“Oh shut up,” I say fondly. “Anyway, that’s it: I am now done. It’s official.”

“On the contrary,” you reply. “I think it went rather more smoothly than our first shared hotel.” I
raise my eyebrows questioningly and you add in a tone which (if possible) is even smugger than
before: “As of yet you have failed to bellow at any nearby guests that you are not, in fact, a sex
worker.”

My sole response to this is to roll my eyes at you, so you roll yours right back then smirk to
yourself for a while before replacing your hand on my shoulder to guide me towards the elevator.
Unlike last time I don’t shake you off and once we’re inside you curl your palm around my throat,
pulling me closer to you until my head is tipped back against your shoulder and you can ghost your
lips along the side of my face.

“Although who knows?” you murmur, straight into my ear. “Perhaps people have made the same
assumption anyway? They’ve seen me with someone so young and striking, and now they think I
am going to offer you money to persuade you to give me your body.”

“Because I look less wealthy than you do?” I reply. “I don’t know – you were certainly going to a
lot of trouble on my behalf downstairs. Maybe they think you’re the sex worker.”

You make an amused noise, then are just about to slide your hand down my shirt when the door
pings and we’re forced to straighten our clothes and walk out again, grinning at each other for the
whole walk down the corridor. In fact the conversation has already got me thinking about that first
hotel you found for us, and how extravagant it seemed at the time relative to my own profound
scruffiness. I mean, it was extravagant – at the time – especially for someone reared on creaking
beds and stale coffee in a lifetime of Motel 6s and Best Value Inns. But this one looks like it’s set to
recalibrate my whole idea of what ‘extravagant’ truly means, because the ludicrous luxury of our
current room now makes the American experience look faintly squalid in comparison. Not that
‘room’ is the right word for it. Even ‘suite’ doesn’t do it justice. It’s more like an actual honest-to-
God house, complete with its own balcony, a kitchenette, two bathrooms, and a bedroom that’s
larger than my last shitty apartment. Silver trays of chocolates have been temptingly laid on various
surfaces and the air is filled with a delicate scent of honeysuckle and mimosa from the banks of
fresh flowers in crystal vases. Even the complimentary fruit basket looks less like a corporate gift
and more like something from a painting of Demeter’s harvest.

“It’ll do, I suppose,” is all you’ve got to say about it. Of course now you’re just being a massive
drama queen for the sake of it, but it still makes me smile. You’ve always disliked hotels as a point
of principle, which means nowhere could ever really be good enough.

“We can’t stay here too long,” I add, even though I know you won’t listen. “We’ll end up broke in
a couple of weeks.”

Your sole response to this is a vague humming sound (which could mean absolutely anything) and
it’s clear you already consider the matter closed. You never like it when I start talking about
money. My personal theory for this is that it brings out your macho meathead bullshit side, in that
you think I’m questioning your ability to provide for us both – and which in itself is actually kind
of depressing, because I know I’ll never be able to make the same levels of financial contribution
as you can. God, it’s like something out a novel, isn’t it: one of those lurid old-fashioned
paperbacks that coyly refer to men ‘keeping’ a mistress. A kept woman: decorative and
permanently available, whose lavish lifestyle is maintained by a wealthy lover. Oh fuck, does that
mean I’m the male equivalent then (a mister? A master?). I frown over this for a while before
deciding to give up on it entirely – although not before I’ve completely contradicted my own
advice by starting to rifle through the minibar, despite knowing how ruinously expensive it’ll be.
You stretch yourself out on the sofa to watch me, your features arranged into the sort of fondly
indulgent expression you always have when I’m doing something particularly dumbass.

“You appear very committed,” you add once the rummaging has descended to dropping onto both
knees so I can scrabble two-handed like an eager ferret. “What are you looking for?”

“Some Budweiser,” I reply from over my shoulder. “Which of course they don’t have.”

“Of course they don’t.”

“Well, they should,” I say. “As an American it’s my constitutional right.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “My rights. Y’know? Endowed to me by Jesus and George Washington.” I yawn a
bit then stoop down further to investigate the snack section, hope fading fast at what appears to be
nothing but jars of olives and tiny pre-packaged sushi. “This is the worst minibar in the world,” I
add.

“Why, what are you scavenging for now? Cheetos and Gatorade?”

“Well, what if I am?” I reply (with as much dignity as it’s possible to muster for any human being
who’s essentially on their hands and knees, genuflecting in front of a giant fridge). “I’m a culinary
peasant. You knew that when you took me on.”

“Perhaps I did,” you say. “That doesn’t mean I don’t intend to rehabilitate you. A process, I might
add, that will ultimately require a total abstinence from junk food.”

I remove a box of wholegrain wafers and regard them from several angles rather contemptuously
before stuffing them back again. “Yes, dad.”

“I mean it, William.”

“I don’t know why you sound so disapproving,” I say. Having admitted defeat I finally open a tin
of smoked almonds and proceed to devour about 20 in a row. “Anyway, I thought you’d given up
trying to wean me off eating crap?”

“I may have given up,” you reply. “But I still have some standards left. And that extends to
watching you consume anything with such a ludicrous title as ‘Cheetos’.”

“How low would your standards go?” I ask. “Twinkies? Funyuns?” I pause to have another handful
of almonds then chew them while rolling my eyes at you. “Nutter Butter?”

“Enough. What a degenerate you are.”

“To be honest, I’d sit this one out if I were you,” I say shrilly. “Considering your entire reputation
is based on consuming far worse.”

Your lips have started twitching now, the same way they always do when you’re trying not to
laugh. “I am perfectly content with my reputation,” you reply after a small pause. “Far more so
than extolling the charms of anything on that grotesque list.”

“You mean I’m shilling for junk food?” I ask. “Will the Shill.” I discard the now-empty almond tin
then retrieve a second one before wandering over to the sofa so I can collapse down beside you and
prop my head on your shoulder. “Admittedly your own nickname sounds a lot better,” I add. “So
I’ll probably concede that you’ve won this round.”

You smile at me then reach out to run your hand through my hair, twirling separate curls around
your finger in a way that shows you’re feeling especially relaxed and playful. “But?”

“But what?”

“I feel there is a ‘but’ heading towards this conversation. You would never concede defeat so
easily.”

“No,” I say. “I suppose not.”

“So…?”

“So, if you start lecturing me about junk food again…” I briefly pause myself, trying and failing to
devise a suitable threat. “Then you can expect there to be much hell to pay,” I add in an
exaggeratedly ominous voice.

Your smile immediately broadens. “Noted,” you reply, beginning to twine your finger in
increasingly extravagant circles. “What a torment you are, beloved. My life was so much simpler
when you were still intimidated by me.”

“I was never intimidated by you,” I say smugly through another mouthful of almonds.

“Very true. Perhaps you weren’t.”

“I suppose what you mean is when I was more respectful towards you.”

By now you’re looking outright delighted, like you think having me mouth off at you is the most
charming goddamn thing in the world. “Respectful,” you repeat. “Yes, indeed. Whereas now you
are a rude little monster at every available opportunity.” You smile again, this time a bit more
malevolently, then let go of my hair so you can run your finger down my cheekbone instead. “Ti
adoro,” you add. “Il mio toporagno.”

I narrow my eyes slightly. “What did you just call me?”

Instead of replying you now just give the most godawful smirk then lean back against the sofa with
your eyes closed. I frown at you for a few seconds before carefully sliding my phone out my
pocket, attempting to make as little noise as possible so you won’t realise that I’m doing it.

“Take your time beloved,” you say without opening your eyes. “Although might I suggest
iTranslate for a fast and reliable solution?”

I give your foot a prod with my own (which you promptly return) then glance back down at the
screen. It takes me a while, but I get there eventually; at which point there’s a suitably loaded
pause before I look up at you with both eyebrows knitted together.
“Seriously?” I ask. “Call me a shrew again. I dare you.”

You immediately start to smile. “Oh I don’t know,” you reply. “I think the comparison is a rather
flattering one. After all, the shrew is a voracious predator. Fiercely territorial and aggressive…”
You give another smirk then reach out to tap the side of my glasses. “As well as endearingly short-
sighted.”

“You are the absolute worst,” I say. “Remind me again why I put up with this?”

“I don’t know, beloved; why do you?”

“God knows,” I say. “I have no idea why I like you so much.”

Your sole response is to smirk even harder, so I eventually give up and lean back against the sofa
myself, trying not to laugh too obviously. You immediately wrap your arm around me and for a
while we just sit there in companionable silence, my head resting against your shoulder as your
fingers skim back and forwards along the side of my throat.

“Mano meilė,” you say eventually in a voice that’s notably gentler and more serious. “You know,
even now, I sometimes look at you and can scarcely believe that you’re real. To have you here with
me like this…so candid and carefree. So happy. It touches me in a way I find difficult to express.”

“I know,” I say. “I feel the same.” It’s true as well because I do, especially whenever I see you
laugh. I hardly ever remember it happening before in our old lives. Now you seem to do it all the
time, and there’s always a sense of satisfaction in it.

You smile yourself then raise your other arm, catching my chin beneath your hand then slowly
tilting it upwards. “Do you?”

“Yes, of course.”

For a few moments you just gaze at me before eventually letting go and trailing your finger down
my cheek again. “It’s the contrast, I suppose,” you reply in a thoughtful voice. “The difference
between how we used to behave with one another compared to how we are now.” I nod with
agreement and you smile a little more as your eyes continue the same slow glide up and down my
face. It’s always intense when you look at me this way; like you’re trying to commit every single
feature to memory. “Yesterday you asked me for a confession,” you finally add. “I’ve already
made this one to you, but it probably bears repeating: namely that I often find myself uncertain of
the best way to manage you.”

I smile slightly. “You don’t have to manage me.”

“Well, yes, you see – I am demonstrating my own point.”

“What point is that?” I ask rather cheekily. “The capacity to get things wrong?”

“I suppose so,” you reply, returning the smile. “You’re not an easy person to categorise, Will.
You’re so beautiful and unique. You challenge me in ways which I’ve never experienced, and even
now I often find myself unsure how to deal with you.”

“Welcome to my world,” I say fondly. “Because I’ve never known how to deal with you.” I wait
for you to smile again but this time you don’t, and it finally occurs to me that you’re being entirely
sincere. “Why?” I add in a more serious voice. “What do you feel you can’t do?”

“That’s a very expansive question,” you reply. “And it’s too complex and lengthy for the present
moment. However, if I could distil it into a single idea, then I would say that I don’t succeed as
much as I would like to with making you happy.”

“You do make me happy,” I say quickly. “More than you realise – more than I thought it was
possible to be.”

“And yet?” you ask. “Be honest, Will. I can already tell you have a disclaimer in mind.”

For a few seconds I catch your eye then look away again, struggling to find a way of expressing it
that can be honest without being hurtful. “You do make me happy,” I repeat after a pause. “But
you don’t always make me feel secure. Not because of who you are though, but because of what
you do. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yes,” you say. “I understand.”

“Sometimes you act in ways that make me feel unsafe.” As I’m speaking I raise my hand upwards
to cup the side of your face in my palm. “But you – you as a person – I feel safer with you than I
ever have with anyone else in my life.”

“Then we have an impasse, don’t we?” you reply, reaching up to cover my hand with yours. “To
achieve my goal of making you happy, I am to behave in ways which are more predictable –
something we have already established that I am not entirely able to do.”

I find myself smiling slightly. “You told me you’d work on it.”

“I did; and I meant what I said. But I was also speaking the truth when I said it could not happen
immediately.”

“I know,” I say gently. “I never expected you to change overnight. But you have to give me the
same amount of leeway, Hannibal. You’ve stopped trying to hurt me. Now you need to learn to
stop trying to control me as well.”

This time you just stare at me in the same thoughtful silence before your hand finally drifts back to
my hair again to give it a gentle tug. “Dearest Will,” is all you say. “Aš tave labai myliu.”

I know you’re telling me you love me, and the inability to do it in English is a sign of how much
this conversation is starting to challenge you. The reason why, on the other hand, is slightly less
clear; whether it’s because you sense I’m right and are reluctant to admit it, or because you
disagree but know that saying so will make me angry. Or else it could be a mixture of both these
things, or even something else entirely…it’s impossible to say for sure. I’ve never been able to
read you the same way I can other people. But I also don’t want to push you too hard, because the
past two days have left me so tense and tired that I don’t trust myself to make the conversation a
productive one. Besides, there’s no short-term solution for any of this; it’s not something a simple
discussion can fix. Learning to love you was never going to be easy – and that’s something I knew
would need accepting from the first day that I started to try.

“Aš tave labai myliu,” I finally say; because I do, and because my terrible pronunciation is always
guaranteed to make you smile.

“Aš irgi tave myliu,” you reply fondly. “It’s fortunate this fact is so well-established, isn’t it?
Otherwise you might be compelled to torture me with that abominable accent even more than you
already do.”

I give you an affectionate shove on your shoulder, so you promptly shove me back; at which point
there’s a brief, slightly demented interlude of us jostling about on the sofa together like a couple of
kids. I finally burst out laughing and you smile too then take hold of my hand from where I’m
trying to smooth your mussed-up hair back into place.

“Ti adoro,” you say. “I am officially declaring Italian as the neutral language of truce. Now tell me
what you would like to eat, beloved? Seeing how there are no appropriate atrocities in the minibar
I feel a strong responsibility to feed you. Or would you prefer to have a drink first?”

“Neither,” I say. There’s a small pause; now I almost sound faintly bashful. “I want you to make
love to me instead.”

My choice of phrasing is very deliberate, just like your own from earlier, because this might be the
first time I’ve ever actually said these words to you. Normally it’d be ‘I want you to fuck me’ or
‘let’s go to bed’ – or more likely I won’t say anything at all and just use gestures and actions to
show you how much I want it. The request feels intensely emotional, and therefore exposing, yet
also strangely empowering too, simply because of how honest it is. And in turn it’s clear you’re
aware of this, because your whole expression now seems to soften as for a few fleeting seconds
you look genuinely moved.

“Mylimasis,” you say in a gentle voice. “I’d like that too. More than you can imagine.”

I give you a small smile – sincere yet slightly self-conscious – and you smile back with unusual
tenderness before moving forward to kiss me. Your hand is cupping the back of my neck to help
me lean into it, and once our mouths meet there’s no need for words at all; nothing except for the
sound of quiet breaths mingling together, broken only by the occasional creak from the sofa each
time one of us pushes down. As your fingers run through my hair I twist my own into your shirt to
haul you closer, the kiss so deep, warm, and wet that it leaves me afterwards breathless and hard.
You are too; very much so. I can feel your erection digging into my leg through several layers of
clothing.

“Beloved,” you say when we pull apart, and your voice sounds like a low sigh. “I adore you and I
am going to give you the most memorable night I possibly can. I only have one request beforehand
and I’m hoping you might indulge me.” You’re smiling now; you can already sense my
reservations about what it might be. “I would like it very much if you’ll allow me to carry you into
the bedroom.”

I immediately start smiling too. “You must be joking.”

“I am not joking.”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “Don’t push your luck. I already decided not to punch you – what more do
you want?”

You smile again then reach out to tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I want you to humour
me,” you say. “According to you I am decrepit and elderly, and it appears old age has made me
sentimental.”

This time I just roll my eyes before leaning forward to give your face a playful nudge with my own.
You’re not going to be deterred though: definitely not. Your other hand is already at my waist by
now, slowly sliding beneath my shirt until I feel the warm brush of fingertips against bare skin in a
way that makes me quiver.

“Oh God,” I say rather helplessly. You look at me then raise a single eyebrow, your mouth
arranging itself into same the faint smile it always does when you’re about to get your own way.
“Oh, go on then,” I say. “If you must. But just this once.”
I obediently stretch my arms out and you swoop down to catch hold of me by the knees and
shoulders before there’s any chance I’ll change my mind. Your touch is tender, although somehow
the usual twinge of possessiveness isn’t entirely disguised. “I assume your typical conditions
apply,” you add as you’re straightening up again. “Namely that if I ever tell anyone then you will
have to kill me.”

I make a subdued snorting sound (which is definitely not giggling) then hook both arms around
your neck until my head is tucked beneath your chin and you can rest your cheek against my hair.
“Correct,” I say. “If this ever gets out then I will end you.”

Your sole response is to nuzzle my hair with your chin, while I just lie there emitting the
occasional snort of laughter (interspersed with attempted witticisms about going soft in your old
age, followed by sticking my legs out at awkward angles so it takes you two goes to get me
through the doorframe). It’s all very playful and good-humoured, although once we’ve reached the
bedroom the mood seems to mellow into something more serious as for a while we simply gaze at
each other before you finally reach out to start unfastening my shirt. I don’t always like the
passiveness of being undressed but right now am so content and relaxed that’s it’s easy to just sit
there very pliantly and let you take over. As usual you spend a lot of time over it, peeling away one
layer after another like you’re unwrapping a gift, then leaning back suggestively so I can climb
onto your knee to help you out of your own clothes. Your cock is so hard it slaps heavily back up
across your abdomen once it’s free of the fabric; I give a small moan at the sight of it, and you
quickly dive down to kiss me again (this time much more aggressively, with teeth and a stabbing
tongue) before taking hold of my waist to lay me flat across the bed. It’s clear you’re desperate to
go down on me, but despite the obvious impatience are still being considerate enough to choose a
position you know I’ll prefer. When it’s the other way round you like it best when I’m on my
knees and you’re standing upright – stoking my hair and tilting my chin to make me gaze up at you
– but given the choice I’ll always opt for sprawling flat on my back like a lazy bastard while you
labour away underneath me doing all the work.

I now briefly get lost in a pointless mental ramble about whether other couples indulge in similar
Psychological Blow Jobs, only to be jolted back to reality again with a weird mewling noise as I
feel your tongue sliding wet and slick around my cock – and which then proceeds to get licked,
kissed, fondled, assaulted with a faint scrape of teeth (because it’s like you can’t not) then nuzzled
against your cheek before finally being taken into your mouth and sucked. The power in your jaw
is obvious; it’s odd, but even in a situation like this I can’t help noticing it. I fling my arm across
my face with a breathy little ‘Oh’ noise, but as my moans grow more desperate you immediately
start to speed up; swirling your tongue around the head to lap up the pre-come, then hollowing
your cheeks out until you’re swallowing the entire length and I can thrust into the tight wet heat at
the back of your mouth. At the same time you’ve somehow managed to push my thighs up, lifting
my legs to hook around your shoulders as you relax your throat to take me even deeper. It’s clear
you’re reducing the stimulation to make sure I don’t come; at one point even gripping tightly round
the base of my cock with your hand when it looks like I’m getting too close. Even so, the warmth
and wetness feel phenomenal, and it doesn’t take long until I’m bucking my hips towards your
mouth as my fingers tangle helplessly into your hair.

When it’s obvious I can’t last much longer you finally pull off me, deliberately dragging your
lower lip across the head of my cock as a parting gesture just to make me cry out again. Your face
is glistening in the lamplight with a blend of saliva and pre-come, so I wait a moment to catch my
breath then scramble upright to lick you clean, whimpering slightly with a mixture of arousal and
embarrassment as I realise I can taste myself. You sigh too at the sound of it then reach down to
scoop the remaining beads of pre-come from my thigh before pressing your fingers against my lips.
I open my mouth immediately, nearly trembling with pleasure at the passionate way you stroke my
hair and murmur ‘Good boy’ when I eagerly start to suck them. I kneel in front of you while I’m
doing it, keeping eye contact with you the entire time, and once I’ve finished you mutter something
rapturous to me in a foreign language before leaning over to the nightstand to retrieve the lube.

“Lie on your back again, my love” you say softly, pressing the bottle into my hand. “I want to
watch you get yourself ready for me.”

I catch your eye then hesitate slightly before flicking the lid off with my thumb. Secretly I’m
disappointed; your own touch always feels better than mine and I’d far rather you did it yourself.
But it’s obvious how much you want to see it, which means I basically want it too. Carefully I now
rub some lube between my fingers to warm it up then arrange myself against the pillows, my hand
slowly drifting downwards as you settle back on your heels again to get a better view. With my
other hand I move across my chest, keeping the touch deliberately sensuous like I’m enjoying it,
despite the fact it’s far more for your sake then mine. I begin at the pectoral muscles then along the
sternum, interspersing the stroking with a light scratch of fingernails before finally reaching the
mess of scar tissue on my abdomen. At this point your eyes seem to gleam. Maybe it’s twisted (it
is) but your fascination with the scars is undeniable, and the fact I rarely let you touch them means
it’s additionally potent when you watch me touch them myself.

“Perfect,” you say quietly. As I push a finger inside myself you give a low sigh then possessively
run your hand across my hipbone. “Work yourself open for me. Good boy…you know who you
belong to, don’t you? Now spread your legs wider.”

I obediently move them further apart and you quickly insert yourself between them so it’s
impossible for me to close them again. “Do it deeper, my love” you say. “All the way to the
knuckle. Now pull out slowly and caress yourself.” Once again I do as you ask, letting out another
‘oh’ sound at how the tight ring of muscle seems to be quivering beneath the pad of my finger.
Fuck, the skin’s so slippery and sensitive, it’s making my hips strain upwards with the need for
more. “You’re really enjoying that, aren’t you?” you add in the same soft voice. “You look like
you’re ready to go a little deeper again. Just the tip to begin with, though. Let yourself get used to
the feel of something inside you, then gradually slide further in.”

“Oh God,” I say quietly. It’s surprisingly intense this way with the force of your eyes on me. It’s
like I’m clenching tightly round my own finger, practically trembling on it as my cock gets harder
and harder the deeper it goes. By now I’d really like to jerk myself off, but you haven’t asked me
to and instinctively I want to make you happy by letting you direct things yourself. In this respect
you enjoy having a sense of dominance over me yet also don’t want to see me completely subdued
– a fine balance, which at times it’s hard to get right in a way we can both enjoy. In the end I give
my finger another twist instead; quickly followed by a small whining noise as my cock twitches
across my stomach and a stream of pre-come spills out the slit.

“Yes,” you say. “Look at you – leaking all over yourself. Can you feel how smoothly your finger is
sliding in? That beautiful body is so eager; it’s as if it just longs to be filled.” As you watch my
cock gives another spasm and I hear your breath catching before you tighten your grip on my leg.
“You’re so aroused, aren’t you?” you say. “Flushed and breathless and lovely…all from something
so simple as exploring that little opening between your legs. Such a tiny part of your body, isn’t it
Will, yet capable of so much pleasure. Do you like touching yourself there?”

I give another moan then catch my lip between my teeth. “Yeah, I like it.”

“How much?”

“A lot. But I like it more when it’s you.”

This, of course, is the right answer and you sigh with approval before leaning down to lick a bead
of sweat from my throat. “You’ll soon be getting much more of me mylimasis,” you murmur
against my skin. You pause again, followed by a light scrape of teeth. “This is your chance to
prepare yourself to take it.”

“God, yes,” I say softly. “I want that so much.”

“Soon,” you reply, equally softly. “I want it too.”

By now my cock is so achingly hard it’s vaguely uncomfortable, so when you smear your thumb
into the pool of pre-come and drag it along the length I have a few panicked seconds where I
actually think I might come. I give a sharp wailing sound instead, head snapping back almost
wildly as my eyes screw tighter closed. “So beautiful, Will,” you add, your voice slightly hypnotic
in how low and soothing it is. “I want you to try taking a second finger. That’s it – that’s perfect.
Now grind your hips down against your hand.”

As you’re speaking I hear a rustling sound of you leaning further backwards, your breath hitching
into another gasp as you see the ecstatic way I’ve begun to scissor myself open. “Keep doing that,”
you say. “Don’t stop. Now open your eyes again; look at me. I want you to describe what you’re
thinking.”

“Oh God,” I say fretfully. My irritation is obvious, although I know there’s no point complaining
about it. I suppose it’s a compliment, in a way: you’re always abidingly fascinated by what’s
happening in my mind, and the habit of analysing it during sex is something that’s probably going
to take me years to fully train you out of.

“I’m thinking how much I like you watching me,” I eventually manage to say. “That it feels good
to be desired.” I give my fingers a deeper thrust, whimpering slightly at how hot and heavy my
cock feels against my abdomen; the way the blood is pulsing there. “And I’m thinking how glad I
am that you’re here…how confident you make me feel.”

“That’s good. Aš tave dievinu, Will. Mylimasis. What else?”

“I’m thinking how a few years ago I could never have enjoyed this with anyone,” I say truthfully.
“Whereas now…fuck, I’m so turned on. It’s only because of you, though; I want you to know that.
I want you to know that I’m ready to come just at the thought of having your cock pushed into my
ass.” Shit, I am as well. I wonder what you’d say if I actually did? “I’d beg you for it if you asked
me to,” I add as my breath begins to hitch. “I’d get on my hands and knees then beg to get it inside
me.”

“Yes,” you say. “What else would you beg for? You’d do it so beautifully, wouldn’t you my love?
It would be impossible to resist you.”

“Everything,” I gasp out. My voice is catching now; it makes me sound a bit feral. “I’d…I’d beg to
get pumped full of your come. I’d spread my legs open for you afterwards, just so you could watch
it trickling out of me. Then I’d beg you to scoop it up with your tongue and spit it into my mouth so
you could make me swallow it. Oh God, fuck, you make me crazy…everything about you. Your
face. Your voice. Your body. Everything.” I pause then shake my head rather wildly. “I wish I
could explain how it feels. It’s like in a single hour I could look at you in a hundred different ways
and I’d adore you and crave you in every single one of them. I’d devour you, if I could, just to feel
like I’d made you a part of me.”

It’s at this point that I get a sudden bolt of self-awareness at what I must sound like and promptly
feel so humiliated that I fall totally silent. Then I suspect I might be blushing so defensively clamp
my eyes shut; not least because while I might talk a big game, there’s no doubt a part of me is
profoundly, horribly mortified at how unrestrained I’ve been when I wasn’t even planning to.
Admittedly it’s not like any of it’s untrue, but right now the fact you’ll have enjoyed hearing it
feels like the sole consolation for such epic embarrassment. As proof of this I cautiously open my
eyes again and am promptly rewarded by the sight of you gazing down at me like I’m some kind of
goddamn Holy Relic: your lips slightly parted and your cock so incredibly hard and straining that
your iron self-control is the only possible reason you haven’t already made yourself come. It’s
enough to make me forget my discomfort as I murmur your name then quickly pull myself upright;
lapping the pre-come off the head before licking and sucking the length so enthusiastically that you
groan yourself and end up having to catch hold of my chin to make me stop. Of course, if the
situation was reversed you’d probably carry on until I’d been forced to come without fully wanting
to. Only I’m not quite as much of a dick as you are (and, more importantly, am keen for things not
to be over too quickly) so reluctantly let go of you then lie back on the bed again with my legs
spread invitingly wide apart.

You seem to be close to panting now, which is fairly unusual: it’s like you’re on the verge of
completely losing control of yourself. Your skin looks flushed, your chest is heaving, and your
eyes are heavy-lidded with desire in a way that’s both thrilling and ever-so-slightly unnerving.
“Mylimasis,” you say, and this time your voice is little more than a smoky rumble. “Tu mane
užvaldai. I’m going to have you now. Tell me how much you want it.”

“God, yeah, I want it,” I say. “I want you.” I know hearing this will have an effect, and as I watch
your cock gives a visible twitch as a thick trail of pre-come spills out the end of it then drips onto
my stomach. “I want you so much,” I add breathily. “You’ve no idea. I won’t be able to last five
minutes: I’m going to end up shooting all over myself the second I get you inside me.” I groan
slightly at the thought of it, my eyes falling shut again just as your fingertips begin to skim across
my cheekbone. “Fuck, you’ll love that, won’t you: seeing how humiliated I am because you’ve
managed to overwhelm me so much. You’ll know it’s happening before I do, won’t you? Watching
the desperate look on my face as I try to stop myself, then feeling how tight my ass is getting on
your cock just before I start to come around it. Are you going to keep fucking me anyway? Or will
you pull out and get me on my knees so you can push it down my throat instead?”

Admittedly, this touching speech is quite the contrast from the whole eyelash-fluttering ‘I want
you to make sweet, tender love to me’ spiel from earlier – even though, in a different way, it’s still
somehow equally exposing. But the response is dramatic regardless, because you now make a
throaty kind of growling noise then literally pounce on me; grabbing both wrists, then knocking my
legs apart as you use your entire weight to pin me down onto the bed. Immediately my eyes snap
open with alarm as my whole body briefly goes rigid: that instinctive, hard-wired fear for your
flashes of aggression which always seems to overtake me, no matter how innocent they might be.
God I hate it, but it’s almost impossible to stop – and I suspect will take a long, long time before it
begins to fade entirely.

To your credit you seem to recognise this, because you quickly let go of my hands then nuzzle my
neck with your face for a few moments before pressing a series of soft kisses along my throat and
jaw. The fact you’re having to reassure me immediately makes me self-conscious again, and I end
up just lying there in awkward silence before taking hold of your hips and shoving them towards
me – a rather pathetic, non-verbal way of changing the subject. Your cock looks impossibly thick
and hard, sensuously glistening in the lamplight from the generous coating of lube, and the
expectation of how good it’s going to feel to get fucked with it is making me a bit light-headed.
Even so, it seems I’m still far tenser than I realised, because when the wet, blunt head of it starts
pushing up against me I let out a sharp cry then catch my lip between my teeth. After all that build-
up the fact I’m too tight for you to fit seems like a massive anti-climax and I can actually feel
myself blushing again. It’s almost the equivalent of being impotent; just a total inability to perform.
You make a soothing sound, your hips going totally still as you lean down to press your lips
against my forehead. “It’s all right Will,” you say quietly. “You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

“No, it’s fine,” I reply with obvious embarrassment. “God, I’m really sorry – I don’t know what’s
the matter with me.”

“Nothing is the matter with you: you must never say that.” For a few moments you gaze at me with
an unusually soft expression then lean down to kiss my forehead again. “It’s clear the events of the
past few days are continuing to have an impact. All you need is a little more time to feel relaxed
with me again.”

“I do feel relaxed with you,” I say earnestly. “Please don’t ever think that I don’t.”

This time you don’t reply and instead just lean down to open my mouth with yours, your tongue
slipping inside to kiss me very tenderly as you discreetly reach over to the nightstand again to
retrieve the lube. Immediately I can feel myself cheering up: I already know it’ll feel better when
you do it and, oh God, it does. The pad of your thumb is so warm and firm, gently testing the
resistance as you rub in feathery strokes then letting me wail into your mouth as you take hold of
my cock with the other hand.

“That’s it,” you say as my breath begins to hitch. “Mano meilė. Let me take care of you.”

“Oh fuck,” I gasp out. “That feels so good. Oh God, Hannibal, I really like it.” By now it’s as if
I’m practically trembling beneath your touch, the skin so tender and over-sensitised that when a
broad thumb pushes inside me to spread the lube around I give a low moan: shuddering, tensing,
then going totally rigid as my cock spasms inside the warmth of your palm.

“Good boy,” you say softly. As you’re speaking you replace your thumb with two fingers, letting
me moan even louder as my hips jerk backwards with an instinctive urge to be filled by them. You
make a pleased sound then lean down to kiss me again, your fingers still probing and exploring as
you carefully stretch me open. “See?” you say finally. “All you need is for me to work a little
harder to please you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t plan for…”

“Hush. You are allowed to be demanding of your lovers: it is beauty’s privilege.”

I let out a breathy laugh then reach out to take hold of your hand; partly because I want the contact,
but also because if you keep this up much longer there’s a serious risk I’m going to come. “I wasn’t
joking before,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll be able to last. This is gonna be over really quickly.”

You smile down at me then raise my hand to your mouth so you can delicately swirl your tongue
across the pads of my fingers. “Then it is over quickly,” you reply. “What does it matter? You can
simply rest in my arms and let me hold you until you’re ready for more. There’s no rush beloved –
we have all night.”

The affection in your voice is obvious, and for some reason I find myself feeling deeply moved by
it. “Please kiss me,” is all I say.

You quickly lean forward to oblige, and this time when we try again my body opens up for you
very smoothly and easily with no resistance at all. As your cock slides inside me I give a small cry
and you murmur my name to yourself then wrap one arm under and around my shoulders, your
hips starting to thrust in a gentle rhythm as you stroke my face with the other hand. All the time
you’re gazing straight into my eyes with something close to rapture, fingers running over my
cheekbone then down my jaw like you’re reading my features the way a blind person read Braille.
In fact, there’s so much longing and urgency in your expression that at the sight of it I can feel my
own self-restraint, rigidly held for so long, finally starting to crumble.

“Don’t,” I say quietly. We’re barely inches apart now, so close I can feel the warmth of your breath
on my upper lip. “Please don’t look at me like that. I can’t. It just…it’s too much.”

“It’s all right, mylimasis,” you reply, equally quietly. I try twisting my neck instead, hoping to hide
my face in the pillow, but before I can manage it you catch hold of my chin to stop me. “I can’t
look at you any other way,” you add in the same soft voice. “I look at you like this because I love
you.”

This time I just stare back numbly then shake my head, eyes screwing tightly closed as I feel the
first prickles of moisture gathering round the lashes. It’s awful – unbearable – but I can’t seem to
stop it. It’s as if all the emotion of the past few weeks has spilled up to the surface just so it can run
down my face again in little translucent trails. For a while you gaze at me in silence, leaning down
occasionally to brush your lips against my cheeks and eyelids.

“Beloved,” you say finally. “Will, mano meilė. You’re so beautiful like this. You’re perfect.”

“Please don’t…” I reply in a desperate, helpless voice that doesn’t sound like mine. I’m clutching
onto your shoulders now, urgently pulling you closer even as I’m trying to push you away.
“Please…”

“You should cry if you need to,” you say in the same gentle way. “You know you can show me
how you feel. My imago. You can show me anything.”

I shake my head again rather hopelessly, already aware of how the tears are starting to silently slide
down my cheekbones then seep into my hair. You run your tongue along the skin to lap them up,
pausing every so often to kiss me as your hips continue thrusting with the same soothing rhythm.
Oh fuck, fuck, your cock is buried so deep inside me now. I gasp out against your shoulder then
frantically wrap my legs around you, trying to push you even deeper as I pivot my own hips to
ensure I meet each thrust.

“I love you,” I hear myself saying. “Oh God, Hannibal. I just…I love you so much. I need you.
Don’t ever leave me. Do you understand? Don’t you dare.”

You murmur something in a foreign language then take hold of my hand so you can tangle our
fingers together. “Never,” you reply. “Never, Will.”

“Promise,” I say rather wildly. “I want you to promise me.”

You make a sort of growling sound then lean down to press our foreheads together. “I promise,”
you say. “And if circumstances ever forced me to, then I promise I’d find you again straight after.
Always, Will. It wouldn’t matter how long it took or how hard it proved. I would search for you for
a lifetime if necessary – and if the search proved fatal then I would look for you in the next life and
find you there instead. No matter how many lives, or lifetimes, or different versions of ourselves.
I’d still always find you.”

This time all I can do is give a pitiful little moan before tightly shutting my eyes again. I feel like I
need an escape route now because the emotion has grown too much to tolerate and I’m honestly
not sure if I can bear any more of it. It’s not just for myself either, but also for you: even a less
sensitive person couldn’t fail to empathise with the depth of feeling you’re expressing, and the
combination of your own rawness blended with mine is almost physically painful. Even the rustle
of our damp skin sliding together has been elevated into something more than mere noise; it’s as if
it’s something profound, as if I’m hearing what true connection and intimacy sound like. You’re
reaching down now to start jerking me off, yet somehow even that is less intense than the urgent,
almost desperate way you’ve begun to kiss me: murmuring my name between each stab of your
tongue then burying your face into my neck to inhale the skin like I’m necessary for you to be able
to breathe. The rush of sensation is overwhelming, making me cry out over and over as my entire
body seems to quiver around your cock. Helplessly I arch my hips towards you, showing you that I
want the penetration even deeper, and you oblige immediately with another urgent thrust.

“You’re getting so tight,” you say breathlessly. “My beautiful boy. You’re close now aren’t you? I
can feel it.”

“Oh God.” My voice has gone very high and young-sounding; it’s as if the comfort of your touch is
the only thing that’s stopping me from falling apart. “I’m gonna…oh God, Hannibal, I’m going to
come.”

“Do it,” you say. “I want to watch you. Keep your eyes open, beloved. Keep looking right at me.”

“Oh God, fuck,” I manage to gasp before the rest gets lost in a breathy moan. “I’m coming,
Hannibal, I’m coming…”

Admittedly this is a pointless statement (it’s not like it isn’t obvious) but I know you’ll enjoy
hearing it anyway. You’ll love it, in fact: it’s as if you want the acknowledgement that it’s only
happening at all because of you. You hold me through it very tenderly, stroking my face until the
shaking has subsided while murmuring in snatches of several languages – that you love me, that
I’m beautiful, that nothing gives you greater pleasure than seeing how much I enjoy having you
inside me – until I’m slumped in a quivering heap and you can reach down to massage the head of
my cock to watch the last few threads of semen ooze out of it. My ass is still clenching round you
with the force of the orgasm, and when you come yourself soon afterwards it’s with a low groan
that seems to emanate from the core of your body: slamming your hips to push it as far up inside
me as you can, then clinging onto me when it’s over like you want to feel my skin as close to yours
as physically possible. In fact your grip is far too tight, but it doesn’t occur to me to ask you to let
go. If anything, I like it; the sense of confinement makes me feel safe, helping me get calm and
grounded in a way I can’t always manage on my own. Instead I just lie there with my eyes closed,
my breath unnaturally loud and ragged in the silent room as I listen to the sound of your heartbeat
where it’s pressed against mine.

“Are you awake, my love?” you ask finally.

I open my mouth, only to realise with growing mortification that nothing’s coming out except a
rumbling purr-like noise. I clear my throat determinedly then swallow a few times before having
another go. “I suppose so,” I say. “Maybe. Technically.”

“Good,” you reply. “Because I want you to explain something.” Your fingers are carding through
my hair now, very gentle and contemplative, and it’s clear the question is intended more as a
request than a demand. “When I was gazing at you before,” you add. “Why did it cause you so
much distress?”

There’s a small, slightly awkward pause. “I told you,” I say at last. “It was intense.”

“I know. But why, exactly? What made it so unbearable?”

It’s difficult to shrug with both your arms wrapped round me, but I still try anyway. “Because it
was too much.”
“I see.” You make an amused sound then lean down to nudge your face against my hair. “Your
strategy is to hide behind tautology; no doubt to aggravate me. Not that it matters. You know
you’ll end up telling me eventually.”

I make a rather vague humming noise. “If you say so.”

“It’s my own fault, I suppose,” you add fondly. “I should know by now that you’ll always resist a
direct appeal. I have blundered in too clumsily. A more subtle ambush would have been preferable,
and I shall bear it in mind for the future.”

“Someone seems to be losing their edge,” I say, equally fondly. “Now you’re giving away all your
strategies.”

“It’s a little late for that, I’m afraid. You already decoded them several years ago.” You pause for a
few seconds then give me another playful nudge with your forehead. “No doubt a useful reminder
for me to devise some new ones.”

I start to laugh then wait a few seconds before flipping myself over so I can lie on your chest,
pretending to pin you down until you start to laugh yourself. Eventually your expression softens
into the same thoughtful smile as before and I smile back at you then fondly reach over to smooth
your hair off your forehead.

“And there’s that look again,” I say. “Nice try. But you’re not going to make me cry a second
time.”

“That’s good,” you reply. “Because I have no wish to.”

“Mmm, yeah…allegedly.”

“No, indeed. My aim is not to distress you, Will, but simply to understand you – and then, after
that, to help you accept and understand yourself.” For a few moments you continue gazing at me
then turn your head slightly to kiss my wrist. “You still seem so conflicted at times, beloved. So
much self-reproach. But do you know how I used to work with patients who experienced large
amounts of shame? I would encourage them to experiment in taking pride in what they were most
ashamed of. All I want is for you to feel pride in your emotions. Your mind. Your…impulses.” I
nod in acknowledgement, and another stretch of silence then follows where we simply stare at each
other as my hand strokes rhythmically back and forwards through your hair. “Ho visto l'angelo nel
marmo e scolpito fino a quando l'ho liberato,” you finally add. “Do you remember when I first
told you that?”

“I do, yeah. I guess the location is a bit more appropriate this time round.”

“Very true,” you reply with another faint smile. “Michelangelo’s words to Varchi regarding
creation: the virtues of patience and vision, and the necessity of waiting. I saw the angel in the
marble and carved until I set him free.” As you’re speaking you reach up yourself, cradling my
skull in your palm so you can smooth your fingers across the different planes of bone. “What
would you do with your freedom if you had it, Will? Would you use it wisely?”

“I guess we’ll have to see,” I say firmly. “Won’t we? Remember that freedom isn’t given Hannibal,
it’s taken. And the version of what you want for me isn’t the same as I want for myself.”

“I know,” you reply, which surprises me because I was expecting more resistance. In reality, of
course, there’s no way you’ll give in so easily – but the fact you’re willing to concede this much is
fairly remarkable and it’s hard not to feel gratified by what’s essentially an admission of defeat.
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask in a gentler voice.

“And what do you think it is?”

“That you’re prepared to accept a limit to your influence.”

Naturally you don’t reply, although I wasn’t really expecting you to. Instead you just twine your
fingers a little tighter into my hair before (predictably) turning the spotlight away from yourself
and straight back to me again. “I want you to be free of self-reproach,” is all you finally say. “A
liberation from shame.”

“So what about you?” I ask quietly. You immediately raise your eyebrows: what about me? “You
keep claiming that everything you’ve done has been for my own good,” I add. “Like you don’t
have any investment in it. Like it’s just an intellectual process for you…as if you’re emotionally
detached from the whole thing. But you’re not, are you? Why do you find it so hard to admit that
you do it for yourself as well? That you do it because you need it.”

Up until now your eyes have been closed, but as soon as I say this they sharply snap back open
again and look right at me. Your expression is very intense and as I stare back I have a terrible,
sinking feeling that this time I’ve gone too far and you’re going to be genuinely angry. Hurt.
Offended…any of those flashes of vulnerable emotion which are so rare with you yet are nearly
always violent and devastating when they happen. The awareness of this is genuinely unnerving,
but it’s only after your expression has softened into a smile that I realise how my usual ingrained
fear response hasn’t actually happened. It seems it never occurred to me to pull away; instead I’ve
just remained focussed on staying with you in that moment, calmly prepared to witness whatever it
was you might show me.

As I watch you raise you other hand to stroke your thumb along my cheekbone. “Am I being
psychoanalysed?” you ask.

“Looks that way.” I smile back at you then gently lean into your touch. “Physician, heal thyself.”

“Yes, that’s quite the instruction. What a malevolent boy you are.”

“And what an avoider you are,” I say. “It’s all right though, I know you don’t want to answer – I’m
not going to force you.”

“Are you not?” you ask. “Malevolent and merciful.”

“Well, to quote you, I know you’ll end up telling me eventually.” I smile again then give you a
small nudge with my forehead. “Anyway, it’s good to know I’m not the only emotionally
constipated one in this relationship.”

Of course, I’m now actively proving my own point – using humour to defuse an otherwise charged
conversation – and I think you know this too. The reprieve is as much for my sake as yours though,
because there’s only so much turmoil I can manage in one sitting. I need it doling out in short gasps
instead, building up the tolerance and exposure over time until it’s become easier to absorb. We’re
both fairly bad at this aren’t we? No wonder it took us so long to learn to get close to one another.
It’s as if the first few years of our acquaintance were the world’s longest and most dramatic first
date.

“Your forbearance is appreciated,” you finally say. “However, I still feel I owe you a rather more
satisfactory reply. I shall therefore respond as a politician does, which is by answering the question
I wish to rather than the one which has been posed.”
“Okay then.” I give you another smile, shifting my hand up to tenderly stroke your hair again. “I’m
listening.”

“So…” you reply in a thoughtful voice. “Where to begin? Well, you claim I do it because I need it,
to which I shall say that I need you. I don’t just want you, Will; I need you. The distinction between
what one wants and what one needs form the basis of many of our greatest literary works, and so it
is in my own narrative. The shift from wanting you to needing you has changed the course of my
entire life.”

You now fall quiet for a few moments, fixedly staring into the distance before finally turning back
to look at me again. The temptation to bombard you with questions is strong, but instinctively I
know it’s the wrong approach so instead just wait in silence, my hand slowly skimming through
your hair as I wait for you to continue. “In terms of what you originally asked,” you eventually
add. “About the process of trying to change you. Well, of course, the two factors are intertwined.
At first I simply wanted you as you were…”

“You mean you wanted to experiment on me,” I say. The words sound harsh, but the tone itself is
peaceful. I’m not trying to attack you. It’s just a simple statement of fact, and right now clarity feels
like it matters.

“Correct,” you reply. “That experiment yielded great potential, and over time I wanted a version of
you which could correspond more perfectly to the one I’d already constructed in my mind.
However, the reason I feel I need that version – despite your continued refusal to provide it – is
something I must reflect on more carefully before giving you an answer. It’s a complicated
question that requires additional thought.”

I smile slightly then run my finger along the edge of your jaw. “That doesn’t sound like you. I’ve
hardly ever seen you uncertain about anything.”

“Well, it seems you have succeeded where I previously failed – you have managed to ambush me
and catch me off guard. I confess, I have not fully allowed myself to consider my own desires in
quite such stark terms.”

“Why not?”

“Because I focus on you,” you say simply. “I always have, Will. Moreover, I’ve done it in ways –
at least in the past – which have managed to harm us both. Bedelia often counselled me to examine
my intentions towards you more closely, and as you see I have failed to take her advice.”

“Well, at least that sounds more like you.” I smile again then lean down to press a kiss against your
cheekbone. “You never take anyone’s advice.”

“Perhaps,” you reply in the same thoughtful voice. “Although it appears I am going to have to
learn to take yours.” I raise my eyebrows as an invitation to elaborate, and you give a rather wry
smile of your own. “If the past few weeks have shown anything, it’s that a failure to do so could
risk pushing you away from me.”

“Yeah,” I say with quiet agreement. “The last few weeks have been…tough.”

Briefly you just gaze at me again, eyes tracking from my eyes to my lips before slowly gliding back
up. “You know, I often dream about you Will,” you say at last. “And the most painful ones are
those in which we have returned to our previous lives. Dreams where you’ve grown just as aloof
and unobtainable as you were back then; where I can look at you, but never touch you, and where
you always find a way to deny me access to what I want and need the most.” You pause then let
out a low, rustling sigh. “I would go to very great lengths to prevent that from happening a second
time.”

Of course, I already know that these ‘very great lengths’ refer to yourself – to the very essence of
you – and your ongoing effort to become more human, even as you want me to grow more
inhumane. It’s a level of struggle and sacrifice that seems to dwarf anything that a single other
person has ever been willing to offer me, and the obvious love and devotion it represents is
impossible not to be touched by. In turn, another thing that’s deeply striking is the contrast to the
scene in the station from earlier: that someone so feared as you are, someone who wields such an
unfathomable amount of power, could care for me enough to allow themselves to be so vulnerable.

“You can’t push me away,” I say at last, my tone very soft and sincere. “I think that’s kind of
obvious by now. What you can do is make it take longer for us to get closer – but you can’t make
me leave entirely. So maybe we’ll find a direct road, or maybe we’ll take the scenic route. But no
matter how long it takes, I know we can get there eventually.”

You smile at this then reach out to take hold of my hand. “Indeed we will,” you say. “One way or
another.”

For a while now we just stare at each other in silence. My eyes are slightly damp; I think yours are
too. “I feel like you’re making the space to let me in,” I finally add. “To make room for me.
You’ve done that before, but this time there’s a difference…this time you know you need to let me
do it on my own terms. And that’s why it’s so difficult for you.”

“Yes,” is all you reply. “It is difficult. We’ve spoken so often about your metamorphosis Will, and
now it seems inevitable that I’ll have to confront my own. Of course, such changes are generally
claimed to be arduous and painful, yet they’re not inevitably destined to be so. Like a shattered
teacup…it’s possible to break something to make it more beautiful.”

“You’re right,” I say quietly. “And I know you don’t like discussing yourself this way, so I
appreciate you’ve been willing to do it. It means something to me, Hannibal. It means a lot.”

“I know beloved,” you say, equally quietly. “I know it does.”

“And what I asked you before,” I add. “It’s okay if you can’t give an answer right now. You can
take as long as you want to tell me because we’ve got the time.” I smile at you again then finally
settle down until my face is resting in the curve of your neck and I can murmur against your skin:
“We’ve got the rest of our lives.”
 Chapter 38
Chapter Notes

Lol, sorry everyone, this chapter was supposed to be a bit more plot-focussed, but I ran
out of energy before it was done (plus had a few reader requests I needed to fit in) and
now I’ve got nothing to show for it all except 16k words of fluff and porn xD More
actual story will be on the way ASAP :-D xox

See the end of the chapter for more notes

I’m not exactly sure how I’m expecting the next morning to go, only that it seems likely to be…
tense. I’m thinking strained or uncomfortable (at the very least, awkward) with a lingering concern
about recent events that’ll insist on hanging over our heads all day like fog. But ultimately it turns
out to be none of these things, and in the end the atmosphere between us is probably the calmest
it’s been for a while. In fact this, out of everything, is the one thing I didn’t expect; not least
because waking up in a hotel room is such a dramatic reminder of how far things have shifted in
less than a week. During that time you’ve also drugged me unconscious, killed a police officer,
then announced yourself as the culprit as a huge ‘fuck you’ to Jack – all the while that I’ve been
assigned to solving a violent murder I’m actually responsible for. So yeah…an expectation of
things being tense seemed like an entirely reasonable one. Only it isn’t, and they’re not, and for this
I’m profoundly grateful. To be honest, I think it’s our growing sense of unity that’s done more to
help us than anything else: the knowledge that we can always rely on each other, and that while we
might be strong individually, together we’re always so much stronger. I suppose it’s been that way
for years, really; almost since we first met. It just took us so long to finally realise it.

This surge of optimism is enjoyable (and it’s extremely tempting to wallow in it) even though none
of it changes the fact that at some point soon I’m still going to have to face Jack. But that point
isn’t right now – and in the meantime I decide I’d like to do everything I can to make sure the
morning’s as peaceful and pleasant as it possibly can be. I start this off by kissing you awake, then
brewing some coffee and sitting with you while you drink it (heroically ignoring the way you start
wincing because it’s instant rather than ground). After that I tune the bedside radio to one of the
classical music stations you always favour before climbing on the bed to give you a massage,
letting out the occasional regretful noise over all the scratch marks I seem to have left on your back
while you just sit there and look unbelievably smug about them. I suppose anyone else who’d done
what you have would be wondering why on earth they deserved such attentiveness (to be honest,
I’m kind of wondering that myself). But then no one else ever would have done it, and you never
question why people fuss over you – instead seeming to assume it’s the very least they can do – so
naturally the question never comes up. It’s not until I’ve run out of things to do for you that I
finally settle into one of the enormous plushy armchairs to go through my emails; and even then
am still patiently prepared to set it aside when you call for me to come and remove a spider from
the bathroom for you. This, in fact, has turned into something of a ritual since we started living
together, although somehow you always manage to do it without ever actually seeming to be scared
of them.

“That is because I am not scared of them,” you say. “But there is nothing appealing about them
either and I am not inclined to have one crawling on me.”

“Then you should have just killed it.” I pause then give you A Look from over the top of my
glasses. “Being the resident murder expert and all.”

“It was on the ceiling,” you reply with excessive dignity. “I’m hardly going to start clambering
over furniture just for that.” You watch with slightly narrowed eyes as I carry the spider to the
balcony then carefully deposit it on the rail. “You could have just killed it.”

“Why? Spiders are useful.”

You shoot the spider a look of intense dislike, then slowly swivel your eyes round so you can beam
it in my direction instead. “It will do nothing now except come back in again.”

“Then I’ll have to re-escort it from the premises,” I say. “Won’t I? Obviously it’s fine for me to
waste my time clambering over furniture.”

“You stood on a chair, beloved. It is hardly scaling the Pyrenees.”

“Well, you could have stood on a chair,” I say. “You spend all day sitting it them. Why not liven it
up a little?”

“Call it habit, if you wish,” you say smugly. “My entire professional life was premised with sitting
on chairs. Yours, on the other hand, was with trapping predators – it appears we are merely
regressing to the proverbial mean.”

I give you one of my more extravagant eyerolls then affectionately ruffle your hair before
retreating to my laptop again; this time to check the news headlines. So far it seems there’s been no
mention of you, although I’m neither particularly surprised nor relieved by this. Jack’s always been
cautious with his media strategy, which makes it unlikely he’ll break such momentous news until
he feels he’s wrestled the narrative a bit more under control. Even so, there’s no way this reprieve
will last indefinitely, and at some point soon I know your face is going to be everywhere, your
name on everything, and the threat you pose the words which hover on the tip of every single
person’s tongue. Unspoken between us, but clearly understood, is that from now you can’t let
yourself be seen in public. Or at least it’s understood from my perspective…God knows what
you’re thinking yourself. Last time you spent nearly a year living in the open before anything went
wrong, and it seems the success of it has given you an inflated sense of your own invulnerability to
vanish into the crowd.

At the thought of this I find myself anxiously glancing up at you. You’re back in a chair (of course)
with one of your sketchpads in front of you, busy sharpening a pencil with a particularly gruesome-
looking scalpel. Considering your current ‘Wanted’ status its presence seems needlessly
provocative, and I now jerk my head towards it in a rather irritable way.

“Can you not?” I ask. “You could always just use a pencil sharpener.”

“Yes, I suppose I could,” you reply without turning round. “But I am not going to.”

“So you’re just going to be extra-creepy today?” You smirk slightly but don’t reply. “What if
housekeeping sees it?”

“They will no doubt think it is rather unusual.”

“And you don’t care?”

“I do not,” you say calmly. “And neither shall they. We are paying them 700 Euros a night not to
care.”
This makes me sigh to myself, although in the grand scheme of things it’s hardly worth arguing
over and in the end I just stand up and wander across the room instead so I can prop myself next to
you and admire the recent drawings. There are the usual ones of me, reflecting both of the usual
extremes: in the first looking vaguely angelic with huge eyes and tousled hair, and in the second
what could generously be described as fanart of the time I killed Matteo, complete with a steely
moonlight overhead and clenched, gore-stained hands. The remainder are landscape views of the
city, produced with the customary level of detail that’s almost unsettling in how inhumanly precise
and accurate it is. I gently stroke my hand along your shoulder while I’m looking at them, privately
thinking of that original sketch of Clarice and the way I’ve never mentioned it. One day I think I
will (probably), but not yet. Not until we’re so far removed from all this that there’s no opportunity
for you to try and seek her out for yourself.

The thought of Clarice is making me restless again and I now drop a kiss on the top of your head
(which is admittedly the kind of sentimental gesture that doesn’t suit you at all) before moving
over to retrieve my phone. You promptly get up too, prowling up so closely behind me that when
you reach across for your own phone I nearly crash into you.

“Ah, sorry,” I say. “Am I in your way?”

“Not at all. If anything, I am the one in your way.” You pause then give me a rather thoughtful
look. “You say that a lot don’t you? It seems you often assume you are in other people’s way. I
dislike hearing you claim that about yourself.”

“Habit, I guess.”

“Then it is a habit I want you to break,” you say firmly. “Never assume your presence is an
aggravation to anyone.” I glance up from my phone to smile at you then give your arm an
appreciative stoke. “How are you feeling otherwise?” you add. “After last night?”

“What about it?” I ask with another smile. “You mean the part where I cried all over you? Or the
part when you let me try to analyse your bone arena?”

“Whichever part you wish,” you reply, beginning to smile too. “You know you can always confide
in me, Will. In fact, I hope you do, because the questions you were asking have made me
determined to do the same in return. I have certain things I wish to tell you.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly. I reach over to stoke your arm again then run my finger along your wrist.
“Actually, that would be good. Maybe tonight?”

“Of course. Whenever you like.”

“Great,” I say. “In the meantime though…I’m afraid I’m going to have to deal with this.” I roll my
eyes slightly then silently hold my phone out so you can see the nine missed calls from Jack. “He
thinks you’ve gutted me,” I add wryly.

I’m expecting you to smile and roll your own eyes, but you don’t. Instead, you look genuinely
pissed off: I can tell immediately from the tautness of your jaw and the way your shoulders have
begun to set. You almost look like you’re bristling. I raise my eyebrows questioningly and you
give your head an impatient shake.

“He presumes too much,” you say with unusual sharpness. “And my patience for it is wearing
extremely thin. You are not his responsibility, and it is not his place to take care of you. He has no
right to monitor you this closely.”
“Oh come on,” I say gently. “Of course he has the right.”

While this is undeniably true you of course don’t bother to acknowledge it, instead just waving it
away again with an arrogant little sweep of your hand. “His capacity to irritate me remains
unblemished,” you say in a withering voice. “It is actually a form of achievement, of sorts.”

“Well, whose fault is that? I mean, what else did you think he was going to do?”

“It would be typical of Jack to draw the most unimaginative conclusion,” you add, half to yourself.
“The one which is easiest, and therefore the most obviously incorrect. No doubt he is already
telling his equally mindless colleagues that I am planning to hurt you.”

Unbelievably, you actually sound like you think you deserve sympathy for this. It’s as if you’re a
Fine Upstanding Citizen who Jack (that cold-hearted bastard) is determined to slander unfairly,
even though you’ve never being anything in your life except extra specially nice to me. I smile to
myself then reach over to stroke your arm again.

“Well, to be fair,” I say, “you can see why he would think that.”

You immediately swivel your eyes back to me and deliver one of your more inscrutable stares. “I
have no desire to be fair to Jack,” you say crisply. “You can waste your own time on that particular
endeavour if you wish to, but I’m afraid I do not intend to do the same.”

Such obvious irritation is unusual with you, although if I’m honest I quite like it. It’s actually one
of several changes I’ve noticed in you over the past year, in that you’re far more likely to
communicate what you’re thinking instead of burying it behind several layers of aloof,
impersonable silence. It makes you seem more knowable, somehow. More human. As such, the
fact you’re currently having your version of a tantrum feels incredibly endearing and I now tighten
my grip on your arm then cup your chin with my other hand to coax you to turn round and look at
me.

“I’m confident I can keep Jack at a distance,” I say. “That’s not a problem…at least in the short-
term. But to do that I have to stay in contact with him, and that means going into the office more
regularly. I know you don’t want that,” I add quickly as you open your mouth to object, “but
what’s happened with Aronne has made it unavoidable.” This time you just narrow your eyes
slightly but don’t reply; to be honest, it’s not entirely clear what you’re thinking. “Remember what
I told you last night,” I add gently. “Freedom isn’t given, it’s taken. You didn’t give me a choice in
having to deal with this Hannibal, and now you have to let me handle it my own way.”

While I know there’s precisely zero chance you’ll agree with this, it still feels like a small sign of
progress that you don’t try to contradict it either. “I suppose you’re planning to go in this
afternoon?” is all you reply.

“Yeah, I have to. The absolute last thing we need is Jack putting out a search for me – which if I go
AWOL, he absolutely will.” I give another small sigh, already exhausted at the thought of all the
effort this is going to require. “Plus I need to keep an eye on his strategy. Whatever he’s thinking
where you’re concerned, I want to be the first to know.”

Seeing how all this is too obvious to waste time arguing about you don’t actually bother and
instead just narrow your eyes again. “Don’t let him touch you,” is all you reply.

“What do you mean?” Despite myself I feel slightly surprised; it just seems like such an odd
objection to make. “He never does.”
“That’s a lie,” you say sharply. “You always come home to me smothered in the smell of him.”

Your tone is so ominous that initially I don’t quite know how to take it so just stand there in silence
instead, blinking rather stupidly while struggling the entire time with a sudden need to laugh. “I
mean it,” you add, and this time the menace in your voice is so pointed that it’s enough to make me
sober up immediately. “I’ve been very patient with Jack’s demands on your time, but my patience
is not indefinite. If he touches you again then I will break every bone in his hands.”

My response now immediately pivots from amusement back to annoyance, quickly followed by a
powerful urge to snap at you to stop being so petty and unreasonable. You have such immense
gravitas that your more vengeful, vindictive moments are sometimes easy to miss – disguised, as
they are, beneath several layers of majestic dignity – and it means you get away with behaviour
that would immediately get called out in anyone else. But the last thing I want is another argument,
so instead simply hook my arms around your neck then press our foreheads together, running my
fingers against the back of your neck in silent encouragement to calm down.

“I wasn’t lying,” I say in what’s supposed to be a soothing voice. “He hardly ever touches me –
he’s done it about three times since I first saw him in the park. But if he wants to shake my hand or
something, you know I can’t stop him. It’s just what colleagues do.” I pause then give your
forehead another nudge. “You used to touch me as well. Do you remember? It always felt very
different to anything Jack does.”

“Of that I have no doubt at all,” you say coldly. “I find it hard to imagine I would ever have been
pawing at you in the manner of Jack Crawford.”

I start to smile and you immediately raise your eyebrow. “Nothing,” I say. “It’s just…I don’t know.
It sounds funny. Like a dog.”

“Yes, well, you see the reason for my choice of phrase.”

This makes me smile again; honestly, you’re such a bitch when you want to be. “He sometimes
shakes my hand,” I repeat. “Or the other day he put his hand on my shoulder.” I pause very
slightly…no, there’s no way to tell you about the hug without you losing all your shit. “So similar
to what you used to do, but the way it feels is totally different.”

As I’m speaking I’m still touching you myself, mostly with the same type of stroking and nudging
gestures (and which it now occurs to me, a bit too late, bear an unfortunate resemblance to a
documentary I once saw about how to gentle wild horses so they no longer want to kick you in the
face). It’s also incredibly obvious, and I’m rather surprised that you’re putting up with at all.
Normally even a hint of being humoured or patronised is enough for you to grow hugely offended
and start waving your cheekbones at me, but you seem content to go along with it – at least for the
time being. I suppose I might as well push my luck a little further, so now go so far as to stroke
your hair off your forehead before cupping the side of your jaw with my palm.

“You touched me in more intimate ways too,” I add. “Jack’s never touched my face, for example.”
I pause very briefly, unable to prevent a small grimace at how excruciatingly awkward it would be
if he ever tried. “You used to do that quite often.”

For a few seconds you continue to stare at me, your eyes still slightly narrowed. “Yes,” you
eventually say. “I suppose I did.” You fall silent again then give me a rather thoughtful look.
“Your reaction was always rather intriguing.”

“Yeah, I know,” I reply. “You’ve described that before. I guess I’d say it sometimes felt like a
power move, whereas at other times it felt more affectionate – so if my responses were hard to
interpret it was probably because I didn’t understand them myself. Not fully, anyway. I know I
didn’t always like it, but then I didn’t not like it either.” I smile at you then run my fingers through
your hair again. “I never asked you to stop, did I?”

I’m expecting you to smile back but instead you just continue gazing at me with the same silent
stare. “And do you like it when Jack touches you?”

Internally I feel myself sigh, because this statement proves that the last few minutes have been a
total waste of time and, from a wild horse perspective, you’re now revving up to kick me in the
face. “Not especially,” I say. “To be honest, I barely even notice it. It’s not important enough to
like or dislike.”

“And yet you remember every instance that it’s happened?”

For a few moments it takes every shred of self-control not to roll my eyes at you. “Oh come on,” I
reply. “I know even you don’t believe what you’re saying. Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we: yes,
I care about Jack, but no, not enough to pay attention to whether he touches me or not. Don’t you
remember, I was ready to announce yesterday that I was leaving the taskforce? I know you resent
me going back to him, but you should have thought of that before you blew your whole cover wide
open. You haven’t left me any choice.”

“So your desire to be with Jack is my responsibility?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “Yes, it absolutely is.”

This time you narrow your eyes so far they’re nothing but gleaming slits before finally raising your
own hand to cover mine. “Mano brangusis Will,” you say. “I suppose you think I am being
extremely unreasonable?”

“Yeah, just a bit.”

“Yes,” you reply. “And I know you are trying to pacify me.” For a few seconds I catch your eye,
half amused and half guilty as images of bad-tempered horses spring unhelpfully to mind. “Your
efforts have been admirable,” you add. “But not, I’m afraid, entirely successful.”

This time I just shrug then smile. “That’s okay,” I say. “They didn’t have to be successful. I’m
going out soon, so you can sulk all by yourself.”

This is intended as joke, but as soon as I’ve said it I can tell I’ve misjudged and that you’re
genuinely irritated. Even so, I can’t quite bring myself to apologise for being so flippant – not least
because I don’t really feel like I’ve done anything wrong. Eventually I just go for the easiest route,
which is abandoning any attempts to reason you out of it and simply replacing both arms around
your neck to hug you instead. It’s still feels strange seeing you like this. You’re being so irrational
– almost emotional in how aggrieved and envious you are – yet I still see it as a sign of progress. In
the past you’d have just sat there in coldly controlled silence, never giving anything away yet
resenting me the entire time. Now you’re responding so much more like a regular person that a part
of me can’t help wondering if this itself is an act and you’re behaving this way on purpose. I know
you’ve seen and appreciated my attempts to be more open with you about how I’m feeling, and it’s
very possible that this whole display is your version of doing the same. Maybe it’s another one of
your masks or maybe it’s really you? Who knows: once I’ve left you might simply smile to
yourself then stretch out in your chair again with the usual cat-like calm. Even now, I find it
difficult to say for sure.

As if reading my mind you now reach out to put both hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s
length like you want to study me from a suitable distance. “You are so wonderfully obstinate,” you
say, although you sound more fond than impatient. “Jack has no idea how fortunate he is.”

“He knows.”

“No,” you reply firmly. “He does not. All he knows is that you are exceptional – what he is
unaware of is how little he deserves to profit from it. He still thinks he is entitled to your loyalty.”

“Well, I’m not doing it for him am I? I’m doing it for you. For us.”

“Perhaps you are,” you say in a gentler voice. “Beloved. Mano meilė…I know you believe that.
The problem is that your sacrifice is a gift I do not particularly desire – which ultimately means
you are only doing it for yourself.”

“Then I’m doing it for myself,” I say lightly. “That’s still a valid reason. And you still get to
benefit when I’m there to stop Jack coming after you.”

“You think that benefits me?”

For a few seconds I catch your eye, briefly battling with a renewed and serious urge to lose my
temper. “I do,” I say finally, my voice deliberately calm. “I know you feel differently, Hannibal.
But I’ve never wanted the type of showdown you do – and I think we’ve already decided that this
is something where we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“Actually, we did not decide that. What we agreed upon would be to find a compromise: the
precise nature of which remains to be determined.”

“Yes, okay,” I say. “That’s fair enough. But in the meantime, I’m still going to go in.” For a
moment you look so sulky that it’s another genuine struggle not to laugh and eventually I just lean
forward to kiss you again instead. “I love you,” I add fondly. “So much. And I won’t be away for
long. Just enough to let him know you haven’t come after me a with a bone saw.”

“You are not remotely amusing.”

“Well neither are you,” I say. “I’m teaching you empathy: now you know how I feel most of the
time. Why not try a few cannibal puns to get your own back?”

“Actually, I have changed my mind you,” you say. “The sooner you are gone the better. Not that
the reprieve will last, of course – you are such a little horror that Jack will simply send you straight
back again.”

“Probably,” I say. “Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?” You shoot me a look of intense disapproval and I
finally give into the temptation to laugh before leaning over to press a kiss against your nearest
cheekbone. “Do you want anything bringing back from town?”

“I do not.” Your mouth is turned against my face now and I can feel you smiling against my skin.
“Only yourself.”

“Well, text me if you change your mind. I thought we could maybe cook dinner together? That
kitchenette seems pretty well-supplied.”

“It is a galley kitchen,” you say, briefly sounding more like yourself again. “A kitchenette is far
smaller – besides sounding like something one would find in a doll’s house.”

“Fine: galley kitchen. Do you want to cook or not?”

“I do. But I intend to go out later so will see to it myself. Suitably disguised, naturally,” you add
when you see me opening my mouth in protest. “I still have a few suitable items I can use.”

I glance at you doubtfully. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” You look incredibly calm about it, but while I’m far from feeling the same it seems
like a bad idea to start trying to control your actions any more than I already have done. To be fair,
I suppose you’ve already spent the last few years of your life successfully dodging law
enforcement. It’s not as if you don’t know what you’re doing. Even so…I really wish you
wouldn’t.

“Well, okay then,” is all I say. “Just please be careful.” I’m already turning round now in
preparation to leave, but before I can manage it you dart out with one of your eerily fast movements
and catch hold of my wrist to stop me. “What?” I ask, half-laughing. “What do you want now?”

I’m expecting you to let go but instead you just tighten your grip then start prowling towards me,
edging closer and closer until you’re fully in my space and I find myself forced up against the wall.
In fact you’re doing something that’s relatively unusual, which is to use the full extent of your
physical presence to try and dominate me. For all the casual jokes about it, it’s moments like this
when I fully appreciate that you are, in fact, significantly stronger than I am. Not that much taller,
perhaps, but far more muscular and powerful – and more than capable of subduing me if you really
wanted to. The word to describe it is fierce, and if I’m honest it appeals to me more than I’m totally
proud of admitting to.

“What do you think I want?” you reply.

“Oh for God’s sake,” I say fondly. I reach up then playfully shove you against the chest with both
hands. “You’re insatiable, you maniac. You’ll have to wait until I get back.”

You give one of your more feline smiles then run your forefinger along the side of my jaw. “But I
do not wish to wait,” you say, before adding in a rather more ominous voice: “Let Jack be the one
who is waiting.”

I give you another shove, then try (and fail) to get past you. “Later.”

“No,” you reply, and it almost sounds like you’re purring. “Not later. Now.”

“I don’t want to,” I say weakly, although it sounds so incredibly half-assed I’m not sure why I’m
even bothering. In fact, I do want to (quite a lot), but in the spirit of being a true Petty Asshole am
reluctant for you (once again) to get your own way with absolutely everything. Unfortunately,
another thing you’ve also got is extensive experience with my Petty Asshole strategies, which
means you aren’t even pretending to take them seriously. To be fair, the fact I’ve started to grind
my hips against yours probably doesn’t help.

“Yes you do,” you say.

I open my mouth to contradict you, only to find myself abruptly spun round so I can be half-pulled,
half-carried towards the couch. God, you’re incredibly hard; I can feel the thick line of your
erection jabbing straight into my back every time you press against me. Even so, it’s fairly unusual
for you to behave like this, and I end up torn between a mixture of arousal, amusement and
annoyance which eventually gets expressed in a bizarre squawking noise that bears a closer
resemblance to an angry pterodactyl than seems entirely appropriate. Possibly you think the same,
because you quickly crush your mouth against mine to swallow them up before I’m able to make
any more (and which could therefore definitely be considered a win for both sides). At the same
time you’re roughly tugging my shirt, scrabbling at it in a sort of frenzy until you lose patience
entirely and just rip it off me with the sound of tearing fabric and a ping of buttons hitting the floor.
I finally manage to pull away from you to get a gulp of air, but the respite only lasts a few seconds
before you’re seizing hold of my shoulders then flipping me face-down onto the couch to start
wrenching at my jeans instead.

I make a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, then reach round to try and catch
hold of your wrist. “Jesus, Hannibal, calm down,” I manage to say. “Just let me…”

Your only reaction is to grab a fistful of hair then twist my face round to kiss me again. The touch
is rough, but not painful, and the tender way you’re stroking my cheek is a silent reminder that it’s
desire rather than anger that’s causing you to act like this. The force and depth of the kiss still
makes it difficult to breathe though – seriously, it’s as if you’ve been starving for it – and it’s only
when I make a muffled wailing sound that you finally let go and lean back against your heels
instead so you can smooth a hand down my spine.

“Mylimasis,” you say fondly. “Are you listening? There is a bottle of oil in the kitchen: I want you
to go and get it.”

“Get it yourself,” I reply through a mouthful of cushion.

You make an amused noise then knot your fingers into my hair again to give it a gentle tug. “I
suggest you find some motivation, my love. You are going to need it a lot more than I will.”

“This was your idea.” I sigh with annoyance, then finally succeed in wriggling free of your grip so
I can turn myself over and frown at you. “I didn’t even want to, remember?”

This time you merely raise an eyebrow before glancing to where my obvious erections is busy
announcing itself like it wants to join in the conversation. “Oh yes,” you reply. “I can see that you
have no enthusiasm at all.”

“That’s not the point.” My voice has gone extremely pompous and disapproving by now, which (to
be fair), even I can admit is incredibly over-the-top relative to the actual situation. It’s the type of
solemn tone that should solely be reserved for lecturing on world hunger or reading suspects their
rights. Possibly for reciting Bible verses: and lo, thou shalt obtain thine own lube. “You started it.”

You drop another quick glance at my treacherous hard-on, your expression so incredibly smug it’s
like you’re expecting it to leap upwards and give you a quick high-five. “Well, if you are a good
boy,” you reply, “then I might let you finish it.”

“Oh God,” I sat fretfully. “Stop calling me a boy. How many more times do I need to ask?”

You give another smirk then trail your finger along the stubble on my jaw. “At least a few times
more, beloved. Clearly.”

I huff rather irritably then attempt to scowl at you (to which you respond with a smirk of such epic
proportions it’s actually pretty impressive). Even so, I know I’m just stalling by this point and am
still going to end up doing what you’ve asked. You’d never take me dry without permission, but
I’m not really in the mood for it and there’s no way you’ll get the oil yourself. That means the only
other option is to stop entirely, because you’re more than capable of abandoning me naked and
seething on the couch and just gliding back to your sketchpad again.

I now repeat the huffing noise, then struggle upright to plant a kiss on your nearest cheekbone
(because although you don’t deserve it, you look so sultry and mischievous it’s impossible not to)
before staggering off to retrieve some olive oil from the condiment tray on the counter. At least
we’re not still in America, I suppose; it’d probably be ranch dressing or Texas Pete Hot Sauce. By
the time I get back you’ve already shrugged off the rest of your own clothes and are stretched back
against the cushions, your legs spread apart in a deliberately provocative way that makes it clear
you’re expecting me to climb on your knee. I give you a rather withering look in response then
silently pass the bottle over.

“Thank you, my love,” you say. “Grazie. However, I’m afraid I’m going to have to return that to
you. I want you to use it yourself.”

You look so incredibly pleased with yourself that for a few seconds I have an urge to throw the
bottle at your impeccably groomed head. Then I decide a much better idea is to just call your bluff,
so instead of arguing about it simply kneel down next to you and calmly unscrew the lid. I start
with you first, savouring how warm and heavy your cock feels in my hand as I oil it up, then reach
round behind me to start working a single slippery finger inside myself. The oil has a smooth, slick
thickness that the lube can’t quite match and is unexpectedly sensuous to touch. Oh God though,
the upholstery is going to be ruined. I mean it really is…why is there never a Sex Towel to hand
when it’s needed?

“That’s it,” you say softly. “Good boy.” I promptly narrow my eyes, and you smile slightly then
spread your legs a little further apart. “Now come here.”

I open my mouth to tell you not to call me a boy before promptly closing it again on the grounds
that you’ll just call me a shrew instead (or a mongoose, or a horror, or a tiny terror) and that the
most reliable way to stop you doing it is to pretend it doesn’t bother me. Then I just end up
laughing because I love you madly, even though you’re a complete bastard. You start to smile too,
briefly relaxed and playful again, then wait until I’ve settled myself on your lap before leaning
forwards to kiss me. I’m already desperate to ride you, but knowing how good it’ll feel makes the
anticipation more than worthwhile as I sigh contentedly into your mouth, hips slowly rolling
against yours while my clean hand runs through your hair. No one has ever kissed me quite the
way you do: never with such focus or utter volatility. One moment you’ll be tracing delicate
patterns on my tongue with yours then the next you’ll be stabbing it into my mouth while stealing
all my air – and it leaves me flushed and breathless every single time. There’s also something
genuinely touching about the way you keep leaning in for more. It’s like whatever I give you is
never quite enough; either the way my mouth tastes, or the feeling of my body as it moves against
yours.

“Sei un idioti,” I say affectionately as we eventually pull apart.

You smile a bit more then press another kiss against my forehead. “No, beloved, I am an idiota.
Idioti is plural.”

“Then you are a multitude of idiots. And if I’m a boy then you are an old man.”

“Is that so?” you reply. “Well, as they say in Lombardy, un vecchio che dorme ne sa più di un
giovane che è sveglio.”

I smile again then wait a few seconds, gently stroking the curve of your bicep as I hover in front of
you with my lips parted. It’s an invitation you quickly accept, sliding your tongue straight back
inside my mouth then hungrily licking into it. I open even wider to welcome you in, lingering until
I can feel your breath begin to catch before I finally pull away.

“Which means…what?” I ask.

As I watch your features begin to arrange themselves into one of your smugger expressions. “It
means,” you say, “that ‘an old man asleep knows more than a young man awake’.”

I give a smirk of my own then lean forwards again so I can start kissing my way along the length
of your throat. You sigh very softly and tip your head back to give me better access. “And do you
know what they say in Lazio?” I murmur in between kisses.

“Regrettably,” you say, “it appears that I don’t.”

“La lingua e le mani hanno sempre vent’anni,” I reply in what, if possible, is an even smugger tone
than yours. “The tongue and the hands are always 20 years old.” I smile to myself, slowly
punctuating each word with another kiss to your jaw and throat. “That’s good news, isn’t it? It
means that even when you’re old and impotent you’ll still be able to satisfy my sexual needs.”

“Indeed, that is very fortunate for me,” you say. “Hmm, Lazio…you picked that up from Giulietta,
didn’t you?”

Before you can even finish I’ve already begun to kiss you again, gently nipping at your lower lip
then clutching your hair so I can drag your head back to nuzzle your jaw. “Maybe,” I finally say.

“You are a linguistic magpie, aren’t you beloved?” you reply fondly. “Always collecting whatever
stray phrases might appeal. Even so, I see no reason to wait for old age before I use my hands and
mouth to please you.”

As you’re speaking you start to smooth your palm down my spine, very measured and deliberate as
if you’re counting out each vertebra. I always like being held this way by you. Your hands are
capable of brutal strength, yet they can be so delicate too. You’re always very gentle with me, but
every so often it’ll still catch me off-guard; just the awareness of the depraved amount of power in
every inch of your body and how it’s always displaced by a stronger urge to be careful and tender
in the way you handle me. As I lean into the touch you continue your downward slide, getting
slower and slower the further you go until you reach the first smears of oil and can gently swirl it
around with your fingertips. You’re holding me very tightly with the other arm, clearly savouring
each shiver and gasp, but it’s only once I’ve started to impatiently rock against you that you finally
start to work your thumb inside me.

“You feel exquisite,” you murmur into my hair. As you breach the first clench of resistance and
get it buried deeper your breath catches with a sharp gasp. “You’re so tight.”

I moan again more softly, tilting my hips to encourage you before leaning forward to lightly graze
my teeth across your throat. I love that you let me do this; it makes you so vulnerable in a way I
know you’d never allow with anyone else.

“Fuck yeah, I am,” I say. I can feel the way I’m starting to tense around your thumb, my moans
growing even louder as you pull out to replace it with a single long finger. “God, you love it so
much, don’t you?” I add breathily. “Look at you: it’s getting you so hard. Are you thinking how
you’re going to hold me down than stretch me open with that huge cock?”

“Sincerely, Agent Graham,” you say, pretending to sound shocked. “You have quite the mouth on
you yourself. I’m not sure where this vulgar change in language came from, but I applaud your lack
of inhibition.” You smile again then take hold of my chin with your free hand, pulling me towards
you until you can catch my lower lip between your teeth and give it a gentle tug. “I like it very
much,” you add. “I want you to show me what else you can use it for.”

My hair’s really tangling into my eyes by now. I give my head an irritable shake like a horse (then
try to ignore the way your face has started twitching in amusement at the sight of it). “Do you
really?” I reply. “Aren’t you going to ask me nicely?”

Instead of answering you just smile even more, your fingers continuing to slide through the oil with
the same sensuous thrusts. “Dearest Will,” you finally say. “I’m waiting. Please don’t make me
repeat myself.”

“Or what?”

“Or else.” You’re still smiling though; it’s obvious you don’t really mean it. In the end I just smile
back at you (followed by a long-suffering eyeroll, because old habits die hard) then reach out to
ruffle your own hair.

“Well, I suppose I could,” I say. You promptly thrust your finger again, eyes bearing into mine as I
groan slightly then catch my lip between my teeth. “But on one condition: that you have to make it
up to me later.”

Your sole response is a slow smirk (without confirming if you will or you won’t) so I give a smirk
of my own in return before climbing off your lap and kneeling by the couch instead so I can slowly
slide my lips round your cock. The angle’s more awkward than when you’re standing upright, but
while it’s impossible to gaze up at you like I normally would it’s still more than enough to get the
job done. You give a low groan then wrap your own hand round the base to push it deeper into my
mouth, your fingers twisting into my hair at the same time to force my head even closer.

“Your throat’s so small,” you say. Your voice has dropped to a smoky rumble by now; it’s clear
you’re nowhere near as in control as you might have been earlier. “You feel so good, beloved.”

I moan loudly around your cock to let you know I like it too, my back arching into a sharper curve
until I’ve managed to swallow you down so far my eyes are watering and my nose is nearly
touching your groin. You’re still ramming my head forwards, although are clearly being careful
about it because when I look like I’m about to choke you immediately let go. I carry on anyway
though; spitting on your cock a few times to keep everything wet and soft then swirling my tongue
around the head to taste the oil and pre-come before licking down the entire length until I’m
rewarded with another moan. Fuck, though, it really is a serious mouthful; deliberately I try to relax
my jaw, doing my best to take you as deep as I can without gagging while your fingers gently skim
across my face and hair. My free hand is stroking your abdomen and I can feel how tense your
muscles are: it’s obvious you’re close to coming, and when you reach down to hoist me onto the
couch again the only surprise is that you’ve managed to last for as long as you have.

Your breath has really sped up by this time, although I’m barely able to even catch my own before
I’m getting picked up again and pulled face down across your knee; one hand on the back of my
neck to keep me still while the other slides between my thighs to spread my legs apart. When
you’ve got me how you want me you reach across for the oil, letting me gasp into the cushions as I
feel the first drops of silky wetness trickling straight onto my ass. You sigh too then begin to
gently swirl it around with the pad of your thumb.

“So, which should I be offering you?” you ask. “My mouth or my hands?”

“Oh fuck, I don’t care,” I say. “Either. Just hurry up.”

You make an amused sound then toss the bottle aside so you can replace a warm, firm palm on the
back of my neck. The touch is tender, yet still distinctly possessive, and it’s clear you’re not over
your resentment from earlier. It also means being put over your knee like this feels closer to being
dominated than I’m fully happy with, yet I don’t exactly dislike either…at least not enough to ask
you to stop. Surreally, the fact I’m in this position at all is entirely Jack’s fault, but I’m good
enough at dealing with you by now to know that playing along is the easiest way to calm you
down and make you happy. Of course, in the past this possessiveness would have been expressed
with aggression, whereas now you channel it through a combination of objectifying and
worshipping me…so it’s not like it couldn’t be worse. Oh God, fuck, your fingers are really
starting to explore my ass by now; it’s almost as if you’re playing with it. It’s hard to describe,
exactly: somewhere between rubbing and massaging, interspersed with feathery swipes, then
lightly brushing across the rim with the pad of your thumb without ever actually pushing in.

“Look at you,” you say softly as I give another gasp. “It’s like an open invitation to slip inside your
body: all oiled-up and ready for me.”

“Fuck, yes,” I say. And then because I know how much you’ll enjoy hearing it: “Only you. Only
ever for you.”

“Yes,” you reply, your voice so low and resonant it sounds more like a sigh than an actual word.
“Only me. You would never permit this from anyone else.”

“Never,” I say firmly, which makes you sigh with satisfaction. In fact you sound so happy it makes
me want to think of some other statement to indicate ownership…only I can’t come up with
anything better than ‘that’s your ass’ or even ‘that’s your hole’, neither of which I trust myself to
express out loud in a way that wouldn’t sound spectacularly off-putting rather than erotic (and
conclude with me dissolving into cackling laughter). Oh God, I’m so bad at this. “It’s yours,” I say
instead, because at the very least I know you’ll appreciate the sentiment. “It belongs to you.”

“It’s still so tight though, isn’t it?” you add, almost thoughtfully. “So resistant. Don’t you think
so?”

Even for you this is a bit much and I give a gasp of laughter. “Oh fuck, I don’t know.”

“You do know,” you say. There’s another pause as you lean down to drop a kiss between my
shoulder blades, your other hand beginning to feather along the ridges of my spine. “I’ve watched
you touch yourself there. You enjoyed it so much, yet you barely managed to fit two fingers. To
look at you now there scarcely seems enough space for one. Do you really think you’re ready to
take everything I want to give you? I’m not sure…it seems you might have to work a little harder to
prove it.”

This time I just whine – embarrassingly high-pitched and needy – followed by a breathy gasping
sound that’s supposed to be ‘please’. I think I might be blushing by now, embarrassingly aware of
how the clench of muscle is quivering beneath your touch and knowing you must be able to see it
too. It’s intensely exposing to be lying like this, almost as if I’m on show; your eyes staring down
the entire time with that unblinking, unwavering intrigue that’s so intensely and uniquely you. Oh
well, fuck it. It’s a bit late now to feel self-conscious…that ship has well and truly sailed. Instead I
just moan again then arch my back as much as I can, deliberately wanton as if I’m trying to offer
myself to you.

Your response is to immediately increase the pressure, shifting your knee at the same time until it’s
easier for me to grind my hips against it. The sensation is unbelievably good and I know I could
probably get myself off this way; just gracelessly rutting against your thigh like a teenager. In fact
the movement isn’t all that much, but by now I’m so slippery and relaxed that it’s still enough to
send your finger sliding deep inside me without you even seeming to plan to. As you pull your
hand back I drag in another shallow breath then huff it out again (followed with another, far more
impatient, attempt at a ‘please’) as you wait a few seconds before plunging down again. Oh
fuck…fuck. I can really feel the way I’m stretched around you now: it’s like I’m tightening and
clenching round your finger in rhythm to each thrust.

“What are you begging for, my love?” you ask in the same soft voice. There’s another pause as I
feel your waist turn slightly; it’s obvious you want a better view to watch yourself as you finger me
open. “Are you waiting to feel me inside here. Is that what you want?”

“Oh hell, yes,” I say, “like you wouldn’t believe.”

Your immediately move your other hand to my face so I contentedly lean into the touch, sighing
with pleasure at the gentle way you’re stroking my jaw then caressing my cheek and lower lip. I
can hear you murmuring my name very quietly to yourself, although it turns out the calmness is
deceptive and before I have time to get too comfortable you’re pulling me upright again until I’m
facing you directly as I straddle your knee. God, you look incredible like this: stretched out
underneath me, as lithe and sinuous as a cat. I smile at you rather hazily and you smile too then
reach out to take hold of my wrists in one hand so you can pin them behind my back. It means I end
up swaying at an angle, but while it feels rather perilous it still doesn’t bother me. Instinctively I
know you won’t let me fall.

“You claim that’s what you want,” you now say. “But I’d like you to make some more effort to
show me.” As you’re speaking you take hold of my cock with your free hand, slowly rubbing your
thumb around the head to check how much pre-come is there. “I want to see you much wetter for
me than this,” you add in the same soft voice. “I want you to make yourself soaking. Of course, I
know we’ve already established the superiority of the mouth and hands…” You pause then give
my wrists a gentle tug. “But as I am forbidding the use of the latter, I’m afraid the former is all
you’ll have to achieve it.”

“Oh yeah?” I reply. I’m starting to smile now; you’ll never admit it, but it appears you must have
enjoyed me rambling utter filth at you last night even more than you were letting on. “You want
me to tell you how much I like you fucking me? Describe it until I’m so turned on I’m leaking all
over myself. Yeah? Is that what you want?” This time you just give me one of one of your more
inscrutable smirks but don’t actually answer; behind my back I can feel your forefinger smoothing
up and down my wrist. “You can do better than that, though,” I add softly. “If you want to torture
me, you can definitely do better. Shall I tell you what you could do?”

Once again you don’t reply, although I wasn’t really expecting you to; it’s clear I’m on my own
with this one and a refusal to participate is your chosen rules of the game. I don’t mind though. In
fact, if anything, it’s a surprise to realise I’m feeling far less embarrassed by this than I expected to
be. Partly it’s because your levels of acceptance for me are so radical that they protect me from
excess self-consciousness, encouraging me to move beyond my comfort zone in a way I never
could with anyone else. But I think it’s also something about the power balance; the way you’re so
very desperate for it and the clear, craving desire you have to hear me describe exactly how much I
want you. You think you’re in control, but you’re not – and the awareness of this is hugely
arousing in and of itself.

“Okay then…” I say slowly. “I’m going to give you some tips, so pay attention.” You politely put
your head to one side, pretending to be docile, and I catch your eye then have to suppress a sudden
urge to smile. “The first thing you need to do is take me into the bedroom,” I add, “then order me
to strip. No warning, or preamble or anything – just tell me to do it while you watch.” Briefly I fall
silent again, stroking my gaze across your face before leaning forwards to gently nuzzle your jaw
and throat. You always love it when I do this. It used to make me feel slightly awkward in how
childish it seemed, yet there’s something about the intense simplicity of the affection that you
seem to find really appealing.
“Yeah, you like the thought of that, don’t you?” I say fondly. “I can tell. I love you so much: you
know you can trust me to give you what you want. It would be just one item at a time, wouldn’t it?
Nice and slow until I’m starting to get uncomfortable. You know I hate it when there’s too much
focus on me, so I’d be getting more humiliated the longer it took. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?
You know you would – you love seeing me vulnerable.” Immediately I hear your breath catch and
so quickly lean forward again, brushing my lips against your throat while secretly wishing I had
my hands free to run them across your chest. “Once I was done you can make me get on all fours
for you,” I add. “Hands and knees with my legs spread. But after that you could wait for a bit. Just
sit there and watch how hard I’m getting from having you near me. You can let me wait for as long
as you want: let me get desperate. Let me get painfully desperate. Then, whenever you’re ready,
you can kneel behind and spread my ass open with your hands so you can spit straight onto it.”

The entire time I’ve been speaking I don’t think you’ve blinked even once. Fuck, you’re so turned
on aren’t you? There’s a flush of colour on both cheek bones and I can hear how heavy and harsh
your breathing sounds. Instinctively I tug on my wrists so I can try to touch you, groaning slightly
when you tighten your grip to stop me.

“This is when it gets interesting,” I eventually manage to add. “You can start off with your fingers
at first. Push them inside me to spread the saliva around; get me nice and loose until you can work
your tongue in instead to get me even wetter. God, I’d like it so much. You know I always lose my
mind when you eat me out.” Briefly I screw my eyes closed, back arching into a tighter curve at
the thought of it. “I’d be moaning so loudly wouldn’t I? Pleading with you. Begging you to give
me your cock. You’re going to ignore me though – I’m not going to get what I want. Maybe you
could push your fingers into my mouth to keep me quiet? Make me suck them until they’re soaking
wet and slippery, then you can slide them straight into my ass again.”

For a few seconds I catch my breath, followed with a small whine as my cock gives a sudden
twitch and a thick bead of pre-come spills out the slit. Your own breath catches too before rushing
out again with a sigh so low and smouldering it’s almost a hiss.

“Good boy,” you say softly. “That’s it; that’s perfect. Now give me a little more.”

I let out another groan then grind my hips towards you in a slow roll, obscenely aware of how hard
and straining my cock is looking at it juts up in between us. “You’d be able to feel me clenching
round your fingers,” I manage to say. “But as soon as I start getting tighter you should pull your
hand away and give me your tongue instead. Keep doing that for a while; keep switching it up. As
soon as I get used to one sort of stimulation then take it away from me and go back to the other. It
would drive me insane – and I’d have absolutely no choice but to take it. It wouldn’t matter though
because you know what I really want. The thing I want more than anything.”

I deliberately fall silent again, and sure enough your self-control is so close to snapping that you
can’t help yourself. “Tell me,” you reply. There’s a soft clicking sound in your throat as you
swallow, your voice little more than a smoky rumble. “Tell me what you’d want the most.”

“Oh fuck, I’d want you,” I say. My voice has also dropped in pitch by now; it’s not quite as
gravelly as yours is, although still makes me sound a bit feral. “What else do I ever want? I’d want
to feel that thick, hard cock forcing its way inside me. God, I’m such a slut for it, aren’t I – does
that feel like another victory for you?” I pause and smile rather wryly. “I bet it does. All those years
ignoring and rejecting you…and look at me now.”

This makes you groan slightly then catch your lip between your teeth; I knew it would. “I’d beg
you for it,” I add softly. “In my mouth. In my ass. I wouldn’t care just so long as you give it to me.
I always take you so well, don’t I? It’s why you love watching yourself fuck me. I’ll be so tight
beforehand, and you get to see yourself stretching me wide open. I love it so much: you know you
could make me come from it. I’d be so over-stimulated that just having you inside me would be
enough…and so of course, that’s the one thing you’re not going to let me have. Mouth and hands,
isn’t it? You’re not going to give me your own cock and you’re not going to touch mine…you’re
going to fuck me with your tongue and fingers, and if I can’t come from that then I don’t get to
come at all.”

Once again I’m now forced to pause; tensing, shuddering, then gasping your name as my cock
gives another spasm and a thicker stream of pre-come runs down the length of it. “Beautiful,” you
murmur in the same low voice. “I wish you could see yourself. Aš tave dievinu. Tu tokia graži.
You’re getting so close.”

“How long would you make me stay like that?” I ask breathily. Shit, I feel like I’m watching you at
bay by this point: any second now and you’re going to snap. “How long do you think I could last?
I’d be trembling, covered with sweat, probably past the point of being able to speak to you. It’d be
absolute torture and I’d love it. After all, you turn me on so much I know I’d still get there
eventually; any touch of yours would always be enough. What do you think would finally do it?
That last thrust when your finger hits my prostate? Or maybe when you start sucking the rim of my
ass and the sensation is just too overwhelming? Fuck, I’d come so hard I’d nearly pass out. It’d be
gushing out of me, spattering all over the sheets…you’d have to wrap your arm round me just to
keep me upright.”

“Yes,” you say. “Yes.”

“What would you want for yourself?” I add. “To fuck my mouth? Or would you prefer to come in
my ass? Actually, I’d really like that – maybe I’d even beg you to do it. How many hours has this
been going on for anyway? How long would I have had your fingers in me? Fuck, I’d be so
stretched and loose you wouldn’t even need to push inside: you could just jerk yourself off then
spread me open with your hand and let it drip straight in.”

I pause once more to catch my breath then finally glance up to look at you. Your eyes have
narrowed so far they’re little more than gleaming slits and I can actually see how rapidly your chest
is rising and falling. You’re breathing so fast it’s as if you’ve been running; breathless in a way you
never are even when you do run. Yeah…yeah, you’re definitely about to lose it. I open my mouth
to speak again, only this time don’t manage anything beyond a startled yelp as you make a
growling noise from deep in your throat then abruptly yank me upwards by the waist before
lowering me back down again – with no warning at all – straight onto your cock. You’re so
incredibly hard that I don’t even need to use my hand to guide you in. It’s just a single smooth
thrust that makes me draw all my breath in then let it out with a helpless moan as I sink down inch
by hot, swollen inch until you’re buried about as deep as you can possibly go. Quickly you take
hold of my hips to steady me, your face softened by affection in a way that briefly makes you look
vulnerable and much younger than you really are.

“Jesus,” I gasp out. “God, Hannibal. Fuck.”

You give a purr-like sigh then cup my face between both palms so you can press my forehead
against yours. “Yes?” you ask softly.

“Yes,” I whisper back. I sway slightly then thrust myself forwards, blindly covering your face in
kisses as you take both my hands in yours to knot our fingers together. “Oh God, I love you,” I say.
“I love you. You feel incredible.”

“Aš tave myliu, Will,” you reply, equally softly. “You’re everything to me.”
“Oh my God.” I bite my lower lip then swallow a few times, gulping ragged bursts of air in the
sudden struggle to get any more words out. “You’ve no idea…it feels so good.”

“Describe it for me, mylimasis. Tell me how good?”

“The best,” I gasp out. I’m almost shaking with arousal by now. It’s like being high; everything has
a surreal sheen, both vividly intense and hazily dreamlike at the exact same time. “The best ever…
in my entire life. I can’t…God. I love the way you fuck me. I love it.”

As I’m speaking I plant my knees on either side of your waist then grab your hands even tighter to
get some leverage. The jut of your hipbones is so sharp against my thighs – and the sense of being
filled so completely is close to overwhelming – but there’s no question of me caring about either.
Instead I just raise up my hips then rock them down again with a deeper thrust; bucking almost
wildly against your lap and content to do all the work while you just sit underneath me and watch
me fuck myself on your cock. My skin feels scorching hot by now, stretched too tight across the
bone and muscles as if the slightest pressure would cause it to split.

“Touch my mouth,” I finally manage to say. You immediately raise your right hand, briefly
stroking my jaw then running your thumb along my lower lip before sliding your fingers inside. I
swirl my tongue across them, interspersed with a light scrape of teeth, then let my head tip
backwards as my hips pound down even harder. “You don’t really deserve to come,” I gasp out.
“Not after what you did yesterday. But God, I’m still gonna make sure you do. I want you to pump
me so full of it that it’s dripping out of me. I want to feel it running down my thighs when I move.
Do you understand?”

You immediately get one of your more wolfish expressions, and it occurs to me that you’re so
turned on there’s a real risk you’ll lose control of yourself and end up pinning me flat against the
floorboards just so you can fuck me yourself. To stop you from moving I put my hands on your
shoulders, bearing down until I’m slamming into you so hard I give a small wince and catch my lip
between my teeth.

“Beloved,” you say. “Mano meilė. Is it hurting you?” I shake my head and you gaze at me with
your lips parted before reaching up to wrap your palm round my neck again. You linger along the
back for a while before gliding down until it’s clasped around my throat; it’s obvious you have an
instinctive desire to squeeze and are having to remind yourself not to. “You’re so beautiful,” you
add softly. “I could do anything I wanted to you when you’re like this, couldn’t I? Anything at all.
My imago…my little love. You’d be such a willing victim.”

Briefly I snap my face down to look at you. It’s clear you’re sunk deep in this possessive mood,
and when you’re like this there’s always a fine line between humouring you vs. ‘Let’s shut that shit
down right now.’ If I’m honest the controlling tone is starting to annoy me, although somehow I’m
still inclined to let it go. I know how frustrated you are that I won’t play along in your game with
Jack, but I also know it’s because you love me – and need to reassure yourself with a sense of
ownership – and that means I can’t bring myself to judge you for it too harshly. In the end I just
content myself with a tiny eyeroll then ignore the urge to snap at you and resume grinding my hips
instead, my entire focus honing in on how to make you feel as good as possible. At one point I rise
up far enough that your cock nearly slips out, the fatness of the head teasing round the tight ring of
muscle before you grab my waist to drag me back down again. The penetration is so deep it makes
my own cock jerk, and when another stream of pre-come leaks out the slit you reach down to
scoop it up with your finger, slowly licking it clean as your eyes lock straight into mine.

“Keep looking at me,” you say, as if reading my mind. “I like to see your face when I’m doing this
to you.”
“Oh God, yes,” I say quietly. I arch myself forwards again, enough for our chests to press together,
then tightly wrap both arms over your shoulders then around your neck so you can gaze straight up
at me. “I love you,” I keep saying. “I love you so much. There’s no one except you. There never
was. Never…”

It’s getting really intense by now, yet somehow I’m still able to meet each thrust; crying out your
name as my thighs squeeze round your hips and you plunge into me over and over again until
we’ve hit a perfect rhythm. Oh God, fuck, you feel incredible: so thick and hard, sliding into my
ass so smoothly it’s as if you’re meant to be there. Briefly I let my head drop down, neck craned at
a painful angle just so I can press my lips against your chest and feel the way your heartbeat is
pulsing beneath them. In fact the only problem is that the focus is pretty much one-sided, because
so far you’re not showing any signs of wanting to jerk me off and I’m worried if I do it myself I
might hurt you by losing balance and toppling over while you’re still inside me. It’s obvious you’re
playing one of your favourite games of seeing how close you can get me to coming simply from
having your cock in me and I’m so hard and leaking by now it makes me want to scream: every
nerve in my body seeming to shudder and spasm until it tightens down to a throbbing sense of
pressure in my abdomen with a frantic need for release. I’m actually a bit worried – you have
incredible stamina and are more than capable of stretching this out for hours until I’m worn out and
aching before you’ll finally end it by letting yourself come. Fortunately, however, it seems that’s
not your intention today, and when it eventually does happen it’s with a violent shudder followed
by a groan that seems to be echoing from the very depths of your chest. It’s almost dramatic…I can
actually feel the way your cock is jerking inside me. I give a small groan myself then slump
forwards to kiss you, stroking your jaw with my thumb while my while other hand runs up and
down your chest.

“Dearest Will,” you say when we finally pull apart. “You’re so stubborn. I adore you.”

This is clearly intended as another reference to Jack, but I really don’t want to think about him right
now (I mean…Christ) so just kiss your forehead instead. You always stay hard for a while after
you’ve come, and the sense of fullness whenever I shift my hips is absolute torture. You still make
no attempt to touch me though, and in desperation I finally take hold of your hand and try to force
it downwards to where my cock is jutting up almost painfully swollen and hard.

“Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?” I ask. “Can’t you just, y’know…”

You give a long, slow smile then reach your hand up to smooth my damp hair out of my eyes. “No,
my love,” you say. “I will not.” My look of disbelief must be unintentionally comical, because
whatever my face is currently doing makes your smile broaden even further once you see it. “I will
take proper care of you when you return from seeing Jack,” you add. “But not before. Consider it
an incentive to make your visit a brief one.”

“What…seriously?” I say, even though I know that you are. Now I sound borderline tragic; not
least because experience has shown there’s absolutely no way to win in a situation like this. I only
really have two options: to either ignore you and jerk myself off (in which case you’ll just sit there
radiating insufferable ‘well, someone appears to have no self-control’ vibes), or else pretend I don’t
care – in which case you’ll still have got what you wanted in that I wasn’t allowed to come. Not
that I even really want to do it myself. Bizarrely, it feels like so long since I’ve got myself off in
earnest that I almost feel out of practice with it. Besides, my own touch never feels anywhere near
as enjoyable as yours.

“Okay, fine,” I say in a grudging voice. “You win.” Immediately your features arrange themselves
into one of your favourite Tier 10 smug expressions: yes, thank you – I am already aware of that.
In fact your smile, by your own standards, is so incredibly broad it almost seems to have taken on a
life of its own. I can half imagine it lingering in the air after you’ve left like the Cheshire Cat’s. “I
guarantee I’ll be back here as soon as I can,” I add dolefully.

“Excellent,” you reply. “Compromise is a beautiful thing.”

I give a final groan of frustration then slump forwards again, sulkily burying my face in your neck
as your reach upwards again to begin to stroke my hair. The muscles in your abdomen are so hard
and firm…instinctively I try to cheat by rocking myself against them, but you realise straight away
and quickly take hold of my waist to stop me.

“Compromise?” I repeat. “I’d call it blackmail.”

You make an amused sound then slowly reposition yourself until you’re close enough to rest your
cheek against my forehead. “My beautiful boy,” you say fondly. “You may call it whatever you
wish.”

“Again with ‘the boy.’”

“Again, indeed.” Your palm is smoothing up and down my back now, dipping down further and
further each time until you can rub the pad of your finger around the tight, slippery skin that’s still
stretched around your cock. I give a small wail then grip onto your neck; at which point you make
a soothing sound, only to promptly do it again even harder a few seconds later.

“I know, my love” you murmur into my hair. “I’m sorry. I’ve left you so unsatisfied, haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” I say dryly. “Just a bit.”

“And I promise I will make it up to you. However, in the meantime, I wish to give you something
to help keep me in mind while you meet with Jack.” As you’re speaking you increase the pressure
of your finger, letting me gasp against your skin again as my cock twitches uselessly into empty
air. “I made sure to bring your plugs with me,” you add in an even softer voice. “They’re in the
bedroom in the leather case. I want you to go there now, beloved, and bring me the smallest one.
Then I want you to come back here and let me put you over my knee again while I insert it for
you.”

I give a gasp of shocked laughter. At one point it even gets perilously close to giggling, which
immediately makes you smile. I thought it would; you always like hearing me laugh. In fact, the
thought of sitting across the desk from Jack while stuffed full of your come (assisted by another
golden butt-plug, no doubt) is so deeply, ludicrously obscene that I can actually feel myself
flushing at the thought of it. Even so, it’s impossible to ignore how quickly this initial disbelief gets
followed with a squirming sense of arousal at how incredibly, enjoyably wrong it would be. It’s an
outlandish, ridiculous, madcap plan and it almost bothers me how badly I’d like to agree to it.

“You look so…flustered,” you say with obvious amusement. “You want to disapprove and are now
feeling guilty that you can’t. The idea excites you, doesn’t it?”

“Oh God, I can’t,” I say. Yeah, I’m definitely blushing now; I bury my face in your neck again in
an attempt to hide it. “Look, I’ll do it for you one day,” I add. “I promise. I’ll even text you about it
while Jack’s right there: I’ll let you know how good it feels, how it’s making me hard…how
impatient I am to come home to you so you can give me the real thing. But not now,” I add in a
firmer voice. “Not today; not when the stakes are so high. I mean if you’d asked me last week, then
maybe. Hell, even yesterday I might have done it. But today I need my wits about me.”

You give a low, rustling sigh then gently scrape your teeth along the side of my jaw. “Yet your
wits are so considerable.”

“Not at the moment they’re not,” I say gloomily. “I’m out of practice, Hannibal. I’ve already had a
few near-misses.” Of course, it’s already occurred to me that you want me to have near-misses –
which is why you’re asking in the first place – although pointing this out will almost certainly
cause an argument that I’m not remotely in the mood to have. “Today I need to be able to
concentrate,” I add. “But look, if you like then I won’t have a shower beforehand. I’ll go in
smelling of you. And you can mark me as well. In fact, I want you to. I want to feel it on my skin
and know you were the one who put it there.”

It’s immediately obvious how much you approve of this suggestion, although for some reason are
still holding back from agreeing too quickly (most likely because you didn’t think of it yourself and
can never admit that someone else might have the occasional good idea). “Where?” you finally ask.

I now emerge from my hiding place in your neck so I can look at you directly. “On my throat,” I
reply. “Somewhere people can see.”

For a few moments you just stare at me before saying “Very well then” in the sort of aloof tone
that makes it sound like you think you’re doing me a huge favour. I smile to myself then give your
hair a quick ruffle before you can stop me. “Move round a little, beloved,” you add in a softer
voice. “I can’t you reach you from there.”

I obligingly tilt my neck to one side, waiting in silence as you thoughtfully inspect the skin from
several angles before finally lowering your head to start sucking a bruise just below the sensitive
skin of my jaw. The pressure is considerable; far more than I expected. It’s like I can feel the
capillaries rupturing one by one, and while not exactly painful isn’t entirely comfortable either. Oh
God, you’re actually using your teeth now. I give a small moan and you hum soothingly against
my skin, taking hold of my hand at the same time so you can stroke across the knuckles with your
thumb.

“It’s all right Will,” you keep murmuring between each scrape of teeth. “It’s all right, only a little
longer now. Just let me. Just let me have you…”

You give my skin a tender kiss of apology, which immediately makes me moan again even though
it doesn’t hurt. Considering what else I’ve seen your teeth do with people’s necks it would
probably make sense to pull away – but of course I don’t, and instead am content to just sit there
until you’ve finally finished and left God-only-knows what sort of Monster Hickey on my neck.
When you’re not looking I quickly reach up to see if it’s bleeding. It’s not, although even if it was I
know I wouldn’t mind.

“Just one more thing,” I add once you’re leaning back against the couch and I can settle myself on
your knee again. “What I told you before; when I said I was losing my edge around Jack. I want
you to know that it’s because of you: and it’s because I’m happy. For maybe the first time in my
life, I’m not constantly living in fear. I’m not on high-alert all the time – and while it might have
made me a bit less sharp, I’d never want it any other way.”

You smile at me the reach up to cradle my face with your palm, thumb drifting down at the same
time to rub against the mark on my neck. I can see the approving way you’re looking at it. It’s like
the equivalent of a name tag sewn into my clothes to signify ownership; not bruising, but claiming.

“Mylimasis,” you say in a gentle voice. “You might feel you’ve been dulled in certain ways, but I
can promise you that you’ve been sharpened in others.”

I smile too and for a moment we just sit there beaming at each like a pair of sentimental old
bastards before I finally gesture towards the bruise. “They call them love bites in the UK,” I say
mischievously. “Somehow that seems more appropriate for you. And for the record, you better
prepare yourself – because I intend to return the favour as soon as I get back.”

Your only response to this is a massive smirk, so I kiss you again then go into the bedroom to
retrieve your robe before coming back to the couch to wrap you up in it. After that I give you
another kiss (and a final hair ruffle for good measure), then spot a small scar on your shoulder that
I haven’t noticed before so need to spend a few moments inspecting it (because I’m completely
obsessive about knowing every single part of your body) before reluctantly climbing off you to
begin gathering my clothes together in preparation to leave. Now I’m more aware of it I can feel
how unpleasantly sticky my skin is and the way my hair is clinging to my forehead with sweat. It
also means I’m deeply regretting the shower suggestion – although while it feels fairly gross to go
out like this, I know I can’t bring myself to disappoint you by going back on the promise.

For a while you simply sit and silently watch me, although eventually stand up yourself and prowl
across the room to your laptop to put some music on. You select Dvořák’s 9th Symphony then skip
straight to the 4th movement, which I immediately interpret as a sign that you’re still feeling pissed
off. Normally when we’ve had sex it’ll be something softer and dreamier – Mozart or Mendelssohn
– but this particular piece is chaotic and harsh. The first time I heard it I said it was like the
national anthem of Hell, although it’s admittedly grown on me a bit since then and now the worst
I’ll say about it is that it sounds like the Jaws theme. In fact, the shark imagery seems particularly
appropriate, because you’re now wearing one of your more predatory expressions that involves a
rigidly immobile face and eerily glinting eyes. You don’t blink very often when you’re in these
moods, which always manages to act as another subliminal signal of threat: just this very intense,
unwavering stare that reminds me of a snake or a cat. Something lean and sinewy, coiled up tight
then waiting to strike. In the past I’d probably have felt more disturbed by it, but by now I’m so
used to you that I simply take the time to notice it’s happening before deciding to leave you to it.
After all, I know that you won’t strike – and anyway, it’s not me that you’re angry with. Instead I
finish fastening my jeans then retrieve my shirt from the back of the couch so I can mournfully
inspect the tears in the stitching. Your gaze promptly swivels in my direction, so I wave it right at
you until you’ve thawed out sufficiently to begin to smile.

“You’ve totally wrecked this,” I say.

“Yes,” you reply, the sinister expression briefly dissolving for long enough to be replaced with the
smug one. “It appears I have. I have also done you a good service, because it is incredibly ugly.”

There’s a small pause: it’s as if you’re actually waiting to be thanked. I glance at you then raise my
eyebrows incredulously. Oh my God, you’re not really though…are you? “No it’s not,” I say
firmly.

This time you just smirk at me. “I want you to wear one of mine today.”

To be honest I’m not very keen on this idea; not least because Price might have an inconvenient
burst of observation skills again, and the last thing I want is another afternoon fending off hints
about my non-existent girlfriend. But it also seems surprisingly reasonable (especially considering
the types of requests you could have made) so in the end just go into the bedroom anyway to find
one. You’ve got so many it’s hard to decide, but I eventually create a mental shortlist that skips
past the more dramatic shades – the garnet reds, sapphire blues, and rather dazzling depths of
purple – to hover around the more subdued end of the rail where everything’s mostly black or grey.
I finally settle on one I haven’t seen before and am even quite tempted to steal for myself; a very
fine, well-cut linen with enough blue in it to border on pewter and that’s light enough not to feel
too hot in the inevitable stuffiness of Jack’s office. Then I roll my eyes (because of all the
behaviours I’ve picked up from you, a heightened awareness of tailoring was not expected to be
one of them) and pull it on before heading back to the living area again.

“An excellent choice,” you say happily when you see the shirt. “It suits you. The colour
compliments your eyes.”

I make a vague grunting noise then wander over to retrieve my briefcase from where it’s lodged
beside the couch. You’ve changed the music since I left: still Dvořák; but this time the Tempo di
valse from the Serenade for Strings. It’s more relaxed than the last piece was, although somehow
still vaguely sinister. Rather dream-like, too…like a beautiful assassin, who lures their victims in
with charm before sliding a slim stiletto knife right into their throat.

“What an image,” you say when I point this out. “You’re so violent, Will.”

“Yes,” I reply in a solemn voice. “I’m sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities. I hope you’re not
too shocked.”

“I am, indeed, scandalised.”

“Oh dear,” I say. “That’s a shame. I hope you can eventually get over it.”

Even as I’m speaking I’ve started to smile, because I’ve realised I get a genuine kick out of how
expressive you’re becoming with your music choices. It’s much more noticeable than it used to be,
and always seems like another way of being open with me about how you’re feeling. Then I decide
I’d quite like to explain this to you, only before I get a chance to do it my phone goes off;
insistently shrill and loud, like a third person in the room demanding a share of the conversation.
Wordlessly I now retrieve it then hold it out for you so you can see the caller ID for yourself: Jack.

“I have to answer it,” I say. “Any longer and he’s going to send out someone to look for me.
Just…”

I’m about to say ‘Just don’t make any noise’, but it’s such an obvious statement there doesn’t seem
any way of requesting it that won’t seem patronising. The problem is, I sometimes feel like there
are no limits to as to what you might do. In the end I just leave the words hanging there then brace
myself and hit the call button.

“Will!” explodes Jack. He sounds incredibly pissed off; it’s like I can feel the frustration steaming
off my skin all the way down the phone. “Are you okay?” And then, before I can even respond:
“Why the hell didn’t you pick up earlier?”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s been on silent. I don’t get many unscheduled calls out here and
I’ve kind of…lost the habit of checking.”

“What sort of excuse is that?” demands Jack. “You’re a trained FBI agent, Will. Maybe start acting
like it.”

Immediately I can feel an urge to snap at him, even though I know he’s right. I don’t though; I
know there’s no point. Partly it’s because he’s worried about me, and this display of anger is
simply to mask a deeper layer of concern. But mostly it’s because you’re here – and even a hint of
being rude to me is going to accelerate your vendetta against him in a way I neither want or need.
Admittedly this concern is also pointless, because it’s not like I’m any closer than I was before to
finding a way to stop you going after him. All I can do, it seems, is to try and prevent the situation
spiralling into one that’s even worse. It’s not much, I know…but surely it’s still something?

Jack, having said his piece, now seems to calm down a little and when he speaks again his tone is
notably more friendly. My annoyance promptly cools down too; in fact, if I’m honest, I think I just
feel bad for him. He never used to be prone to these types of outbursts and it’s clearly stress that’s
causing it. Or, more to the point, it’s you that’s causing it.

“So,” Jack now adds. “I assume you’ve had no word from…” There’s an ominous pause like he
doesn’t want to say it; I’m half expecting him to refer to you know who. “From Hannibal.”

“No, of course not,” I reply. “I’d have told you by now if I had.”

“You still think he’ll try?”

Without fully meaning to I glance up to catch your eye. “Yes,” I say slowly. “I think there’s a
strong chance that he will.”

“He must be loving this,” adds Jack in a gloomy voice. “He knows we’re waiting to hear from him.
I suppose he’ll stretch it out for as long as he can, just to keep us in suspense.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Or else it’ll be the other extreme,” replies Jack, who seems to be getting on a doom roll. “In which
case he’ll go AWOL again without making contact at all.” He lets out a loud sigh, so I end up
sighing too just to keep him company. “It’s a game, Will. You ever hear that proverb about waiting
for the shoe to drop?”

This time I’m the one who pauses as I find myself catching your eye again. Even with my levels of
denial, the discomfort of talking about you like this when you’re right there is starting to weigh on
me. I could just go into the bedroom, I suppose, but then that would mean talking about you
behind your back and I don’t really want to do that either. Of course, the easiest thing of all would
be if you just discreetly excused yourself…which also happens to be the one thing you’re
absolutely never going to do.

“Aren’t you coming in today?” Jack is now asking. “You said you would.”

“Yep,” I say vaguely. “I was planning on it.”

“We need the original team at a time like this. Who else is better placed than you?”

“I said I’m coming, Jack.”

“So how much longer are you going to be?”

“I don’t know. Not long.”

“It’s already past 12.”

By this point I don’t even dare look at you anymore; it’s easy to imagine how much you’ll be
resenting this. “I’m just having lunch,” I say, attempting to sound as relaxed as possible. “I’ll be
there as soon as I can.”

“Well, that’s good,” replies Jack. He’s being much more amiable now, like he’s already ashamed
of his previous sharpness. “And for what it’s worth, I hope you enjoy your lunch. Out of all of us, I
guess you’re the one who most needs the downtime.”

“Yeah,” I say mournfully. “I guess I probably am.”

“I didn’t have time for more than a bag of chips at the station,” replies Jack with a touch of self-
righteousness. “I suppose you’re having something with more of a local influence?”

“Not especially,” I say. The intensity with which you’re clearly listening to the conversation is
becoming a real strain by now, and I’m finding it harder and harder to maintain the same casual
tone. “Why would you think that?”

“Just that being here seems to be rubbing off on you,” says Jack. “The culture. Y’know?” I make a
confused grunting noise to indicate that I do not, in fact, know and he adds: “The music, for
example. You’d never have listened to something like that when you were living back home.”

The statement isn’t remotely loaded, yet as soon as he’s said it I find myself wincing. A year ago
I’d never have made such an obvious mistake, and it now feels like yet another sign of how a life
of peace and happiness has buffered my sharper edges and softened me. On the other hand, the way
you’ve propped yourself almost mockingly bedside the laptop suggests it was something that
occurred to you the second I picked up the phone.

“That’s because it’s not mine,” I say quickly. “I’m in a café.”

“Oh, okay,” replies Jack. “That makes more sense. It’s hard to imagine you listening to that refined
type of stuff.” By now I’m literally waiting for him to say ‘just like Hannibal’ and it’s impossible
not to feel relieved when he doesn’t. “I’d have had you down as more of a Bruce Springsteen man.”

“Springsteen?” I ask. “Seriously?”

“And what’s wrong with that?” demands Jack. Now he sounds genuinely aggrieved; it’s like I’ve
just insulted his dad. “No shame in liking The Boss.”

“I guess,” I say doubtfully.

“Nothing to guess about,” replies Jack with a barely disguised huffing noise. “Your generation has
no taste at all,” – and which is so close to the type of thing you might say that I find myself
catching your eye then smiling slightly. Jack, appearing to take my silence for agreement, promptly
adds: “I suppose when you were in college it was all grunge and gangster rap?”

By this point I decide I should probably end the call before he has a chance to call me a boy, so tell
him I’ll see him in an hour then determinedly hang up. You’ve been watching me the entire time,
your features neatly arranged into one of your more inscrutable, Sphinx-like expressions.

“Uncle Jack is displeased,” you say as I replace the phone on the counter. “I suppose he feels you
are not being sufficiently attentive to him?”

“Something like that.” I sigh then stretch a bit, trying to ignore the first throb of a tension headache
that’s begun to nudge around my temples. “Either way, I should get going. The sooner I arrive the
sooner I can leave again.”

Instead of replying, you silently walk over to me then put your fingers beneath my chin to tilt my
face up. It appears you’ve noticed the headache, although this isn’t necessarily surprising; you’ve
always been extremely attentive to pain. Fortunately this particular talent is also something you
always use to my benefit, and you now begin to massage my temples with one hand while gently
rubbing my neck with the other

“Mylimasis,” you say. “Don’t be away too long.”

“I won’t,” I reply. “I promise.” I reach up myself then stroke your wrist with my finger. “You’ll be
on my mind the entire time. You always are.”
 You make a low humming noise, then continue rubbing for a while before adding, seemingly out
of nowhere: “I want Jack to know, Will. Do you understand? I want him to know which side
you’ve chosen.”

Despite myself I can’t help feeling deeply struck by your choice of words. After all, you could
have said the more obvious ‘I want him to know about us’ or possibly ‘I want him to know about
me,’ but you didn’t. Instead you’ve framed it in terms of a side, and it somehow makes my choice
seem even more solemn and significant. Good vs. evil, light vs. dark. Existential, almost, as if it
defines my entire being. Although I suppose in a way it does, doesn’t it? As far as you’re
concerned I’m your masterpiece, your ultimate creation. I can’t really blame you for wanting the
rest of the world to know too.

“I understand,” I eventually say. My voice has gone very quiet; very soft and serious. “Honestly
Hannibal, I do. And for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry you’re still having to wait for it.”

Then I just sigh and reach up to put my arms round you, stroking your hair and saying I love you –
so much, more than anything – and all the time wishing that I had it in me to tell you what you
want to hear. Or that you, in turn, had it in you to understand why I don’t. Not that it matters
though. Not really. Because by now it seems inevitable that Jack’s going to discover what I’ve
done: it’s not a question of if anymore, but only a matter of when. And while I’m not at the point I
can actively wish for it happen, I can’t bring myself to deny you it either. It’s something I know I
need to let you have – that I ultimately want to give to you – and it feels the countdown has now
officially started until the moment comes, after years of waiting, that you finally make sure you get
it.

Chapter End Notes

Ugh I’m sorry guys, I can only imagine how tired you must be with reading these
ANs, but I wanted to give a quick update. Okay, so…the last chapter got ratio-ed
HARD. I mean it really did, and seeing it get trashed like that after so much work felt
very demoralising :-( Tbh it’s been the final straw for realising that posting this fic just
isn’t much fun anymore and made me feel that a few changes are needed going
forward.

So: *rolls up sleeves*. For everyone who’s still reading the fic and supporting me –
thank you. I feel very attached to you, and for your sake and mine want to do
everything I can to make sure it’s not left unfinished. What this’ll mean from now on
is shorter chapters, but more of them, so please don’t be alarmed if you notice the
chapter count starting to spiral: I promise the end is in sight and this won’t be rambling
on indefinitely like my last fic did! Unfortunately this may make some updates a bit
disjointed (e.g., instead of chapter breaks there’ll mostly just be a new chapter instead)
but I feel this is better than huge gaps between each post, especially as I’ll be cutting a
few unnecessary plot threads to keep the word count down. I’m also hoping the
updates will be fairly consistent, but from now on will be putting ETAs at the end of
each chapter. So if you’re not subscribed, and the fic doesn’t update when expected,
then please check there to save you having to keep refreshing the page.

Finally, I want to do my usual reminder that what’s happened to me in this fandom is

not typical (in fact, it didn’t happen on 2 of my other fics either) and that I’d never
want these ANs to deter people from posting their own work. Nothing I’ve seen over
the past few years has ever changed my mind that the vast majority of Fannibals are
far from being aggressive trolls and are instead lovely, generous, encouraging people
who will be delighted to read whatever you might decide to share with them. Trust me
– I wouldn’t still be here myself if that wasn’t the case :-) xox

Next update ETA: February 20th

 Chapter 39
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Despite your best efforts to stop me, and my own deep reluctance to go, I still manage to arrive at
the station a few minutes past 1.00. This is then followed by several minutes of greetings (in which
everyone seems secretly surprised that I didn’t end up getting murdered to death by you during the
night), followed by a few minutes for overt briefings and a few extra for covert hysteria…at which
point it only needs a couple of minutes more to confirm that I’ve probably made a terrible mistake
by wanting to come here in the first place. Not that mistake is entirely the right word for it.
Mistake implies an error of judgement, and from a purely logical perspective the centre of the
investigation is the most sensible place for me to be. I suppose the lapse is more of the emotional
kind; not least because I don’t even need to wait for the others to start speaking to understand what
a terrible, terrible strain it’s going to be to have to sit here and listen to them planning to catch you
while actively pretending to be part of it.

All this would have been hard enough on its own. But what’s complicating it even further is the
part of me who’s already beginning to feel bitterly ashamed of its own betrayal: the part who’s
nodding and sighing, pretending to be concerned, yet who’s acutely aware the entire time of how
it’s done things which are so much worse than any of them could possibly imagine. It’s less
intense, but it’s definitely there, and I suppose is also the part of me that you’re still hoping will
have its metamorphosis. The part that’s going to emerge from its chrysalis, darkly triumphant – at
which point it could not only sit here lacking any sense of shame but actively enjoy the deception,
just the same way you once did yourself in the past. After all, how many times must you have sat
in similar meetings? Actively playing both sides, only to find yourself in such utter control of the
game that you may as well have been the referee, capriciously imposing whatever rules you
wanted for how the teams should best compete to please you. I can’t do that, though. I’m not you. I
can’t take a sense of satisfaction from any of this, which means the once-familiar room already has
a twinge of unreality about it and I can barely recognise the version of myself who last stood here.
It’s like someone visiting the set for a movie they were once passionately absorbed by, only to see
the curtain drawn back and have it exposed as being nothing more than an inventive fiction the
whole time. This is the actor playing Will Graham , the director would say; and it’d be someone
who looked a bit like me, and had the same mannerisms, but close-up the audience would wonder
how they could have ever confused the two.

Exhaustion is starting to pincer my head like a vice and by this point it’s becoming a huge effort
not to simply close my eyes and retreat into the sanctuary of my own internal space. God, how is
that even possible? I’ve only been here 30 minutes and it feels like as many years. The window
opposite is streaming with condensation, and I now find myself fixing on a particularly large drop
that’s running parallel to another as if the two of them are engaged in a race. As the minutes tick
past I begin to stare at it; silently urging it on while wondering, rather hazily, why the hell I can’t
just pull myself together. I’m so detached from all this, aren’t I? Present yet absent. It’s strange, but
I just don’t…care. As I watch the bead of condensation gives a tremulous little quiver then
defeatedly allows itself to be absorbed into the surrounding droplets. I sigh again, then force
myself to look away and attempt to refocus on the surrounding conversations.

“Nessuno uccide come lo Squartatore,” says someone from over the room, and I promptly flinch
without even meaning to. No one kills like the Ripper. Their tone is a mixture of fear and
something like awe, although I don’t really blame them for either. It’s true, isn’t it? It’s always
been true, because no one ever did, and no one else ever will. And so often done for me – the only
person who could truly see it…

As I’m thinking this Price abruptly dumps a coffee in front of me and I jump slightly before
realising it’s him and giving a small nod of acknowledgement. Price nods back then takes a silent
sip of his own, regarding me somewhat sympathetically as he does it.

“You know, call me crazy, but I was worried when I first saw you,” he says. I raise my eyebrows
and he grimaces in response then waves a hand towards my throat. “You’ll probably have to get
used to that I’m afraid. From now on if you come in with so much as a scratch on you then
everyone’s going to assume it was Hannibal.”

For a few moments I just stare at him, blinking rather stupidly as ‘yes, well, he did do it’ bounces
around my skull in a series of increasingly unhelpful thuds. In reality, of course, I know what he’s
actually referring to is the suitably monster band aid currently covering the Monster Hickey – and
which was only applied at all as a last-minute measure once I realised how defensive I felt at the
idea of Clarice seeing it and assuming I’ve been cheating on ‘Robert’ while he’s still in America.
Usually I wouldn’t give much of a shit about what other people think of me, but I know this guilty
discomfort is because even the thought of betraying you feels terrible…and which of course only
makes it more ridiculous, because taken to its logical conclusion it means I’m feeling uptight about
the suspicion of her thinking I’ve cheated on you with yourself.

“It’s nothing,” is all I finally say. “I cut myself shaving.”

“How, though?” demands Price. “How, when that thicket of facial fluff has clearly not encountered
a razor since 2012?”

I give one of my usual vague shrugs. “Yeah, well,” I say. “There’s your answer.”

“To be honest, I’d shave the whole thing if I were you,” replies Price. He narrows his eyes then
stares at me intently from several angles while I silently sit there to wait for his verdict. “Lop off
the lot,” concludes Price firmly. “It would make you look younger.”

“Y-e-s,” I say patiently. “But I don’t want to look younger.”

“Hmm, maybe you don’t,” agrees Price in a thoughtful voice. “You already look a bit boyish,
don’t you? It’s not a particular advantage in our line of work.”

I’m about to remind him that this isn’t my line of work – or at least it wasn’t for ages, and soon
won’t be again – but then get an image of you (blind drunk) declaiming ‘yes, you have a boyish
beard’ and have to resist a sudden urge to smile. It’s like you’re always there at the back of my
mind, even when I’m most distracted. I now give you a stern mental request to leave then
reluctantly do my best to ignore you and pretend to pay attention again.

“Anyway, maybe it’s best if you don’t,” Price is now telling me. “It appears you’re so cack-handed
you’d probably end up decapitating yourself.” He pauses then beams at me cheerfully from over
the top of his cup. “Although, on the bright side, if you did then at least you’d have the
satisfaction of knowing you’d denied Hannibal the chance to do it himself. Just imagine how
disappointed he’d be.”

Zeller, who’s recently arrived with his own cup of coffee, overhears the last part and promptly
proceeds to start choking on it. “What?” protests Price. “Will doesn’t mind me joking about it, do
you Will?”

I shrug slightly then lean a bit further back in my chair. “No,” I say. “Not especially.”
“See?” adds Price with a hint of triumph. “Will is not overly sensitive – unlike some people.”

“It still wasn’t funny,” says Zeller stubbornly. “I don’t know why you think it is.” He dumps a
sprawling stack of files on the desk then stares at them rather broodingly before turning back to me
again. “I’ll be honest with you Will,” he adds. “You’ve got bigger balls than I have. If I was in
your position then I’d have been on the first plane back to the States.”

“You nearly were on the first plane back to the States,” pipes up Price. “Even without being in his
position. The only reason you’re still here is because Jack arranged a security detail for us.”

“Well, that’s the only reason you’re still here. You were ready to fly back too.”

“I never denied I wasn’t,” says Price smugly. “I was more than happy to cut and run. And for the
record, the second we lose our bodyguards is the second I turn up at Peretola with a one-way ticket
to the land of the free and the home of the brave. But yes, to echo Brian’s point, Will, I agree that
you have cojones. Gigantic, pendulous brass balls. The size of church bells.”

“Thanks,” I say drily.

“So what are you going say to him if he turns up?” adds Price curiously. “I know Jack’s hoping
you won’t see him, but you must have at least thought about it.”

I shrug again then take a moody sip of the coffee. Someone has taped a picture of you to the
whiteboard and it seems as if your eyes, Mona Lisa-like, are starting to follow me around the room.
With an effort I avert my own then glance back up at Price. “I wouldn’t say anything,” I reply. “I’d
wait and see what he has to say.”

“My first word would be ‘Oh shit’,” adds Zeller to no one in particular.

“That’s two words,” says Price. “And that’s a terrible idea Will. Your first word should be to Siri
and needs to be 911.”

Zeller gives a small eye roll. “Yeah, because that would him a lot of good over here wouldn’t it?
You mean 113.”

“Oh yes, that’s true Will,” says Price. “You better make that clear in advance. Perhaps have a few
test-runs too, because Siri – and smartphones in general, I might add – are a magnificent liability
and can always be relied on to be unreliable. At least we know those Terminator movies got it
wrong,” he adds, removing his own from his pocket then giving it an encouraging pat. “If this little
fool is anything to go by, I don’t think we’ve got much to worry about with the Rise of the
Machines. Isn’t that right Paracelsus?”

“You named your phone Paracelsus?” asks Zeller incredulously.

“I did,” replies Price. “The father of toxicology. It’s very fitting too because, just like Siri, he was
brilliant in some ways yet completely moronic in others. He once tried to grow a tiny man using a
mixture of bodily fluids from several fully-grown ones.” Zeller opens his mouth then closes it
again. “Now cheer up Will,” says Price briskly. “Jack’s clearly confident about your safety
otherwise you and your sad little beard would both be sitting on a suitcase at the airport by now.”

From this statement it’s clear they don’t know I’ve refused my own security detail, and I now
beam a mental note of thanks to Jack for helping to delay the inevitable storm of anxious questions
when they finally find out about it. Although who knows, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad? In fact, if
anything I might prefer it, because in a way this forced, fake version of normality is even worse. It
seems as if all of us have been busy preparing our emotional armour: Jack’s fear disguised behind
anger, Price’s behind humour, and my own behind this deadpan aloofness that stares into the
distance and pretends it doesn’t care. It’s one of the reasons your presence can be so painful, yet
ultimately so liberating, because of how uniquely skilled you are at stripping away the layers of
self-deception and helping me to embrace what’s underneath. In my entire life I don’t think I was
ever so scared as I was in the time before I met you. Like all predators you excel at camouflage, yet
what matters to you most of all is what lies beneath the surface: the actual truth of a thing in all its
ugly, raw reality.

By this point it almost feels like the bruise on my neck has started throbbing with the rhythm of
these thoughts, and as I sit there I have a sudden powerful urge to grab the concealment of the band
aid and dramatically tear it off. It’s as if that little mark has become a symbol for all the changes
we’ve undergone together, both inside and out; and while on one hand I want to avoid any
unnecessary attention for them, on the other am desperate for someone to see what you’ve done to
me. As if reading my mind Price now turns round again to run his eyes in my direction. “Have you
lost more weight?” he asks. “Or is your girlfriend buying you too-big shirts again?”

“I told you,” I reply through slightly gritted teeth. “I don’t have a girlfriend. And if anything, I’ve
gained weight. It’s hard not to living here. The food is so good it’s worth a few extra pounds.”

“Better than being on the menu, I suppose,” muses Price, at which point Zeller chokes on his
coffee even more loudly than the first time. “Well, it’s true,” adds Price. “There’s nothing wrong
with a few jokes between comrades. I mean we could all sit here and cry about it if you’d prefer,
but it’s not like it would make the situation any better.”

“But we don’t know what the situation is,” persists Zeller. “That’s part of the problem. No one
knows what he’s going to do next.”

“And is sitting here crying going to help us work that out?”

“No, but…”

It’s clear by now that a full-blow bout of bickering is about to start, so I decide this might be a
good excuse to give into the temptation to just tune them out entirely and resume my aimless
gazing across the office. I tilt my head against the chair then slowly swing it round, trying not to let
my eyes stray towards your photo too obviously, only to swing it round again in time to notice two
of the nearby Italian officers swivel their own heads straight in my direction. It takes me a few
seconds to fully realise they’re doing it, although once I have it’s no time at all to process their
expressions – swiftly followed by the first faint stirrings of genuine alarm. Since yesterday the
looks I’ve gotten have mostly been a blend of pity or concern, but this is frankly and unabashedly
hostile. I stare back defiantly, refusing to feel intimidated, and in the end they’re the ones who look
away first. I now frown slightly then run my own eyes over them a few more times before turning
round again and sharply gesturing towards Price.

“Those two guys right behind me,” I say, deliberately lowering my voice. “Do you know who they
are?”

Price, who appears to be in the middle of a full-fledged rant, promptly closes his mouth and shifts
discreetly in his own seat until he’s able to peer across my shoulder. “Sorry, I can’t remember what
their names are,” he replies. “You’ll have to ask Jack.”

“Right,” I say. An uncomfortable thought is already occurring to me and I drum my fingers against
the desk for a few restless moments before gesturing back towards Price. “Do you know if they’re
with the Polizia Scientifica?”
“They are, yes,” agrees Price. “The di Stato team are in the other office.” He smiles at me good-
humouredly then waggles both eyebrows. “If you bothered coming into work occasionally and
spent less time stabbing yourself with razors and guzzling Italian food then you’d probably know
that already.”

“So they worked with Aronne,” I reply, half to myself.

Price hums with agreement and I just sit there for a few more seconds, silently digesting this as my
hands continues the same restless tapping against the desk. The awareness of what it could mean is
doing nothing to help my sense of foreboding and I now find myself shifting my gaze slightly so I
can look at you again. Your eyes stare down from the whiteboard – piercing and unafraid,
strangely vibrant despite the black and white – and the connection it provides is enough to
immediately restore a much-needed sense of calmness. You might not be here, yet somehow you
are. I can feel you – your presence is everywhere.

Across from me Price now shrugs dismissively then takes another leisurely sip of coffee. “What a
stupid name Polizia Scientifica is,” he says. “No wonder they look so bad tempered. CSI sounds so
much better.”

“I bet they think CSI sounds stupid,” snaps Zeller, who still seems to be nursing some leftover
annoyance from earlier. “Not to mention FBI.”

“What a traitorous statement,” replies Price, pantomiming shock. “J Edgar Hoover would be rolling
in his grave.”

“J Edgar Hoover sucks,” says Zeller irritably. “He was awful. I hope he rolls right out of his grave
– down a hill, over a cliff and into the sea.”

“Honestly Brian,” says Price, “I’ve no idea if that’s a genuine attempt to insult our eminent, and
admittedly awful founder, or if you’re merely making a feeble vacuum-based pun about his name.
Hoover. Sucks…do you get it?” He beams at Zeller and I one after the other while we continue
staring silently with our eyebrows politely raised. “Anyway, now who’s being insensitive?” adds
Price. “Will, are you listening? Tell Brian you don’t appreciate making light of FBI agents rolling
down cliffs and into the sea.”

I make a vague sighing noise then pretend I’m checking my watch before casting another quick
glance towards the two men to see if they’re still looking at me (they are). At least they’re not
doing anything worse, I suppose, although there’s no doubt that even minimal levels of attention
are something I’d be much happier without. A part of me wants to go over and confront them, but
while it’s tempting in the short-term the long-term cost seems far too high. Unnecessary conflict…
the risk of seeming defensive. After all, if they knew anything then they’d have acted on it by now.
Logic tells me it’s nothing, yet my instinct isn’t so sure – and either way it’s a huge relief to glance
back for a third time to see they’ve finally lost interest and have returned to their paperwork again.

Behind me Price and Zeller are still busy squabbling over J Edgar Hoover so I straighten up in my
chair then politely clear my throat to get them to stop. Both of them immediately turn their heads in
unison in a way that makes me think of meerkats and manages to be rather touching while
unintentionally hilarious at the same time.

“Do either of you know when Jack’s due?” I ask. “I was supposed to be meeting him ten minutes
ago.”

“Oh, he’ll be down at some point,” says Price. “Everything here takes far longer than it should
because of the wait for translators. He’ll be glad to see you though. He was getting worried this
morning when you didn’t answer your phone.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I saw him briefly when I arrived.” Despite myself I can’t help
remembering it: how tired he looked and the sad, strained expression around his mouth and eyes.
“He wants me to go over the crime scene photos again.”

“Well, that’ll be nice for you,” says Price wryly. “Although probably quite nice for the rest of us
too. After all, you and Jack are the only people who’ve crossed swords with Hannibal and lived to
tell the tale. Getting both of you together is like having the Avengers assemble.”

By now my tolerance for this kind of thing is wearing perilously thin, and I’m about to open my
mouth to tell him to change the subject when there’s a soft pad of footsteps and Clarice appears by
our desk. Price and Zeller immediately scatter – primed, no doubt, by Price’s continued refusal to
believe that we’re not star-crossed lover in the making – and she smiles at me before gesturing
towards the now-empty chair in what appears to be a silent request to take it.

“Sure,” I say. “Be my guest.”

Clarice nods her thanks then deposits her own stack files before settling down across from me. She
has the same strained, weary look as everyone else, although I can still see a trace of anticipation
there too. She’s excited, I suppose – a hound, catching the scent – and I have a sudden image of
what it must have been like for her during her years of training in America. Sifting through dusty
old files in the archive while researching her paper on the Chesapeake Ripper, or sitting through
lectures in Quantico, knowing it was the same room you and I would once have stood in ourselves.
Re-treading old ground, visiting the scene of the crime…she must have at least thought about it; I
know I would have done it I were her. Surely all of them have thought about it in one form or
another: what it would be like to be the agent who snares The Legend. To be the one who gets their
place in the history books as the person who takes you down for good.

“Happy to see you Will,” she says now. I immediately feel a sense of relief, as an opener like this
at least makes it clear that she isn’t planning to waste my time with commiseration, forced humour,
or poorly concealed panic – and which is pretty much what everyone else has been doing, with the
possible exception of Jack. She’s also not going to labour the point by asking how I am, when
common sense (and possessing a functioning pair of eyes) should already make this fairly obvious.

“Thanks,” is all I reply.

“Strange times,” adds Clarice wryly. “It’s extraordinary how far everything’s shifted in just 24
hours.” She waits to see if I want to respond with anything; and then, when it’s obvious that I
don’t: “You can probably imagine how the trainees have reacted.”

I catch her eye for a few seconds then give a small shrug – not least because I have precisely zero
shits to give about what the trainees think about any of it. “Yeah,” is all I say. “Probably.”

Clarice raises an eyebrow in what I interpret as shorthand for some of the more predictable ones:
most likely shock and a certain sense of fear. “The Italian team too,” she continues. “I think what’s
really stood out to me was how many people said what good luck it was that you were here when it
happened. That you and Mr Crawford are the only ones capable of catching him.” She pauses to
take a sip of coffee, at which point I promptly have an image of what your response would be to
hearing Jack described as capable of catching you and need to take a sip of my own to disguise the
smile that’s threatening to creep onto my face. At the same time Clarice replaces her cup on the
desk then adds in a thoughtful voice: “Although I guess you might think that good luck is relative.”

Immediately I glance up at her. Considering the perception she’s already shown regarding the two
of us I’m fully prepared for what’s coming next, and sure enough she now gives me a sympathetic
look and adds: “To say it’s fate isn’t all that more meaningful than luck, but somehow it feels more
apt.”

I sigh rather heavily the briefly catch her eye again. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “You can say what you
mean – you’re not going to offend me. And as it happens, I agree: there’s no way this is a
coincidence. Hannibal didn’t come back now despite me and Jack being here, but because of it.”

I’m deliberately pairing Jack and I together now, although I know I wouldn’t blame her if she
didn’t buy it. After all, as far as she’s concerned you could have staged a comeback anytime you
liked while Jack was still in America: the fact you only appeared when I finally emerge from
retirement is a clear sign that it’s me you’re really after. Fortunately, she’s also too tactful to labour
this particular point – which at least spares me another of those probing conversations where she
gets a little closer to the truth about our past relationship than I’m ever entirely comfortable with.
With any luck she’ll think I’m in denial; clinging onto Jack like some kind of security blanket to
stave off the truth that our gruesome danse macabre is poised to begin all over again with a shower
of blood and bone.

Another pause now follows while Clarice sips her coffee, and in the resulting silence I find it
impossible to stop my mind from straying back to you again and imagining what you’d say if you
could hear all this. I wonder what you’re doing right now while I sit here and talk about you?
You’ve probably already got the ingredients for tonight’s meal so are almost certainly back in the
hotel, prowling around then glancing at your watch as you wait for me to return. Well, no, you
won’t be prowling exactly – it’s rare for you to show impatience in such an obvious way. You’re
more likely to be sat in a chair with your long legs stretched out in front of you, nose buried in an
obscure book or possibly sketching something strange and beautiful with your scalpel-sharpened
pencil. Your ability to retreat into yourself means you don’t experience boredom the same as most
people do, yet I still don’t like to think of you this way. All this confinement isn’t good for you. In
fact it’s yet another reason to start over someplace else as soon as we can, because seeing you
trapped indoors for long periods of time is like watching an exotic animal confined to a cage. It’s
not right; you should be roaming free. I noticed this morning that your suntan is already starting to
fade…

“Will?” says Clarice.

I blink a few times then glance up at her again. “Sorry,” I say. “I was miles away.” Although I
suppose I really am miles away from her by now, aren’t I? Miles and miles. Away from her and
from all of them; every single person in this room.

“Yeah, I figured,” says Clarice matter-of-factly. “Look, I’m sorry to intrude Will – you must have
had this same conversation a hundred times already. I guess it’s the last thing you want to think
about.”

“I’m always thinking about it,” I say, before realising that this is straying into the type of vague,
self-pitying bullshit that makes me feel embarrassed on behalf of the version of myself I’m
supposedly saying it for. It’s like I should be playing the world’s tiniest violin. “It’s fine,” I add in
a firmer voice. “I don’t mind you asking. I know you’ve always been interested in him.”

“Well, to be honest, I probably shouldn’t be,” replies Clarice. “So that’s another reason to change
the subject. I’m not even part of the investigation.”

“Oh?” I say, ultra-casual. “So you’re not involved in…”

“…the search for Dr Lecter?” concludes Clarice. “No, I’m not. At least not formally.” She pauses
then straightens the stack of files again before adding with simple pride: “Mr Crawford moved me
to the taskforce for the copycat killer. I’ll be the nominal lead investigator.”

“That’s excellent,” I say after a tiny pause. “Congratulations.”

Clarice catches my eye then gives another smile, soft yet sincere. “Thank you Will. I know I
couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Oh come on,” I protest. “That’s not true at all.”

“No, it is,” replies Clarice with quiet earnestness. “You took me seriously – it made more of a
difference than you know. And you helped me develop my ideas. If I ever do get justice for Mr
Alessandri, then it’ll be because of you.”

The gruesome irony of this statement is so extreme that for a few awful seconds I almost feel like I
could laugh. Justice for Matteo…Christ. “Let me know if you need anything,” is all I reply.

As soon as I’ve said it I can feel myself wincing. I feel like the biggest bastard alive for being so
deceitful with her, although it’s not entirely my fault…not really. What else can I do? Mainly I
think I’m just feeling guilty that she’s been assigned to a task which is destined to fail, although
there’s no doubt that behind that is also a lingering sense of paranoia – remote, yet still real – that
she could discover the truth about what happened to him. Of course, your solution to this would be
obvious (also violent and permanent) but that’s a line I won’t even consider crossing – and in its
absence, there isn’t really anything else I can do to stop her. I won’t be around long enough, I
eventually tell myself: firm and determined, like I can convince myself that I truly believe it. By
the time that ever happened we’d be long gone.

“It’s a big achievement,” I add, trying to sound a bit more upbeat. “You must be one of the
youngest investigators ever to have been put in that position. Especially as a trainee.”

“Well, I’m not the actual lead,” says Clarice modestly. “I still have to report back to Mr Crawford.
And anyway, weren’t you even younger when you solved that Washington County case?”.

“I don’t know,” I say, reverting to vague mode again without even meaning to. “Was I?”

Clarice smiles at me. It’s fond – and rather amused – and promptly confirms that my ability to turn
into FBI Dad has not gone entirely unnoticed. “Mr Crawford says you were.”

I want to tell her that Jack’s always infantilized me (and thinks I’m a teacup), but it feels too
disloyal to start bitching about him to one of his own trainees so in the end I don’t. “I’m not sure
about that,” I say instead. “He may have gotten the dates wrong. But even if not, I’d already been
working in law enforcement by the time I joined the FBI. What you’ve achieved is remarkable.”

Clarice smiles again, clearly touched by the praise, and as I watch l find myself flashing back to the
first time we met and the curious blend of respect and protectiveness she managed to stir up in me.
For a while the desire was to protect her from you, but what I now realise more than ever is that I
really want to protect her from myself – and the crushing, debilitating sense of betrayal she’ll
surely feel when the truth eventually comes out. What was it you said again? I want Jack to know,
Will. Do you understand? I want him to know which side you’ve chosen. Price, Jack, Zeller,
Clarice…all of them have to know. Because I have chosen: and when the moment comes to
publicly pick a side, I know I’ll choose you. I’m not even sure of the exact moment the shift finally
happened. All I know is that at some point this current sense of calm acceptance replaced the
previous fear and doubt and confirmed that the world needs to know about us – for no better reason
than that’s just the way it has to be. Nothing matters now as much as you do. Nothing.
In the corner of my vision I can see that the detectives have begun to stare at me again. They’re
very casual in the way they do it – just gazing, really, with a slow, sidewards eye – but by now it’s
almost impossible not to interpret it as a challenge and without even fully meaning to I feel myself
reaching up with brisk, restless fingers to tug the edge of the band aid until it finally comes off.
From the angle I’ve been slouching in Clarice won’t have noticed it before now, but I know when I
turn around to fully face her that she will. Almost trance-like I now shift round in my seat, and of
course her gaze goes straight to the bruise in all its livid glory. She’s too polite to comment on it
uninvited, but from the way she quickly averts her eyes again it’s obvious she’s spotted what it is.
Even now it’s not too late to back out, but somehow I’m past that point by now. It’s the sense of
inevitability; a private, vaguely pointless process of committing myself for what I know is lying
ahead.

“I’ll have to get going soon,” I say, very quiet but firm. “Robert’s here. It was a surprise visit, but a
short one, and I don’t want to leave him by himself any longer than I have to.”

From her expression I can already tell she has a million questions – what did he say when he heard?
Is he concerned for my safety? Am I for his? – but fortunately I’m not the type of personality that
invites this sort of close confiding and so naturally she doesn’t ask. I suppose she doesn’t really
need to. In her mind Robert is a nice, normal, unassuming artist; the type of person who comes to
Florence and potters round the museums, guidebook clutched in hand, then posts earnest photos on
Instagram straight afterwards describing what he’s seen. He’s average and ordinary. He’s not you.
Of course Robert is horrified by what’s happened; how could he be anything else?

“I hope you have a nice evening together,” Clarice now says. “Anything special planned?”

“Dinner, maybe. It depends.”

Clarice waits a few seconds to see if I’m planning to specify what, exactly, it depends on; and then,
when I don’t: “I know the situation isn’t ideal, but I hope he’s still able to enjoy his time here. It’s
such a beautiful city. And I’m glad you’ve got a distraction.” I nod rather vaguely and she seems to
check herself before quickly adding: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. Obviously he’s far more
than a distraction.”

“It’s fine I reply. I understand what you meant. And you’re right – he is.”

Clarice smiles, obviously appreciative that I’m not going to take offence. This consideration is very
typical of trainees, and I don’t really have the heart to tell her that in a year or two she’ll be
dismissing other agents’ parents, spouses and even children in similarly categorical terms without a
second thought. “Please give him my regards,” she says. “I hope his art’s going well. And, in better
circumstances, that I might be able to meet him some day.” She pauses then gives me another
smile. “It would be nice to put a face to the name.”

“Yes,” I reply in the same quiet voice. “Yes…maybe one day you might be able to do that.”

Clarice smiles again then lowers her head to begin collecting her belongings together in preparation
to lead. “Anyway, I’m sorry I disturbed you,” she says. “I just wanted to see how you were. And to
say…well…” I glance back up at her and she hesitates then clears her throat in a display of
discomfort that’s rather unusual. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn,” she adds. “I know this
probably sounds presumptuous, but after what you told me yesterday, well…I just wanted to say
that if you still feel you’d prefer to leave, then I hope you do. And that I think you should. You’ve
already given so much Will. The things you’ve achieved: the lives you’ve saved. No one would
blame you if you felt that this was the time to finally walk away.”

For a few moments I simply stare at her in silence, intensely and unexpectedly moved at the
 meaning of her words. There’s a certain sense of confusion in it too, because while the emotion
she’s stirred in me is genuine the exact nature of it is more difficult to define. It hasn’t made me
feel regret for the choices I’ve made; I’ve gone too far now for that. Sadness would be overstating
it too, as your presence is too great a source of comfort to ever allow real grief to take over.
Perhaps it’s more like a sense of loss? The idea of what might have been? Somehow that feels
closer to the mark: the paradox that while I can’t feel real sadness or regret for the exposure that’s
in store, I know I can’t find true relief in it either.

From across the desk I can see Clarice still smiling gently at me, still showing liking and approval
– still thinking I’m a good person. And I want to ask her to remain that way, to not let go of me,
even though I know it’s impossible. Remember me how I am now, I want to say. Please. Don’t
forget me. Whatever happens afterwards…just remember this.

Chapter End Notes

Next update ETA: March 6th

 Chapter 40
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

It’s getting dark by the time I reach the hotel and the first thing I hear before I’ve even opened the
door is the strain of piano music drifting through the lobby. This isn’t necessarily surprising: I’d
already noticed a glossy medium grand when we were checking in (black and shiny as an olive
and, like everything else in this place, manicured to within an inch of its life) although it admittedly
seems an odd choice of venue for hiring a musician when both the bar and restaurant are available.
After that my next thought is how much you’d enjoy hearing it too, because even to my
inexperienced ear the pianist seems extremely competent – and is playing one of your favourite
Bach preludes – which makes me wonder if there might be a discreet way to smuggle you
downstairs to listen. I even get so far as to start scanning the lobby for a suitably inconspicuous
chair to put you in, only to finally cast my eyes to the piano and promptly do a double take as I
realise that not only are you down here already…you’re actually the one who’s playing it.

“Oh my fucking God,” I mutter under my breath. Then I say it again (and then once more for good
measure) before realising I’ve now exhausted all my ideas for how to respond so have to simply
stand there by one of the pillars instead, trying (and failing) to understand what the hell possessed
you to do something so insanely risky. A part of me wants to seize you by both shoulders and
bundle you away somewhere secret and safe, but I know it only would make things worse by
attracting unnecessary attention (not to mention being totally pointless, because it’s not like you’d
ever agree to go). I suppose you must have guessed I’d be back by now to see this, but I don’t even
think you’re doing it to get a rise out of me. I don’t think I’ve really got anything to do with it at
all: you’d behave like this whether I was here or not. The reason you’re here is because you can’t
not be provocative – and the fact that anyone else in the same position would be finding the
smallest darkest corner to hide in means that you, in contrast, need to make yourself as visible and
spectacular as possible. After all, who else would pose as the curator of a world-famous library
while simultaneously being one of the most hunted people alive? Who else but you? It’s a way of
belittling Jack’s influence while showcasing how uniquely relentless your own is – and just like
you did it before, you’ll almost certainly do it again.

Just as I’m thinking this you raise your head to spot me and promptly launch into Mozart’s Rondo
Alla Turka (deliberately skipping ahead to the final section, because you know how much I like it
when the whole thing goes crazy and your hands have to practically run off the keyboard to cover
the notes in the crescendo). I can see you smiling now. It’s very understated – probably too faint
for most people to notice – but there’s no doubt it’s still there. As I edge up a little closer I can also
see that you haven’t shaved and are wearing the clear-lensed glasses I got you in America, as well
as a shirt I’ve never seen before which isn’t as tailored as your usual ones and makes you look you
look less muscular than you really are. I think you might have applied some sort of make-up too
because your cheekbones are so pronounced it gives an illusion of gauntness, like someone who’s
recovering from a recent illness. Otherwise you haven’t made any attempts to disguise yourself, yet
the overall effect is still surprisingly effective for something so subtle. Grudgingly I’m forced to
admit that you’ve done a good job; you’ve probably added about 10 years to your appearance with
what seems like extremely minimal effort. There’s also no denying that you look very similar to
how I do myself – namely wan and hollow-eyed from too much sex and not enough sleep – but
then of course, being you, are so aloof and glamourous that you’re still somehow managing to
make everyone around you seem like absolute peasants in comparison.

As the Mozart piece draws to a close you finally take your hands off the keyboard then stretch
your fingers out in front of you, very lithe and supple like a cat flexing its paws. The small crowd
that’s gathered round the piano promptly breaks into applause, so you acknowledge them with a
gracious nod of your head before slowly swivelling round to stare straight in my direction. It’s an
obvious invitation to come over and join the rest of your admirers in telling you how marvellous
you are, but I’m still feeling too annoyed for that so just fold my arms instead and give you my best
‘Oh, you have so done it now’ expression. At the sight of it your smile begins to broaden slightly,
so I’m just getting ready to scowl at you again when one of the admirers leans over to put his hand
on your shoulder – and which means I now have absolutely no choice except to pick up my
metaphorical caveman club and go striding across the lobby to take him out with it. Normally you
go berserk when people touch you without permission but this time you’re doing absolutely
nothing to discourage it – almost certainly because you want to provoke a reaction exactly like this
one (and which I am now stupidly reinforcing by leaping across the marble tiles like a goddamn
Neanderthal on murder steroids just so I can fight off the competition before dragging you back to
my cave).

The man himself is probably about your age – your real age that is, as opposed to the glasses-
wearing, concealer-applying fake version – and he now turns to stare at me with his eyebrows
raised as if to declare ‘who on God’s green earth is this cantankerous little shit?’ He has the type of
cologne that smells of dollar bills, the type of suit that was clearly hand-made for him, and the type
of smug, self-satisfied expression that I would cheerfully punch right off his face if I thought I
could possibly get away with it. Seeing, however, that I clearly can’t get away it, I have to content
myself with simply barging my way in front of him until he’s forced to take his hand off you and
take a step backwards. I give a small Neanderthal grunt of satisfaction then proceed to ignore
completely him so I can turn round to face you instead. I can already tell how much you’re
enjoying yourself: by this point your smile has grown so broad it’s practically turned in on itself
like it’s savouring some private joke. Of course, as far as your transgressions go, a bout of public
piano playing is incredibly tame (almost ludicrously so). But then your opportunities to flaunt the
rules are also far more limited than they used to be, which makes it inevitable you’ll want to take
your sources of rule-breaking satisfaction wherever you’re able to find them.

As I watch you now run your eyes across my face in a way that makes it very clear that my ‘what
the actual fuck’ expression is having precisely zero effect on you (and your advice is to stop
wasting my time with a Resting Bitch Face and go back to my normal one instead). “Je suis
heureux de vous voir,” you say cheerfully. “Tu es là tôt.”

For a few seconds I just stand there, blinking rather stupidly as I’m forced to concede that my shitty
high school French is nowhere near good enough to respond to this in any sort of meaningful way.
“D’accord,” I eventually reply. There’s a long and excruciatingly awkward pause: you politely
raise your eyebrows as if awaiting clarification. “J’aime ton piano.”

It now occurs to me, far too late, that all I’ve succeeded in doing is informing you that ‘I like your
piano’ (and that your response to this seems fairly similar to my own, seeing how you look as if
you’re struggling not to laugh). “Pardon,” you say instead, before adding in heavily accented
English: “I did not expect you so soon. I have the documents you asked for, but I must return to my
room first to get them.”

“Bon,” I say with poorly concealed sarcasm. Even so, I’m still glad you’ve done this. Your normal
voice is so distinctive that any attempts to disguise it are always a source of relief, and I know
you’re only doing it for my benefit. The extra layer of concealment might be sensible, but from
your point of view that also makes it tedious, which makes it hard to imagine you’d have ever
bothered taking the trouble if you’d been by yourself.

The man, who seems like he can’t quite stand it anymore, now makes a restless shuffling sound
behind me before craning across my shoulder in what’s a pathetically obvious ploy to get your
attention. In fact it’s so pathetic I feel a bit embarrassed for him (and which is really saying
something, because as a person who once stood on a rooftop in their underwear my threshold for
public mortification is actually freakishly high).

“Monsieur!” he now pipes up – at which point I immediately stop feeling bad for him and go back
to hating him again instead. “Tu es un merveilleux musician.”

His own accent is strong enough to indicate he’s not a native speaker, although my resentment still
redoubles anyway on the basis that the smug bastard is able to flirt with you in French far more
effectively than I can. Then I half want to ask you, or him (either would do, really) what the French
is for ‘kindly fuck off’ before deciding that the desire to avoid a scene is much stronger and just
putting my own hand on your arm instead.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” I say sharply. “Please can you get them now?”

I sound so much like Jack I’m half-expecting you to ignore me, but to my surprise you just dip your
head in agreement then follow across the lobby without any signs of complaint (and which makes
me realise ordering you about is actually extremely entertaining and that I should probably do it
more often). Behind us another guest has quickly taken advantage of your absence to dive onto the
piano stool and after a small pause begins pounding his way through Für Elise. Virtually
everything about it is awful and you stiffen slightly then swivel your head towards him, eyes
narrowed into little glinting slits of disapproval.

“Oh Jesus,” I hiss. “Don’t you dare.” I’ve actually got my finger looped into your belt now; it’s a
bit like having you on a lead (or possibly a set of toddler reins). “You’re not in Baltimore
anymore,” I add through gritted teeth. “Just let him massacre the music in peace.”

This makes you roll your eyes around a bit, although in a rare show of compliance you still allow
yourself to be guided towards the elevator (wincing the entire time at each wrong note). “Poor
Beethoven,” you say lightly. “I hope they did not restore his hearing in heaven.”

“God, you’re unbelievable,” I snap. “It’s like you actually want another punch in the face.” This
time you just start smirking to yourself, so I sigh again then give your hand a small nudge with
mine. “Don’t tell me,” I add. “Hiding in plain sight?”

“But I am not even hiding,” you reply in your usual calm way. “As of yet, no one here is looking
for me.”

“They will be,” I say grimly. “It can’t be long now. In a few days’ time you’re going to be all over
the news.”

“Y-e-s,” you agree in the same calm voice. “And no one will connect that person with the one they
saw playing the piano in an expensive hotel. People only ever perceive what they wish to; I
discovered that the last time I was here. Their biases and misconceptions are always extremely
convenient.”

I’m just opening my mouth to tell you that this taking a hell of a lot for granted, but before I can
manage it a cluster of other guests join the wait for the elevator and I’m forced to bite back the
response I want to make. Instead I just frown to myself then fold and re-fold my arms again,
struggling to decide if I most want to hug you or punch you (or possibly a weird combination of the
two).

“That Beethoven piece has a rather mournful history,” you now say, quickly reverting to the same
French accent as before. “It was composed for Therese Malfatti, but the transcriber misread his
handwriting and it’s been misspelled as ‘Elise’ ever since. She was a pupil of his with whom he fell
in love. Not being the most gifted of performers, it begins in a very simple manner that anyone
could play.” You pause then shoot another malevolent glance towards the piano. “Almost anyone.
However, she not only refused his advances, but soon after married another man. Heartbroken,
Beethoven allegedly made the remainder of the piece so difficult that she would never be able to
master it.”

“Damn, that’s some epic pettiness right there,” I say. “I stan.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It means ‘I approve’,” I say. “Which I do. I am an admirer of petty vengeance in all its forms.”

You smile at this, then when the elevator comes deliberately position yourself behind me so you
can slide your fingertips beneath the back of my shirt without anyone being able to see. “Beethoven
is a transitional figure between the Classical and Romantic periods,” you add. “Yet he was also a
romantic in the truest sense of the word. He wrote very beautiful letters to his lover: Mein engel,
mein alles, mein eigenes selbst…mein Unsterbliche Geliebte.”

Your tone is very brisk and business-like – an academic, eager to share a quaint piece of historical
curiosity – but beneath my shirt the pressure of your fingers has already increased. I give a small
sigh then lean contently into the touch. “What does that mean?” I ask.

“My angel,” you say softly. “My all, my own self…my Immortal Beloved.”

“Nice,” I reply (and which is also incredibly inadequate, although given the setting I’m not really
sure what else I can say). “Your accent is excellent,” I add. “I didn’t know you could speak
German.”

“I can’t. I am still in the process of learning.” Briefly you stroke my waist again then lower your
voice so much that I have to lean in closer to hear. “What did you think I have been doing with
myself all day while you were running errands for your Uncle Jack?”

“Admittedly not that,” I say dryly. “I seem to be constantly discovering new things you do when
I’m not there.”

“Well, they are mostly unremarkable,” you reply, although there’s an obvious smile in your voice.
“I would perhaps do better to let you imagine them on my behalf. You are likely to inject them
with a certain flair and intrigue which the reality itself is sadly lacking in.”

“No,” I say. “I already do enough to polish your ego.”

“By which you mean I should just tell you?” you ask with obvious amusement. “Very well then:
today I finished a new sketch of the Duomo, reviewed some of my financial documents, then
visited the Sant’Ambrosio to purchase ingredients for tonight’s meal. See? All very simple and
dull.”

“And played the piano,” I say pointedly.

“Oh yes,” you reply. “That too.”

I try (and fail) not to smile then give your foot a nudge with mine. “You were incredible, by the
way,” I add. “You seem to get better all the time. You could have been accompanying an orchestra
with that Bach piece.”
Behind me I feel the faint rustle of your face against my hair. “I am very gratified that you think so.
But I’m afraid I am nowhere near good enough for concert standards.”

“You are to me,” I say simply.

You make a pleased sound then stoke your hand beneath my shirt again. “When I was living in
France my aunt made me practice constantly,” you reply. “My younger self resented it, but in
hindsight I am grateful. Little did I know as I toiled away with flat fingering and supination that it
would become so useful later for keeping you happy.”

This time I just twine my own hand behind my back to brush my fingers against yours, and we end
up standing like that in companionable silence until the bell goes for our floor and we’re finally
forced to let go of each other and straighten up again. Once we’re back in the suite I take hold of
your shoulders with both hands and make you stand in front of me so I can inspect you from several
angles to admire the contouring job you’ve done on your cheekbones (before getting an image of
you watching YouTube tutorials to learn how to do it and having to subdue a sudden urge to
cackle). Eventually I reach out instead and give your shirt collar an affectionate tug.

“Look at you,” I say. “You could be a math professor.”

“Which was precisely my intention,” you reply with typical smugness. “The goal was to look as
unremarkable as possible.”

“What, that’s it? You’re not going to apologise or anything?” Your sole response is one of your
trademark smirks, so I sigh to myself then lightly flip your glasses with the tip of my finger. “What
am I saying? Of course you’re not.”

As I watch your features begin arranging themselves into one of your more inscrutable, Sphinx-like
expressions. It’s obvious you have exactly zero number of shits to give about this, and I think it’s
one of the few things about you that I still find jarring; just your total inability to feel shame. I also
know if Jack was here then he’d refer to it as a sign of psychopathy or pathology, and yet I
honestly don’t see it that way. In fact, I think I mostly envy it as much as anything else. It’s just
another sign of what’s so special and uniquely you.

“I apologise for any concern I caused you,” you now reply in a more serious voice. “But I cannot
apologise for the act itself because it has brought no consequences – and thus there is nothing to
apologise for.”

“Yes, that’s true,” I say patiently. “But I’d still rather you didn’t. It’s such an unnecessary risk.”

This time you just smile at me. It’s one of your genuine ones which reaches your eyes and lacks
any of the usual layers of amusement or cynicism. “Noted,” is all you say.

You sound very sincere, and it’s tempting to interpret this as a sign you won’t be pulling any
similar stunts in the future – but deep down, I know that it’s not. Tomorrow you could just as easily
be in the lobby again, or in the street, or even at the police station. Hell, you could even turn up in
Jack’s office…anything for the game. If I’m honest with myself, I feel like there are no real limits
as to what you might do. But then I also understood that when I took you on, which means trying to
force you out of it is yet another example of something I promised myself I’d stop doing. It’s
ironic, really. I get so resentful of your constant attempts to control me, yet moments like this
always force me to admit how equally entitled I often feel in trying to change your own behaviour.

“I’m starving,” is all I finally say. “Can we eat now?”

This is an obvious attempt to change the subject, but also a form of absolution: that I’m not happy
with what you’ve done yet am prepared to accept it anyway. This, in turn, is because I’m growing
more prepared than I’ve possibly ever been to accept you – from your sharpest edges to most lurid
hues – and I think you’re able to interpret it this way, because your whole expression now
immediately starts to soften.

“Of course,” you reply. “Do you want to do it with me or are you too tired?”

“No, I’ll help,” I say. “I’d like to.”

Your smile, if possible, broadens even further and we eventually end up side-by-side at the counter
in comfortable silence, me crushing garlic and dill for the aubergine puree while you expertly slice
the cutlets into delicate little wedges before anointing them with oil and salt. You don’t specify
exactly what the meat is, and as usual I don’t attempt to ask; instead simply consuming it without
comment then taking your hand straight afterwards to tell you how incredible it is. It’s so easy to
do it too (almost frighteningly so) and makes me realise that in a way I might almost miss him –
that part of me who still had the capacity to care. The part who knew the bland white butcher’s
paper could mean absolutely anything and who was willing to assume the worst. The part who was
moral. The part who was good. It’s disturbing how simple it’s become to disregard it, but I know
it’s gone now; that part of me which once was. I hurled it away from me. I flung it off a cliff. It’s at
the bottom of the ocean now, and there’s nothing that exists which is powerful enough to dredge it
up again.

Thoughts like these would once have troubled me, but by now it’s getting increasingly painless to
simply notice that they’re there, inspect them for a few moments, then return them to their dark
hiding place before calmly moving on. You’re here, after all, and it’s far more restful to focus on
you instead: the source of both the sickness and its cure. You look so striking in the low lamplight
– staring intently into the distance, the shadows softening your bone structure and making your
eyes gleam – although when you catch me staring at you your expression immediately starts to
relax again as you reach across to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

“It seems as if you’ve been away from me for weeks,” you say. “It has been the most tedious
afternoon imaginable without you. Frustrating too, given the cause.” You pause for a few seconds
then deliberately catch my eye. “I am very reluctant to see you spending time alone with Jack
Crawford.”

“Trust me,” I say with a small smile. “You made that kind of obvious.” In fact you’re still showing
it, seeing how the only thing stronger than my insistence on having a shower now that I’m back has
been your utter refusal to let me. I like it when you have my smell on you, you’d said after dragging
me onto the sofa for a third time, so it looks increasingly likely I’ll just have to put up with it until
we finally go to bed and can have one together. I feel pretty gross if I’m honest, although I can’t
really bring myself to care too much – not least because you clearly don’t care either. I’ll never be
an object of disgust to you, will I? By this point it seems there’s virtually nothing I could do that
would manage to repel you.

“Well, fortunately you are back again,” you now reply with another smile of your own. “So – how
was your day? I assume you’re neglecting to mention it on purpose, but you know you can tell me
if you wish to.”

Until recently you’d have been demanding details the second I walked through the door, and it’s
now impossible not to notice and appreciate this newfound show of restraint. It’s like both of us are
working harder to take care of each other, isn’t it? Working harder by actively doing less. You
controlling me less, me judging you less…it’s good. I hope we can keep it up. Then I just give a
small shrug and take another sip of the wine. It’s a little coarser than the type you usually buy
although still delicious: rich and earthy with a slightly spicy tang.

“It was hard,” I eventually reply. “Really hard.”

“In what way?”

“In unexpected ways.”

Another pause now follows as I fall silent again, sifting through the day’s various tableaus as I try
to decide what to say next. To be honest, I’m quite tempted to describe the reaction of the
detectives, although beyond a few stares there doesn’t really seem to be anything much to tell. Plus
there’s a real risk you’d want to go after them, which means I’d then have to spend the next hour
attempting to talk you out of it while brooding over all the unhelpful complications it would cause
if you ever did. Having avoided one potential pitfall, I then perversely decide I’m going to choose
an answer that’s more emotionally honest instead – and therefore far, far harder to talk about. In
preparation I put my wineglass down then reflexively reach round to rub a patch on my shoulder
which is tense and tender and seems to have been shrieking in protest all day.

Immediately you lean forwards yourself. “Your back hurts?”

“A bit.”

“Show me,” you say.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not injured. Just sore.” You continue to stare in silence, obviously waiting, and I
smile slightly then obediently start unfastening my shirt. In deference to the fact it’s yours I don’t
crumple it aside like I normally would, instead folding it into a neat little pile before letting you
reposition me until you’re sat directly behind and are able to smooth your palm across my shoulder
blades.

“So, yeah…” I add as you start to rub. “It was tough.”

“How?”

“Because I felt conflicted the entire time.”

As I’m speaking your thumb digs into a particularly tight knot of muscle; I wince then catch my lip
between my teeth. You make a soothing noise in response, your palms shifting downward as you
carefully reduce the pressure. “Tell me why,” you ask.

“Because for the first time it really hit me that they’re going to find out.” I give a small sigh then
reach across my shoulder so I can stroke your wrist. “I meant what I said this morning: I understand
why it’s so important to you that they know. But it’s hard, Hannibal. So much has changed in me,
but not everything. I can’t let go of it all as easily as you’d like me to.”

For a few moments your hands go completely still before you lean forwards to place a silent kiss
on the back of my neck. Admittedly it’s not like I expected you to be angry, yet somehow this
willingness to accept how torn I am still surprises me – even though I know it probably shouldn’t.
In fact, if I’m honest, it makes me feel faintly ashamed of myself: yet another example of how
quick I often am to assume the worst of you. After all, you’ve always had a capacity in you to be
caring. It’s one of the many reasons I can never think of you as a psychopath, because your ability
to empathise and respond to distress might be limited but it’s still undoubtedly there.

As your hands resume their slow slide across my shoulders I now briefly close my eyes, beset by a
sudden memory from our old lives and a crime scene so upsetting I’d been forced to make some
vague excuse to Jack before staggering away behind a tree to throw up. I’d just been slumped
there, fighting a powerful urge to cry, when you’d silently appeared behind me and offered one of
your pristine silk handkerchiefs so I could wipe my face. I remember not knowing what the hell to
do with it afterwards and eventually just crumpling it into my pocket while you reached over to
wordlessly smooth my hair out of my eyes, your sharp features softened with genuine sympathy. I
never mentioned it afterwards and neither did you, yet somehow the memory of how gentle you
were has never fully faded. That was a part of yourself you didn’t always have much patience for,
wasn’t it? My compassion for you is inconvenient...I remember you saying that once. And yet
you’ve still worked so hard over the past year to accept it and know it better. I suppose it all forms
another stage in our ongoing struggle to be closer to each other and is somehow far easier to
recognise in hindsight than it ever was while it was happening. Because it is happening, isn’t it?
You cultivating your unwanted aspects while I work harder to sever mine and push them away…
you becoming more human and me growing less humane. I guess that was also another thing you
predicted; you said as much not long after we first slept together. There is never only one of
anyone, you told me, and you were right. All these different fragments of us, of you and me…all
these shreds and patches. One day the mosaic will be finished, though. I fully believe that now.
One by one the pieces will slot into place, and it will be our masterwork. Our final and most
beautiful creation.

I now shuffle round rather awkwardly to I can smile at you. I want to tell you about it: look what
we made. “I missed you today,” I say instead. “It’s stupid, I know. I was so glad you weren’t there.
That you were here instead. That you were safe. But at the same time…I still wanted you.”

Normally even a hint that Jack could pose a legitimate threat to you is guaranteed to make you
sneer, but this time I can tell you’re making a visible effort not to. Eventually you just raise your
hand up then tenderly smooth your thumb along the edge of my jaw. “I understand,” you say. “I
know it’s difficult for you, Will.”

Your tone is much softer than usual. Soothing, almost. I always think of it as your Dr Lecter voice,
although it’s never really clear how consciously done it is. “I know,” I reply. “And I wish I didn’t
care so much.” I sigh again then replace my hand over yours. “It would be so much easier if I
didn’t care.”

“Yet you do care – and therefore it is hard.”

“A part of me wants them to them to know,” I add quietly. “I can recognise that now. But it’s not
the whole of me.”

“Not the whole…” you repeat in a thoughtful voice. “Yes, indeed: there’s more than one way to
interpret that statement, isn’t there? On one hand, it’s not the entirety of you who wants them to
know. You still have reservations about it. Doubts. You are conflicted – a part of you wants it, and
a part of you does not. And yet it is also not the whole of you who is waiting to be discovered by
them.”

I smile rather wanly at this, grateful to have you understand so clearly without me needing to
explain. “Von Goethe has a summary for it,” you continue in the same thoughtful way. “‘Two
souls, alas, are dwelling in my breast, and one is striving to forsake its brother.’” There’s another
pause as I feel your hand trail downwards to stroke across my throat. “I’m afraid it’s the same
dilemma you’ve always had, Will. Perhaps slightly different in its form, yet the substance remains
the same.”

I digest this silently for a few moments, decide that I agree with it, then glance up again so I can
catch your eye. “How did it feel for you?” I add. “Knowing that the truth was about to come out?”

In a way this is a pointless thing to ask – after all, it’s not as if I can’t guess – but somehow I want
to hear you describe it in your own words. “Very different than how it feels for you I would
imagine,” you reply. Your tone is still soft and considered; despite the obviousness of the question,
it’s clear you still intend to take it seriously. “But in my case the separation of identities was also
much more defined.” You pause again then give me one of your more feline smiles. “I was always
describing your inherent contradictions to you, wasn’t I, and you never wanted to listen. Yet you
know duality can thrive whether it’s acknowledged or not. It always has and always does – just as
butterflies have the daylight hours and moths hunt by moonlight.”

The level of calmness as you say this is striking and reveals a degree of self-acceptance and
awareness about your own dishonesty that’s almost impossible not to envy. Although I suppose
you’ve never experienced that same sense of eerie displacement as I do, have you? Those twin
versions of yourself shouldn’t feasibly have been able to coexist and share the same body, yet they
not only achieved it but actively excelled at doing so, all the while deriving a deep satisfaction in
the deception at the expense of everyone around you – including me. Especially me. Yet you never
cared and never once really doubted yourself; so eloquent and plausible in your competing
principles there was almost a kind of artistry in it. A laureate of a double life.

There’s so much more I’d like to ask you about this – not to mention revisiting our discussion from
last night – but too much emotional honesty always leaves me raw and I’m not sure I’ve got the
energy for any more of it. Even so, I’m still glad I told you. Until recently I’d have probably kept it
to myself, yet I know by now that this kind of introspection is good for me. Just as importantly
though, it’s also good for us. My façade of control during the last few months felt like strength
while I was doing it, but it now seems so brittle and inadequate compared to the courage of
disclosing how I really feel. Your acceptance of it, in turn, is making me feel even closer to you –
even though I can’t help wondering what your own version of this process is going to be when you
finally decide to show it. After all, you said that you would and I believe you were telling me the
truth. The result of my own metamorphosis seems to have been discussed between us for so many
years, yet it seems it won’t ever hold the same fascination to me as yours does.

“You know, you were right what you told me before,” I say quietly. “Vulnerability can be a source
of strength. I’m glad you didn’t give up on trying to make me realise it.”

This time you don’t reply immediately. I think you’re quite moved – and which of course means
I’ve got almost no option except to take refuge in my usual shitty defensiveness and immediately
try to change the subject. It’s like I can only ever get so far before needing to retreat again,
although surely the fact I’m willing to try is some sort of progress? God though, emotion is hard. It
must be so much easier to be you, who hardly ever seems to have any. Then I feel promptly feel
ashamed of myself all over again, because I know this is yet another thing that’s not true. That’s
the version of you who’s currently taped to Jack’s whiteboard: the cruel, unfeeling one who
observes and moves about humanity without ever truly being part of it. The real version is the one
who’s sitting here with me now, looking sad because they know I am yet also touched because
they know I trust them enough to confess it. For a few moments I just gaze at you in silence before
putting the wineglass down again so I can lie across the sofa, deliberately resting my head against
your lap because I know how much you like it.

As predicted you give a contented sigh then start to card your fingers through my hair. Any sign of
trusting and feeling comfortable with you always makes you happy; all this time later it’s clear the
novelty still hasn’t fully worn off (even though it probably should because, quite frankly, it makes
me look like a grotesquely overgrown toddler every time I do it). I think it’s because you know I’d
rather remove my own head then rest it on anyone else’s knee, and the fact I’m always prepared to
make an exception for you appears to be an endless source of satisfaction.

“You’re so tired aren’t you?” you say fondly. “You’ve gone completely limp.”

Given your terrible points of comparison I’m half expecting you to tell me I look like a corpse (or,
indeed, a toddler) but fortunately you don’t. “Yeah, I’m exhausted,” I say. “God knows why: I’ve
done nothing all day except sit in a chair.” I yawn very loudly then reach up to give you a playful
dig in the ribs. “You better not have drugged me again.”

“The answer to that is no.”

“Yeah well…” I say sleepily. “You better not have done.”

“I have most assuredly not.”

I lean over and give you another prod. “I’ll kick your ass.”

“Noted,” you say. “At the very least, I am sure you would certainly try.”

I make a subdued snorting noise then roll onto my back so I can look at you directly. “You think I
couldn’t kick your ass, old man?”

“Oh yes,” you say. “I forgot that we’d established how decrepit I am. In that case I concede – and
will permit you to add elder abuse to your ever-growing list of crimes.”

I laugh again then for a few moments simply lie there smiling up at you while you smile back
down, your fingers continuing to run through my hair. Your teeth are slightly stained by the wine;
it’s almost as if you’ve been drinking blood. Considering what I’ve seen your mouth drenched with
over the years the association should probably repel me (really…it probably should). Yet it
doesn’t, and instead my breath begins to quicken as I find myself scrabbling upright again so I can
lean towards you and delicately use my tongue to lick them clean. You make a quiet, contented
noise then smooth your palms along my spine before sliding downwards to take hold of my waist.
It’s obvious how happy you are, and as I finally pull away again I give your forehead an
affectionate nudge with mine.

“You’re a menace,” I say. “The kind of shit you pull…you drive me crazy.”

“And yet here you are still smiling,” you reply. “I don’t mind admitting it, Will – to see you this
dismissive about my unfortunate lapse with the sedative is a source of great relief to me. You were
so angry when it happened; almost despairing. Yet now you are very casual in the way you talk
about it. It is a total change in mood.”

Having concluded you now fall silent and simply stare at me with your eyebrows slightly raised.
“Which means you want to know why?” I ask with another smile.

“Which means I want to know why.”

“Right,” I say. “Which really means that you want your ego stroked some more.” The flippancy is
obvious and I now pause again myself, fully expecting you to smile back, only to find that you
don’t. Not that I really blame you: you can tell I’m using sarcasm to dilute the emotion and this
time have clearly decided you’re not going to let me get away with it. I give a rather weary sigh in
acknowledgment of the strategy then lean further forward to give your forehead another nudge
with mine.

“I guess it brought a certain sense of acceptance,” I finally add. My voice is far more serious now
and I feel you give my skin an approving stroke at the sound of it. “I don’t know, really. It’s hard to
explain. It was as if it forced me to make peace with the fact you haven’t really changed – but that I
knew I still wanted to stay with you anyway. It won’t always be easy, of course; I know it won’t.
But I think it took a crisis like that to make me more committed to start focussing on the future
rather than the past. Although don’t even think about trying to take credit for it,” I add as I see the
beginnings of a smile start to flicker around your mouth. “There’s no way you planned for that on
purpose.” Your smile immediately starts to broaden so I smile back then gently smooth your hair
out of your eyes. “Look at you,” I say. “You’re so beautiful. Why can’t you ever behave as good as
you look?”

“Because you would tire of me within a week,” you reply. “To borrow from Wilde, ‘you will
always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.’”

“So the fact you’re so awful is my fault?”

“At least partially,” you say with another smile. “Although I’m afraid I cannot give you the entire
credit for it. At least some is the fruits of my own labour – the result of many years hard work and
dedication to the craft.”

I finally give into the temptation to laugh then lean forwards again so I can wrap my arms round
your shoulders. There’s a pause, followed by a rustling sound as you turn your head far enough to
press a kiss against my cheek. “Speaking of awfulness,” I say playfully, “you never repaid that
orgasm you owe me.”

“I am extremely aware of it. You must let me know which form you’d prefer your compensation
in.”

“Mmm, I’ll think about it” I reply. “In the meantime though, I’m think I’m going to defer payment.
I’m so tired. Right now, I just want to…hold you.”

You repeat the same contended sigh as before then tighten your grip around my back. “Mylimasis,”
you say softly.

“I do owe you a hickey though,” I add. “You can cash that in now if you like.”

“Oh yes,” you reply. “A love bite.”

“Yes: a love bite. Do you want it or not?”

Instead of answering you just smile again then obligingly tilt your head to one side. It leaves your
throat fully exposed – making you look vulnerable in a way you almost never are – and I quickly
swoop down before you can change your mind to begin sucking a deep bruise against the skin. I’m
much gentler about it than you were earlier, although I think that’s because it feels less frenzied
and passionate as opposed to just…loving. It’s not really all that different to kissing you, and means
it turns out suitably slow and sensuous as I flick my tongue in dainty little swirls before opening
my lips even wider to gradually increase the pressure. I can feel your hands flickering around my
face as I’m doing it – stroking my cheek and jaw, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear – and
when I finally pull away there’s something genuinely touching about how calm and contented you
look. I gaze at you for a few moments then reach up to gently run my finger down your cheek.

“I love you,” I say, very soft and sincere. “You make it very difficult sometimes. You always have.
But I still do – so, so much.”

Until this point your eyes have been closed but as soon as I say this you snap them open again. It’s
not entirely clear what you’re thinking – if you’re angry, offended, or if you understand – but just
like last night, I don’t pull away. Normally any sudden movements are enough to trigger that
hardwired sense of wariness I so often have around you, yet this is now the second time in a row
it’s failed to happen. Instead I just continue sitting there, unafraid and calmly prepared to witness
whatever it is you might be about to show.

“It doesn’t really matter though,” I add in the same quiet voice. “It never mattered. In the end, all it
ever does is make me love you even more.”

As I watch you narrow your eyes slightly, although in a way that indicates thoughtfulness rather
than irritation. At the same time you slowly extend you own hand to cup it around my face,
holding me at a distance as if you want to examine me in suitable depth and detail before making a
reply.

“I have another confession I wish to make,” you finally say. “Which is that I find myself wanting
to keep you safe. It challenges me, Will. In my entire adult life I have never had those kinds of
instincts towards anyone else.”

This makes me give a faint smile. “Your ideas of safety aren’t like anyone else’s.”

“No,” you reply with a smile of your own. “And you yourself are not like anyone else; it is yet
another sign of your uniqueness. You see the conflict I have? Extraordinary times call for
extraordinary measures.”

“I know,” I say slowly. “But you see, it is kind of extraordinary.” You raise your eyebrows and I
shuffle rather awkwardly against your knee, suddenly feeling self-conscious at having given so
much away. “It’s true,” I make myself add in a firmer voice. “From my point of view it is, because
it’s so different from how you were before. I mean I still…”

This time I hesitate. Something about having the scars to prove it – both mental and physical – is
running through my mind, but the sentiment feels too hostile (not to mention melodramatic) for
what I’m really trying to express. “For the first time ever you’re willing to consider what I want,” I
say instead. “And trust me, I know how difficult that is for you. In the past your way of showing
care was entirely about you and what you wanted, but it doesn’t feel like that anymore.” And then,
because I feel you still don’t deserve a total free pass: “At least most of the time.”

“Most of the time,” you repeat gently. “Yet is still gives us something to strive for, doesn’t it – and
I wouldn’t have it any other way. My desire to be close to you has no final goal, Will. It never did.
Instead, it’s a journey. A process. And one that I intend to strengthen and grow throughout the rest
of our lives.”

I swallow then give a small nod, sufficiently moved by both your words and tone that for a
moment it’s a genuine struggle to know how to reply. “Yes,” is all I finally manage to say. “Yes.”

“There will always be new parts of you to discover and learn to know better,” you add in the same
soft voice. “And I hope you will likewise find the same with me. There will never be a plateau for
us, beloved: never a point where one of says ‘this is now entirely adequate, this is as good as it can
possibly be.’ Our relationship will always be complete, yet there will also always be new pieces to
add. It will be an evolving artwork that is never content to remain static and still.”

I blink a few times then open my mouth to blurt out something sincere and intense…only to ruin
whatever reply I was intending to make by breaking into an enormous yawn instead. I can actually
feel myself flushing at how incongruous it is and you let out a burst of laughter – one of the very
rare times you’ll ever do this – before scooping me even tighter in your arms so you can nuzzle
 your cheek against my hair.

“Mylimasis,” you say. “I adore you utterly. From your shrewishness, to your beautiful face, to your
uncanny ability to be constantly tired.”

“Thanks,” I say dolefully.

“No, indeed; you wear your tiredness extremely well. It has a certain glamour to it.”

“It’s okay,” I reply, beginning to smile again. “I know I look like shit. You can tell me.”

“I shall tell you no such thing.”

“Well, in that case I want to tell you something,” I reply, because after that previous declaration it
feels like the very least I can do. “What you asked me before; about why I got tearful when you
were gazing at me. I think being with the others in the office today really helped to clarify it.” You
lean forward questioningly, and I take a deep breath then lean in too until I feel you pressed up
against me and I can finally admit something I know I’ve spent the last few months struggling to
ignore – something that’s been brewing ever since that first, fateful newspaper announcement
which heralded Jack’s arrival.

“It forced me to confront myself,” I say quietly. “The way you were looking at me…there was so
much devotion in it, and it made me realise what sort of person I’ve become to be so loved by
someone like you. It made me realise that it’s time to let go of my old sense of myself. That he was
dead. That you killed him. That he was never coming back.” For a few seconds I hesitate, allowing
the usual feelings of grief and doubt to wash over me before pressing myself even closer, clinging
on until I imagine I can feel your heartbeat pulsing against mine. “But being with Jack and the
others forced me to accept something else,” I add in the same quiet voice. “The contrast was so
stark – I knew I didn’t belong there anymore. I knew I belonged with you. And that’s when I
realised I feel more ready than I’ve ever been to say start saying goodbye to the old version of me
and begin to welcome the new one.”

As you murmur my name very softly I tighten my grip around you then press my cheek against
yours. Your hands continue the same tender stroking up and down my back; it feels so good. So
grounding. Don’t ever let me go.

“It’s because I get to discover it with you,” I add. “And because I’m not so afraid anymore. I’m not
afraid of you, Hannibal. And maybe, for the first time ever…I’m not so afraid of myself.”

Chapter End Notes

Слава Україні. Героям слава.

Next update ETA: March 20th

 Chapter 41
Chapter Notes

Lol I’m so sorry guys: I had a few reader requests to fit in and that, plus the new
chapter structure, has basically left nothing in this update except another 17k words of
fluff and porn xD I know people get understandably annoyed with this, but please
don’t skip it entirely as a few relevant plot points have still been shoved in :-D

On the plus side, if you’ve clicked on this chapter then that means you’ve now got the
chance to see this beautiful fanart that the very talented DD_cookmelonger has kindly
made for the fic! You can check out it here (it’s rated M, so not explicit but probably
NSFW).

See the end of the chapter for more notes

As is so common with us the recent wave of tension manages to spike then subside until it finally
starts to settle and turns into a strange liminal space that’s not quite one thing without ever being
entirely the other. It’s the gap between no longer and not yet – a mood that isn’t stressful yet never
wholly calm – in which I’m aware something’s about to happen without ever having a full sense of
exactly what it might be. I guess your own fondness for the unpredictable means I should probably
be used to living with ambiguity by now, yet somehow moments like this are a blunt reminder of
how I’m really, truly not. At times it feels I’ve got the same wild turbulence of a wave pounding
against the side of a cliff – a stark comparison to you, who’s gone in the total opposite direction by
remaining as poised and composed as a piece of marble. It’s a familiar contrast, yet one that I
always find oddly reassuring. That’s good, I think silently every time I look at you. I’m glad; stay
that way. You need to be calm for the both of us.

Not that any of this is surprising, I suppose, given that anxiety is one of several emotions you’ve
never really had much patience for. It’s a talent I could easily envy, but I know it’s pointless asking
how you manage it because it’s never been something you do as opposed to something you are. In
the end I just try to watch you instead, attempting to absorb your cool detachment the same way a
plant would drink in sunlight. It’s such a difference from before, isn’t it? How your presence used
to be such a source of instability? God, more than instability – you were an active source of harm –
and even now it can still be painful to remember how damaging you were. That agony of believing
I’d finally escaped the doomed vessel of my own mind, fatally flawed and slowly sinking my
entire life, only to seize the oar offered by you then discover halfway through the voyage that the
paddle was an anchor the entire time. It had felt too late to go back, yet impossible to venture
forwards, because nothing was left anymore except dead weight: so alluring, and promising so
much, yet ultimately poised to pull me straight to the bottom. Now it’s so far the reverse that it’s
almost hard to grasp, and occasionally I think I still struggle to manage it; the realisation that a true
sense of safety and comfort is only really possible as long as you’re here.

When this first occurred to me I remember glancing up to smile at you, very fond and doting. The
look didn’t remotely fit (seeing how you were sat there with your scalpel at the time and looking
particularly malevolent), but although it felt a bit like cooing at a shark or cobra I honestly didn’t
care. I’ll have plenty of opportunities to time it better in the future though, because as part of our
ongoing compromise I’ve agreed I’ll start visiting the office less while you, in return, have done
your best to supress the annoyance you clearly feel whenever I still do. I suppose as concessions go
it could be worse, yet somehow it never feels like either of us are truly satisfied with it. Me,
because I prefer to know exactly what’s happening with the investigation, and you because even
the smallest scrap of time spent with Jack is a guaranteed source of resentment. In a weird way it
feels a bit like being in a love triangle. Jack represents the marriage: duty, conformity,
responsibility, and a commitment to doing the right thing. And you, of course, are the lover: illicit
passion, forbidden pleasure, and the type of life I want so badly yet still struggle to summon the
courage to publicly claim.

“What a wretched analogy, beloved,” you say when I try to point this out to you. “One would think
you’d been reared on a diet of soap operas and paperback novels.”

“But I’m American,” I say patiently. “What do you expect? Of course I was raised on soap operas.”
You hum with agreement so I take advantage of your inattention to lean over and give you an
affectionate swipe. “I suppose the analogy’s not intellectual enough for you is it?” I add. “How
about you’re the id and Jack’s the super ego?”

“Perhaps,” you reply. “Although I would much prefer to re-purpose yours.” As you’re speaking
you take hold of my left hand and inspect it rather thoughtfully before delicately stroking along the
length of the ring finger. “One in which I am the husband, and in which Jack is a disposable
distraction.”

Instead of answering I sigh very softly then lean down to nuzzle your hair with the side of my face
– and which is extremely easy to accomplish, seeing how we’re currently stretched out across the
sofa with your back pressed snugly against my chest. This is something you never used to do in the
past, where it would nearly always be me lying on you, but recently you’ve been far more relaxed
about it and don’t seem to care about taking a slightly submissive position. As you tip your head
back to look at me I now tighten my grip on you then give your hair another nuzzle.

“Of course Jack’s just a distraction,” I say gently. “You know nothing matters to me as much as
you do. Nothing.”

“And yet?”

“And yet what?”

“You obviously have a disclaimer in mind. I want you to tell me what it is.”

“No,” I reply. “There’s no disclaimer.” In fact, it’s actually something of a surprise to realise this. I
was so ambivalent about marrying you the first time you mentioned it, yet as with so many other
things the way I feel has managed to shift dramatically in merely a matter of weeks. “I want to,” I
add in a firmer voice. “But not when things are like this. I want it to happen when it’s more
peaceful and we’re not constantly looking over our shoulders.”

You take hold of my hand with a contented sigh so I quickly cover it with my own, aware of a
sudden pang of guilt at how I’ve grown far more positive about the idea of marriage yet have
somehow failed to make you aware of this too. I think I just expected you to pick up on the shift by
yourself, although judging from how pleased you are it appears this wasn’t the case. It’s hard to
imagine your usual perceptiveness has failed you, but I suppose where I’m concerned you never
tend to assume so much as you do with other people. It’s strange to think I spend so much time
agonising over our relationship that I forget how you might occasionally do the same. Gently I now
run my fingers along the side of your face, a form of silent apology for failing to communicate
sooner how my initial reservations had changed.

“You know, in a weird way you’ve probably got Jack to thank for this,” I add wryly. “I was so
complacent before. Him coming here has smashed the status quo: it’s made me re-evaluate
everything.”

You tilt your head backwards again then give me A Look. “I shall do no such thing,” you say.
“Jack will be receiving zero appreciation from me – which is exactly what he deserves.”

“He was the catalyst though, wasn’t he? You know I was dragging my feet until he turned up.”

You immediately look so sulky that I can’t help smiling. “Call him an accelerant then,” I add. As
I’m speaking I place my finger against your cheekbone, gently turning your face around until it’s
close enough to kiss your temple. “He sped up a process I would have reached anyway.”

“I will not call him either of those things,” you reply with typical haughtiness. “Although seeing
that you have moved to chemical metaphors, I shall offer one of my own and suggest that he is an
irritant.”

This makes me smile again. “Well, you’re the combustion. And now that you’ve blown everything
up we’re going to have to wait a while until…”

I’m about to say ‘Until I’ve put the fire out’ before deciding I don’t want to and just grinding to a
halt instead. I can’t help it though, because the analogy is utterly wrong and suggests a neat,
definitive conclusion when the reality is going to be anything but. In this respect our pledge to find
a compromise over Jack is still no closer to being realised and by now I’m increasingly sceptical
that we’re ever going to reach one at all. I won’t agree to kill him and you won’t agree to leave him
alone; yet equally contradictory is while I don’t want to stop him finding out about us, I also don’t
feel ready to actively make it happen. Of course, the most sensible thing of all would just be to
leave…only I feel I can’t do that either without raising suspicion, and (since you’ve helpfully killed
Aronne) don’t even want to for as long as I can have a role in sheltering you from the full fire of the
FBI. Not that it really matters though, because for as long as Jack’s here then you won’t leave
either, instead staying fixed in place by a vengeful blend of pride and possessiveness that makes
you seem incapable of letting the grudge go. In some of my gloomier moments I sometimes feel as
if we’ll be camped out in this hotel indefinitely, trapped in a luxurious gilded cage as we try to find
a shared solution that’s never going to arrive. Really, the best thing would be if Jack just goes back
to America where he belongs and sometimes this feels like it might be the only way to end it. If I
can just keep you safe and secluded for a few more weeks (a task that’s admittedly much easier
said than done) while we squabble about him in private, only to wake up one morning to discover
the unit has packed up and flown back home. Who knows, perhaps it’ll even happen? They can’t
possibly stay here forever: police budgets being what they are, it’s surprising that they’ve stayed
for as long as they have.

“Until things calm down,” I finally say instead. “But when they do, yes. I want to get married.” I’m
smiling like an idiot now; I can’t help it. “I want to marry you.”

You repeat the same contented noise then tangle your fingers into my hair to give it a gentle tug.
“If I bought you an engagement ring, would you wear it?”

“Yes,” I say happily. “Of course I would.” And then, because God knows what you might come
back with otherwise: “As long as it was something plain. Y’know – simple.” Your face
immediately falls (probably because words like ‘plain’ and simple’ are a source of profound
personal offence) and I smile even harder before reaching over again to cover your hand with mine.
“But not yet,” I add. “Not when everything’s still so uncertain. I want to be able to enjoy it and not
have to focus on anything else.”

“I understand,” you reply. “But be warned that I fully intend to hold you to that promise. Left to
your own devices then you will always be finding a new source of strife and leave us waiting for a
period of total peace which never actually arrives.”

“Agreed,” I say. “I mean, I won’t do that – but I can see why you’d think I might. And speaking of
which…” I pause slightly then give your hand a small squeeze. “I’m sorry I was so unenthusiastic
when you first asked. I really am. I know I made things more difficult than they needed to be.”

As soon as I say that you snap your head upright, pausing in silence for a few seconds before
abruptly flipping yourself over so you can look at me directly. It means my entire body gets pinned
beneath yours and I start to laugh then catch hold of your shoulders. “Stop it, you maniac,” I say.
“You’re crushing me. You weigh a ton.”

This makes your eyebrows furrow in a way that’s ridiculously endearing before you neatly readjust
your knees against the sofa until I’m not having to bear your full weight. When you’re finally
settled I gently smooth your hair off your forehead then raise my legs up so I can hook them around
your waist. You haven’t spoken yet, but the way you’re gazing at me is still expressing how you
feel about my previous statement. You never need to apologise to me, you’re saying. I love you. I
want you to be happy. You didn’t make things difficult. Sometimes it feels as if we can conduct
entire conversations this way: communicating with all the silence of the meanings between words.

“You describe your shift in perspective as if it counts against you,” you finally say. You smile
again then stroke my face, your legs spreading slightly wider as you do it to make sure there’s
enough space for me between them. “What it shows me is that the more external pressure was
applied, the stronger your dedication became. Many relationships splinter from far less, yet your
commitment has grown greater than ever.”

For a while we now simply gaze at each other in silence, my face cradled gently in your palm until
you finally lower your head so you can use your tongue to slowly ease my mouth open. The kiss is
languid and leisurely: your tongue so wet, warm, and worshipful as it slides against mine and your
lips so surprisingly soft. I still notice that, even now: somehow I’d always expected they’d be rough
to the touch, but they’re not. At the same time you’re stroking my face with your hand while
pressing fresh kisses onto my cheek and jaw, murmuring snatches of something husky in Italian as
your mouth traces delicate swirls against the skin. I lean into it blissfully, my own hand skimming
along your back or through your hair, then waiting for you to pull away for long enough to catch
your eye and smile at you.

It’s the type of way only lovers would kiss, yet somehow there’s still a certain innocence to it – a
chasteness, almost – because in that moment it seems less about sex as opposed to a simple
expression of care. The whole thing’s just so incredibly fond and relaxed; I honestly don’t think
I’ve spent so long kissing anyone since I was a teenager. What did we used to call it back then?
Necking. Making out. First base, that was another one: a kind of prelude that was meant to console
ourselves for a lack of access to anything better. You’re the only person I know who can make
kissing feel like the main event and I feel I could happily spend hours like this. Not that it really
matters though, because I know it won’t last…and the reason I know that is because if your recent
behaviour’s anything to go by then it’s only going to be a matter of time now before you try to take
me to bed. It’s strange to think of it in these terms, but I’m convinced by now this is your version
of a coping strategy due to my continued contact with Jack. Admittedly, you’re also not exhibiting
anything like the same levels of angst about it as I am, because of course you’re not. You’ve
always thrived on chaos, and the more fearful and unpredictable a situation is the better you like it.
But the one indication you’re feeling even slightly unsettled is the way you’ve grown even more
possessive than you usually are; something that’s mostly being expressed through biting, marking,
and a lot of sex. The biting tends to be tender little scrapes and grazes, while the bruises have left a
small palette of purple on my neck and thighs, but the constant desire to jump me is almost
unsurpassed and is something I wouldn’t have even believed was physically possible for someone
over 40. I don’t mind though; far from it. If anything, it feels quite emotional and seems like yet
another sign of how you’ve managed to channel your previous destructive urges into a show of
love and devotion instead.

Just as I’m thinking this you pull away from me to get to your feet, and then without any warning
(yet exactly as predicted) swoop straight back down again to hook both arms around my knees and
shoulders. Recently you’ve stopped asking permission to pick me up, but while I don’t really like it
I’ve decided to cut you some temporary slack until things have grown more settled again. This
means I make a conscious effort to limit my complaints about it whenever it happens – even though
the irritation has managed to syphon itself into amusement in the meantime (which always makes
the urge to start cackling strong and the effort to stop myself considerable). I can’t help it though, I
really can’t: I just don’t get the appeal of ferrying one’s bearded, bad-tempered husband-to-be
around like an enormous overgrown man child. Not that it really matters I suppose, because your
own satisfaction in it is so obvious that it never fails to make my cynicism seem slightly petty in
comparison.

Having got me as far as the bedroom you now deposit me onto the bed then proceed to pounce on
me until I’m pinned beneath your body and totally unable to move. From the look on your face the
possessive urge has come crashing back full force, which makes it a safe bet you’ll want to be in
control of everything and I won’t have to do much at all except lie back and tell you how much I’m
enjoying myself. In this respect one of your more recent things has been getting me to beg you to
come in me, and it’s actually kind of funny. It’s like you can’t just do it, you have to be asked
nicely (over and over again) and, in addition to the possessiveness, clearly reflects a healthy dose of
egotism as well. Not that ‘ego’ really gets anywhere close to covering it. Ego suggests a normal
degree of self-esteem, and from the way you’ve been acting in the last few days it’s as if you think
your ejaculate is imbued with some sort of immensely special borderline-magical trait that’s shared
solely with elves and unicorns and is brought to life through pixie dust. As if it can heal the sick
and raise the dead, then possibly assemble flat-pack furniture and negotiate world peace before
changing a spare tyre. As if you’re expecting me to expire with longing at the very thought of it. If
I’m honest I sometimes find it annoying, while other times it makes me want to laugh, but of
course I never indicate either. After all, it’s also undeniably flattering, because in my entire life
I’ve never had the experience of being desired by anyone so intensely, fiercely, and completely as I
am by you.

It’s at this point that a brief kissing interlude resumes itself, very slow and tender just like before.
Even so, it doesn’t take long for things to start moving faster again, and in almost no time at all
I’ve got my legs wrapped round your back while you’re pounding into me with a relentlessly
powerful rhythm. God, it feels incredible. We’ve done this together so many times – far too many
to possibly remember – yet somehow each one manages to be just as intense and meaningful as the
first. Maybe someday the novelty might wear off and we’ll make love in the sort of leisurely,
laidback way that’s born from familiarity and is less about passion than it is connection and
comfort. Maybe we will…although there doesn’t seem much chance it’ll happen anytime soon.
How can it, when there are still new things to discover about your body and the way it responds, or
the fact I don’t ever get tired of watching you? It doesn’t matter how small these things are, they
still present a deep and loving fascination: the creases in your forehead when it starts to furrow, the
tautness of your jaw when you clench it, or even the way the perspiration glistens on your back and
shoulder and makes your skin so smooth and slippery to the touch. When I hold you, I can feel
your muscles flex; can feel the thrum of your pulse next to mine. None of it is irrelevant and all of
it is more than just the mere mechanics of movement. All of it matters, somehow. It matters
because it’s you.

This focus is intensely enjoyable in its own right, yet another bonus of being resident expert of
You And Your Body is that I’m always able to guess exactly how close you are to coming (the
current answer being ‘very’, which is good because so am I). The bad part, on the other hand, is
that I’m also being very vocal about it; mostly because I seem to have forgotten that we’re not in
the apartment anymore and there are other people just a few feet away behind the walls. In fact I’m
practically howling at you by now, and it finally occurs to me – much too late – that it might be a
good idea to rein it in a bit before housekeeping gets the wrong idea and grows concerned enough
to check that no one’s getting murdered in the Presidential Suite. Possibly you think the same
because you now press your hand over my mouth to stifle the sound, smiling slightly when I try to
bite your fingers. Unlike me it’s not from a sense of decorum though, because you honestly don’t
give a shit. The only thing that would bother you about someone bursting into the room is that
they’d see me sexually ecstatic (and extremely naked) which as far as you’re concerned is
unthinkable for anyone to ever witness except you. I now give a small eyeroll to let you know I get
the point and you smile again then remove your hand.

“God,” I say much more quietly. As I’m speaking I arch my back towards you, deliberately
tightening my legs around your waist. “Fuck, Hannibal. It feels so good.”

You give the tiniest hint of a smirk, which means you’re well aware of this fact (and intend to take
full credit for it) before your expression shifts again into something softer and more serious. As
you lean down to kiss me I moan into your mouth, letting you take hold of my hands at the same
time so you can pin them to either side of my face.

“Will,” you say as you finally pull away. It’s a single syllable, yet somehow you still manage to
roll it out for several seconds, lingering over the final consonants until it almost seems to be
vibrating in your mouth. “Mano meilė. Mano brangiausia meilė. Tell me how much you want it.”

“Fuck, yes, I want it.” I deliberately let my voice go fretful and high-pitched, threaded through with
a pleading undertone like I’m genuinely distraught at the idea I won’t get to feel you come in me.
Partly it’s an act to try and gratify you, and yet, if I’m honest…not entirely. “I want it so much,” I
add. “Please, Hannibal. I need this; I need you. I want you to give it to me. Please.”

Your breath catches on that final ‘please’. I can hear it, very low and rumbling in the base of your
throat. You’re so incredibly into this, and the obvious satisfaction makes me smile to myself then
tenderly stroke my fingers over yours. Essentially this begging feels far more about you than it
does about me, which means there’s never any sense of shame or subjugation in it. I know you’re
not trying to humiliate me; instead, you’re doing it because you want to feel wanted – and while it
would be too much to describe it as insecurity, I still know it’s a sign of how much my closeness to
Jack has been getting to you.

“Please,” I say again. I want to screw my eyes closed to indicate strain, yet also want to keep
looking at you. In the end I go for a sort of compromise that involves thrashing my head around
until you catch your breath again then tighten your grip on my hands to make me stay still. “I want
to feel it,” I gasp out. “Please. Oh God, what are you waiting for? I want you to fuck me until I
can’t take it anymore then fill me up with your come.”

You give a low groan and briefly drop forwards to bury your face in my hair. “Again,” you say.

Presumably this means you want it embellishing – and which is fair enough, I suppose, but also
rather unfortunate because I’m running low on inspiration by now and can’t think of anything else
to say. I can’t help it, though; it’s not really my fault. How many ways even are there to ask
someone to kindly shoot their load into you?

“It turns me on so much,” I eventually manage to add. “Even when you’re not there. Just the
thought of it.” Oh God, no, that sounds shit. Surely I can do better than that (although…probably
not). “I fantasise about you all the time,” I continue wildly. “How thick and hard your cock feels
when it’s sliding in and out of my ass. Fuck, you’re so big: you stretch me wide open and I love it.
Then pumping me full of your come straight afterwards…the way there’s so much it runs down my
thighs when you pull out of me. Shit, it makes me get so hard. I’ve jerked myself off so many
times, imagining how good it feels.”

By now I can feel myself getting self-conscious; partly because I suspect this is a bit much, but
mostly because you get insanely jealous at the idea of me enjoying my body without you being
there to oversee the process – and which means the idea of me jerking myself off behind your back
(as it were) is pretty much the last thing you’re going to want to hear. Immediately I can see your
eyes flash with resentment, although fortunately the thought of yourself as the inspiration seems
like it might be enough for you to let it go. To distract you I thrust my hips again then wrap my
legs even tighter round your back in an attempt to pull you closer.

“You got what you wanted, didn’t you?” I add in the same breathy voice. “Does it feel like you’ve
won? Because it should. All those times I ignored you and pushed you away; all the times I
wouldn’t let you touch me. Do you remember? I thought I was better than you, didn’t I, and just
look at me now. I need you so much I’m begging for it – I’d get on my knees for you if you
wanted. I’m begging you to use me and fuck me in the ass, because the only thing I care about is
feeling you make yourself come in it.”

It's at this point that your self-control finally starts to snap. Up until now you’ve just been gazing at
me with your lips slightly parted, but as soon as I’ve said this you let out another low moan as your
hips jerk almost violently and you immediately start to come. I can feel the urgent way you’re
shuddering, your hands gripping my hips to press me tight against your groin so you can make sure
you finish as deep inside me as possible. It seems to last for ages, but I hold you through it the
entire time: telling you how much I love you as I stoke your hair, your face, your back (anything I
can reach) before letting out a gasp of my own when you promptly prove your own orgasm hasn’t
robbed you of sufficient presence of mind to begin jerking me off yourself. It takes about two
seconds for me to start coming as well, and when it’s finally over you press me onto the bed again
so you can resume the previous staring, very intense and unblinking like you’re trying to commit
each feature to memory. In fact you’re there for so long I actually start to doze off, only waking up
again with a jolt when you begin kissing your way along my jaw.

“What?” I say when I see you glance up at me. “Don’t be stupid. I wasn’t actually sleeping.”

Your sole response to this is a tiny smirk (which, to be fair, is all such obvious bullshit deserves)
before slowly running your finger down the side of my cheekbone. “Stay here beloved,” is all you
say. “Don’t move.”

I smile at you to show that I will, but you just continue sitting there as your finger runs up and
down my face from jaw to forehead then back again. It’s actually pretty touching: it’s like you
don’t want to leave for even the few minutes it’ll take you to do…whatever it is you’re planning
on doing. I close my eyes contentedly, enjoying the feeling of closeness, and eventually you lean
down to kiss me again before getting off the bed, my hand still clasped in yours until you’ve
moved far enough away that we’re both forced to let go.

Right now even the effort required to open my eyes feels like too much, so instead I just lie back
and listen behind closed lids to the soft pad of footsteps across the carpet, followed by the sound of
the closet opening and a rustling noise of objects being pushed to one side. When you finally come
back you place another kiss on my cheekbone, then gently tip my head with your hand as a hint that
you want me to look at what you’ve brought with you. Considering my gratuitous Sex Monologue I
already have a pretty good idea as to what it might be and sure enough, when I open my eyes, it’s to
be greeted by the sight of the infamous leather case – often referred to but, up until now, never
actually revealed.

I huff out a laugh then lazily extend my foot so I can give you a prod with it. “Oh God,” I say.
“You really did get a collection, didn’t you? Somehow I thought you were joking.”

To be honest I’m not even sure why I’m saying this, because I know I don’t really believe it. You
never joke about anything (although if there ever was a deserving subject of mockery, then a
family of golden butt plugs would surely deserve a fairly high place on the list). “S-o-o-o,” I add
with another smirk. “How many of them did you actually buy?”

“Four,” you say promptly. You sound inexplicably pleased with yourself about this; it’s probably
the same tone you used while you pretended to be a library curator and were showing off ancient
manuscripts to unsuspecting tourists. Although even the actual curator (RIP) surely couldn’t have
opened a case to reveal four original Dante manuscripts and managed to sound quite so smug and
self-satisfied about it as you are in presenting four golden butt plugs. Admittedly I can’t summon
equivalent heights of enthusiasm over them, although it’s still nice to realise I’m nowhere near as
awkward or embarrassed about it as last time. Instead I reach out again then give you another prod
with my foot.

“Now I know what women mean,” I add. “When they say ‘you didn’t buy that for me, you bought
it for yourself’.”

As it happens, a woman has said that to me (a college girlfriend, on being presented with a box of
lingerie as a Valentine’s gift), although it’s clear you’ve realised this too – and are not remotely
happy about it – because your eyes promptly narrow into little slits of disapproval before you put a
finger over my lips to make me stop me talking. This is irrational, yet also typical; at times it’s like
you inhabit an alternative fantasy world in which I lived a sexless Monk-like existence before
meeting you and always object to reminders that this wasn’t actually the case. I give your finger a
kiss as a silent form of apology, so you smile at me and then remove it for long enough to run
along my cheek instead.

“Lie still, my love,” you say. “And pull your legs up onto your chest.”

I quickly do as you ask, whimpering slightly when you lean down to scoop up some stray drops of
your come then push them deep back inside me. Oh God, you’re really taking your time over it too.
I moan again then grip around your finger like I’m inviting you in; deliberately clenching and
tightening so you can feel how much I want it, the same as I do around your cock when you’re
fucking me. You make one of your rumbling purr-like noises in response then kiss my knee before
finally pulling your hand away so you can reach over to retrieve the case. At some point the lube
must have been kicked onto the floor, but rather than spend the few seconds required to look for it
you select the smallest of the plugs then hold it in front of my face instead. At the same time your
other hand has started squeezing round the back of my neck, which is a recurring habit of yours
whenever you’re hoping to wrangle me into submission. Increasingly you’ve tried to stop doing it,
but every so often it’s like you can’t help yourself and simply think ‘fuck it’ (or whatever your
equivalent is) before deciding to indulge the temptation. I make a mental note to nag you about it
later, although still let you keep it there without shaking you off. You give my neck an appreciative
stroke in return then reach round far enough to rub my jaw with your thumb.

“Open your mouth, Will,” you say softly.

Even though I was expecting this I can feel myself flushing. It’s a combination of embarrassment
and squirming arousal, but I still do it anyway; letting you cradle my head in your palm, then
sucking on the plug until it’s wet and slippery while you stroke my hair very gently and call me a
good boy. God, I’m going to kill you one of these days…no doubt you’re only doing it because
I’ve got my mouth full and can’t tell you to stop. I give you a tiny eyeroll instead (which you
completely ignore) then eventually pull my face away so I can gaze up at you while I drag my
tongue along the entire length of the plug. Your breath catches sharply at the sight of it, rushing out
your nostrils in a sigh so low and sibilant it’s almost a hiss. Fuck, you’re so turned on by this aren’t
you? It’s barely 30 minutes since you last came and you’re already starting to get hard again.

“Mano brangiausia meile,” you say now with another, deeper sigh. “You’re so responsive. So
attuned to me…you’re perfect. The thought excites you, doesn’t you?”

“God, yes, it does,” I say breathily. “I can’t wait. Are you going to make me keep it in all day –
only take it out when you want to fuck me again?”

You give a low moan at this then abruptly drop down to run your teeth along the side of my jaw.
“Would you do that if I asked you to?”

I moan slightly myself, twisting my neck round so I can try to nuzzle your face. You immediately
press further forwards, our mouth meeting in a frantic clash of teeth and tongues. “Of course I
would,” I gasp in between kisses. “Fuck, Hannibal, I want it so much; I want to keep your come in
me as long as possible. Promise me you won’t take the plug out until you’re going to give me some
more.”

As soon as I say that you completely lose control again, savaging my throat with a series of biting
kisses until there seems a genuine risk you might injure me and you have to force yourself to stop.
In fact it’s really started hurting – enough to make my heart pound nervously in my ears – but I
simply let out a shuddering breath then catch your eye as I deliberately bear my throat towards you.
It’s okay, the look says. I want you. I trust you. You don’t frighten me. And I do: I trust you. I trust
you in a way that any right-minded person would think was deranged, but I still don’t care because
if you’re deranged then so am I and we can be deranged together. For a few moments you just stare
back in silence before leaning down again to gently skim your lips against the grazes your teeth
have made.

“Mylimasis,” you say, with a tone that’s unusually tender. “I love you so much. You and your fatal
beauty…you can’t really be explained or accounted for, can you? Only felt and experienced.”

I give another soft moan run my finger down your face. “But that’s you, too,” I manage to reply.
“You could be describing yourself.”

You look so pleased when I say this that I promptly have one of my recurring pangs of guilt at how
I never compliment you anywhere near as often as you do me. It’s a bit shit really; there’s no
denying it. After all, you seem to have managed to cultivate a full-on praise kink by this point,
whereas all I can ever seem to muster in return is ‘Yeah I guess you’re okay, aren’t you? A bit of a
bastard, but very easy on the eye.’ I immediately open my mouth to think of something else, but
before I can manage it you’ve already migrated down the bed again to slot a pillow underneath me,
gently pushing my hips into the right place then guiding my legs further back towards my chest.
The expectation of what’s about to happen makes it impossible to focus on anything else and I find
myself gasping slightly before flinging an arm across my face.

“Ready?” you ask.

I moan again with encouragement, even though I know you’d probably still do it whether I was
ready or not. But in the end you don’t do it, instead just using the pad of one finger to gently press
and stroke until the tight ring of muscle starts clenching in anticipation to the pressure. It’s at that
point I hear your breath hitch, which makes me smile slightly; you’re trying to hide it, but I can tell
how much you’re wishing you were hard enough to push your cock in there instead. After that you
just continue stretching and rubbing until your finger finally slips inside me while I moan very
loudly and catch my lip between my teeth. I can’t help it though. I can’t stop the sound escaping –
or any of the ones that follow it – because the sense of being penetrated is oddly intense, despite
the fact it’s only a finger. God, how the hell am I going to react when you use the actual plug? I
can see it right now; how wet and glistening it is from where I’ve been sucking it and the way the
light keeps catching the metal. On the other hand, one thing I do know is that you’ll be planning to
take your sweet time over it, and of course that’s exactly what you do: just swirling the head in lazy
circles in start with, then slowly twisting it a little further each time without ever actually pushing
in. Despite being fucked so thoroughly I can already tell I’m quite tight again, so to help me out
you eventually lower your head to lap at me with your tongue in a series of warm, wet licks. As my
eyes fall closed I give a choked-off groan, gasping out even louder as a broad thumb pushes inside
me to spread the saliva around. You make a low humming noise in response, your fingers
continuing to explore and probe as you gently work me open until I’m loose enough to take more.

“Look at that my love,” you murmur with obvious approval. Briefly you let your hand go still
before gradually starting to move it again; slowly at first, but steadily picking up speed until I’m
panting at the relentlessness of the pace and frantically rolling my hips back to try and fuck myself
on your fingers. At the same time I blindly stretch out my own hand, suddenly desperate for
something to hold onto, so you catch hold of it in yours then tenderly stroke the knuckles before
finally sitting upright again. I take advantage of the pause to draw a few deep breaths, staring
helplessly up at the ceiling as I continue to twitch and shudder at how intense it all feels.

“That plug should slide inside you quite easily now,” you add softly. “What do you think, Will;
shall we try?” You push in another finger to prove your point then run a teasing thumb around the
rim, leaning over while you do it so you can watch the way my cock is getting stiffer and stiffer
with each touch. “Or perhaps not?” you add rather sadistically. “I’m not sure you’re ready after all.
You’re still so tight, just here…and here. Can you feel it too? So tight, beloved. Perhaps you need a
bit longer.”

“Oh fuck, please, I just…I can’t,” I say helplessly. “Please. I really need it.”

I make my voice deliberately faint and breathy, catching on the final word as if I’m genuinely
desperate. There’s an element of pretence to it, although at the same time it’s still not entirely
insincere – I might not be into this quite as much as you are, but the fact that you want it so badly
is enormously arousing in and of itself. As if reading my mind, you now prop yourself up on one
elbow then murmur my name to yourself before delicately dragging your tongue along my
abdomen to lick up the trail of pre-come. I blink a few times, slightly startled; it’s still too soon for
me to get fully hard again, and I’ve been focussed on you so intently I wasn’t aware I was leaking
this much. I must be enjoying it even more than I realised.

“Patience,” you now say. “Patience, mano meilė.”

You sound very earnest, although considering how low your own reserves have clearly run it still
seems like pretty pointless advice. To test out this theory I give another breathy moan – and in the
end that’s all it takes for you to lose control again and forget about patience entirely in favour of
springing back upright to seize hold of the plug. The metal is very cool and blunt as it pushes
against me: not as good as the way your own skin feels, but certainly not unpleasant. It’s also
smaller than the last one was, but I know you’ll enjoy it more if I’m responsive so moan very
loudly anyway as if the penetration is a lot to take. You’re often a bit contrary this way. You’d
never deliberately hurt me, but at the same time a willingness to let you inflict pain always seems
to have a very powerful effect. Of course the easiest explanation would be because you’re a sadist,
but somehow I can’t ever think of it in such stark, clinical terms. It seems more linked to trust than
anything else; the fact I feel safe enough with you to allow it in the first place. In this respect the
dividing line between pain and pleasure is also strictly observed, because I know if I wasn’t
enjoying it then you wouldn’t need any persuasion to stop. I now make a soft whining noise to
encourage you, which makes you moan yourself as your palm strokes ecstatically along the sweat-
slick skin of my thigh. Briefly I can feel your hand around the back of my neck again, tugging my
mouth towards yours for another bruising series of kisses.

“Almost there,” you say softly when you finally pull away. “Good boy, you’re doing so well. You
like that don’t you? Now arch your back for me.”

I make another of the whining sounds, obediently pushing myself closer towards you. “Please,” I
gasp out.

“Soon,” you reply in the same soft voice. “Just let me enjoy you like this for a little longer.”

“No…oh God, I want it. I’m ready.”

“Yes, beloved, I can feel that you are. You take it so beautifully. I knew that you would.”

I let out yet another moan then spread my legs apart, pivoting down into the pillow so I can roll my
hips against the pressure of your hand. You murmur my name again in response then wait a few
moments to watch me unravel before dragging the plug backwards until I’m being stretched wide
open by the very thickest part of the base.

“Oh,” I say, my voice hitching as it goes high and young. My eyes are closed now; my hair’s so
damp it’s tangling into them, but somehow it seems like too much effort to wipe it away. “Oh God,
Hannibal, I like it. I really like it. Fuck.”

You give a sigh of your own then twist your hand for a final time until the plug pushes past the last
clench of resistance and sinks all the way inside me. It’s not even you who’s getting the
stimulation, yet you still seem close to losing it – it’s like you’ll never get tired of watching the
way I fall apart beneath your touch. Not that it matters, though: it’s not like I’ll ever get tired of
watching the way that you watch me. I groan myself then reach out to roughly grab your forearms,
hauling you forwards towards me until you’re straddling my chest. Oh fuck, you’re so hard; I
really need to make sure I do this for you more often. Without breaking eye contact I spit into my
palm then wrap it firmly around your cock, guiding your own hand over mine so I can slide them
together in a steady rhythm as encouragement to make yourself come again. I’m incredibly
focussed on it, determined to make you feel as good as possible: my face must be pure
concentration. It’s almost enough to make me laugh at myself and reminds me of when I first
touched you like this: that sense of being intimidated by handling your cock, like I didn’t quite
know what to do with it beyond knowing that I wanted to please you. It’s the same thing now –
more enthusiasm than technique – only this time it isn’t nerves but an excess of sensation that’s
causing it.

“Do it in my mouth,” I say urgently. “God, please. I want to taste you.”

It’s been less than a minute, but I can already feel the snug way my body has relaxed around the
plug, the solid metal a smooth warm weight that nudges me tenderly every time I move. You
bought it for me because you want me to feel good; to have a sense of you even when you’re not
there. Oh God, I love you so much…I’m never loved anyone the way I love you. As our hands
continue moving I gaze right into your eyes, my voice almost as husky as yours is as it murmurs a
series of increasingly earnest requests. ‘Please,’ I keep saying, ‘I want it so much. I want you to
give it to me, straight down my throat. I’ll be so good for you if you just let me have what I want.’
To my own ears it sounds increasingly ludicrous but it’s clear you don’t see it that way, because in
the end it only takes a few minutes of stroking before you’re gasping my name and coming for a
second time with a noise so deep and rough it sounds like an animal’s snarl. Even during a violent
orgasm your aim remains good enough to get most of it into my mouth; thick hot ropes of it,
straight down my throat as requested. Even so, I still make a point of licking the stray drops off my
lips, deliberately wanton and sensuous like I can’t bear the thought of missing any. All in all, it’s
frantic and messy and completely incredible – and my only regret is that I don’t have the same
supernatural refractory period as you do and can’t get hard soon enough for you to fuck me again.

After this even you seem a bit wiped out, so for a while just end up sitting there on top of me with a
blissed-out expression on your face that’s so out of character it borders on comical. I stare up at
you fondly, struggling with an urge to laugh, and you eventually seem to recover enough to lean
down and press a kiss against my forehead.

“Thank you, mylimasis,” you say tenderly. “You are very forbearing. I appreciate your willingness
to humour me.”

There isn’t a trace of shame or self-consciousness in your voice. Even so, the readiness to admit
that this has all been about satisfying a need you have is striking and suggests a degree of
vulnerability that’s still rather rare for you to show. Despite myself I can’t help feeling touched but
it, even though I know you’d hate even the slightest hint of sympathy. In the end I just reach up
then run my hand through your hair.

“I’m not humouring you,” I say firmly. “I love you; I want to make you happy. And you know I
wouldn’t do it if I didn’t like it too.”

This makes you smile again before tracing a finger along my cheek. It’s clear you’re not really
buying it. “I think you are being diplomatic,” you reply.

“No, I’m not,” I say, even more firmly. “In fact, I can prove it to you. Remember what you asked
me before?” Then I promptly grind to a halt again once I realise I can’t quite bring myself to
describe it out loud. I mean God, what would I even say? Remember when you asked me to sit in an
FBI field office stuffed full of your come with an anal plug? Yeah, that one. Y’know – the one that
cost as much as someone’s monthly mortgage payment? Oh God…I just can’t.

“When you asked me to go into work like this,” I say instead, hoping you’ll get the message.
“Well, I will. I told Jack I’d go to the next taskforce meeting, so I’ll do it today. I’ll do it right
now.”

Even as I’m speaking a part of me is hoping you’ve changed your mind, but needless to say you
haven’t. Quite the opposite, in fact, because your eyes immediately start to gleam and you end up
being so into the idea that you literally sit on the bed so you can supervise me while I’m getting
ready to leave. At first I think it’s because you don’t trust me to not remove the plug, but it turns
out to be more about your possessiveness going into overdrive than anything else, seeing how you
want to control my appearance down to what clothes I wear (all of which are yours) and the
aftershave I use (also yours). You even insisting on styling my hair yourself with one of your
ludicrously expensive combs (the ones with the ivory handles inlaid with silver, and which could
probably give the golden butt plugs themselves a run for their money in terms of being equal parts
pretentious and pointless). The combing is pretty much the final straw, because even for you this
attention is excessive – as well as extremely annoying – and I stand there rolling my eyes the
whole time while struggling with a childish urge to either call you a Nannibal or berate you for
behaving like Mary Poppins (which you actually are…if Mary Poppins were over six foot tall and
knew 20 ways to kill a grown man with her bare hands). I quite want to ask you whether you think
I’m a toy, only can’t quite bring myself to just in case you say ‘yes.’ Then I’m tempted to deliver a
stern warning about how this not going to be a long-term arrangement, but of course this doesn’t
really need stating because it’s clear you already know. The only reason you’re pushing it this far
in the first place is because I’m feeling bad about spending time with Jack – and which means I’ve
basically given you a perfect opportunity to exploit this guilt to your benefit for as long as is
humanly possible.

I now sigh to myself then give your hair an affectionate ruffle (because acting like a manipulative
old shit now appears to be something you get actively rewarded for) before searching round for my
briefcase as a chance to practice walking in a way that’s not too obviously bow-legged.
Unfortunately though, it seems that your whole nannying act is also rather contagious, because as
soon as it’s time to leave I promptly start doing it too. You won’t go out again, will you? I ask.
Have you got everything you need? Well, text me if you want anything. Are you sure you won’t get
too bored on your own? You just sit there absorbing it with a serene smile on your face, and I
watch you do it while privately wishing your Zen-like levels of calm were even half as
transmissible as your nannying tendencies (or, for that matter, your homicidal ones). I mean I
really do though, because there’s no doubt the latter would be far more helpful in getting through
the next few hours than the former could ever be.

In this respect I already know a public outing with my Golden Butt Plug is going to be
excruciating, and of course – it is. After all, my idea of adventurous sex before meeting you got
about as far as leaving the lights on, and it only takes about ten or so minutes of hobbling around
before I’m forced to concede that this might be a bit too much for me. Admittedly the physical
sensation isn’t too much of an issue; given enough time, I think I could probably even learn to start
liking it. The sense of shame and self-consciousness, on the other hand, is enough to finish me off,
and the result is a cab journey spent shifting round at anguished angles (while the driver stares at
me through the rear-view mirror like he’s expecting me to have a seizure) before using the entire
time at the office to find increasingly elaborate reasons to avoid having to sit down. Thank fuck
we’re not in America and they don’t have metal detectors at each entrance (oh my actual God,
though…imagine if they did have metal detectors). The plug itself is a dull, aching pleasure that’s
too much without being anywhere near enough and leaves me with a flush of colour on both
cheekbones and a constantly guilty urge to snatch the photo of you from Jack’s whiteboard before
striding away to the men’s room to jerk myself off to it. Only one hour in and I’m reaching almost
Shakespearean levels of agony – like I might as well have Slutty Traitor branded straight on my
forehead – and the sole consolation through all the aching, over-sensitive discomfort is how
delighted you’re going to be when you hear about it.

“Are you auditioning for GQ or something?” asks Price after I’ve found yet another desk to prop
myself up against. “I’m sure it’s far more glamourous to drape yourself across assorted furniture,
but most of us prefer the humble chair.”

“He could be a model if he wanted,” says Zeller, even though it’s clearly more to needle Price than
anything else. “He’s got the right sort of face for it.”

“He’s too short,” replies Price cheerfully. “You’re too short, Will. And too scarred. And too
bearded. So don’t even think of betraying us by running off to join GQ, because we need you
here.”

This makes me smile rather vaguely, even though I’m not really listening anymore because I’ve
noticed the two Italian detectives have just walked in and resumed their previous staring. In fact by
this point it’s something of a ritual every time they see me, and as much I pretend I don’t care
there’s no doubt such unflinching attention is starting to rattle me more than I’d like to admit. It’s
just still so unclear what their issue is: on one hand the lack of any action suggests they don’t know
anything, yet surely the continued hostility means that they at least suspect? A part of me wants to
believe it’s nothing more threatening than the same generalised dislike which Aronne himself had,
but somehow it seems like it might be dangerous to take too much false comfort from this. Hope
for the best, prepare for the worst…what else can I really do? I now defiantly meet their gaze and,
just like before, they’re the ones who eventually drop their eyes first.

The sole source of comfort in this otherwise trying day is that Jack only drops in and out at
intervals, which at least means I’m spared the mortification of squirming beneath his particularly
eagle-eye while knowing I’m a walking receptable for one of your DNA samples. Instead I just
pass the time with mindless tasks that would normally be way below my paygrade – arranging
interview dates, transcribing witness statements – while trying to avoid listening to the nearby
trainees describing you as a ‘monster’ and ‘sociopath’ and wishing I could tell them to fuck off.
God I can’t concentrate on anything; I now glance down and realise I’ve mistyped ‘jazz club’ as
‘jizz club’ and feel like putting my head in my hands. I miss you so much, it’s ridiculous. I don’t
care about any of this. It’s really not my world anymore…at least to the extent it ever truly was.

By the time I get back to the hotel I must surely be as flushed, fraught and borderline frantic as
even you could have hoped I’d be. It feels as if I’ve been semi-hard literally all day; if such things
were possible, I’d surely have acquired some kind of erectile strain by now. It’s not even purely
about being emotionally aroused as opposed to reacting to a physical stimulus beyond my control,
and for the first time I can truly appreciate why you wanted me to do this so badly. It’s not just the
fact I’ve been walking (or, more accurately, limping) around in front of the FBI’s finest while
stuffed full of your come, it’s the sense of power it gives you to know you’re able to manipulate
my mind and body’s responses even when we’re miles apart. It's about possessiveness and
ownership, and is really kind of fucked up – yet despite the turmoil it’s caused, I know I’d still do
it again in a heartbeat if you asked me to. As if to prove my point you absolutely pounce on me the
second I get through the door: running your fingers through my hair, inhaling deeply against my
throat, then roughly dragging your mouth against any spare bit of skin you can reach. It feels as if
your teeth are absolutely everywhere, even though I’m not actually being bitten.

“Jesus, calm down,” I say. I’m laughing now, trying to kiss you back then wrapping my arms
around your shoulders in an attempt to stay upright. “Stop it, you idiot, you’re going to knock me
over.”

Of course the obvious solution to this would be to let go, but the one you come up with is to shove
me up against the wall so you can continue the ferocious kissing with gravity on your side. Then
you end up changing your mind about that too, and instead just scoop me up in both arms before
striding off with me into the bedroom with a determined look on your face. I recently decided I was
going to give you 15 carries free of charge before I start complaining (you’re currently on number
4), so instead of bitching about it just sling my arms round your neck then run my tongue along
your ear while murmuring how much I’ve been missing you. It’s intended to be soothing – and
normally probably would be – only this time it manages to have the exact opposite effect, as you
promptly lose it all over again and begin ripping my clothes off before we’ve even made it to the
bed. In fact you’re so far gone you seem to have forgotten how to speak English, and actually run
on for several sentences in Lithuanian before appearing to realise and switching back.

“You really did it, didn’t you?” you ask. I’m trying to unfasten your shirt, but you now grab my
wrists between one large hand then force me to lie underneath you while you do it yourself. “Stay
still for me, mylimasis,” you add when I look like I’m going to move again. “I want you like this. I
want to watch you.”

Your tone is notably tender, and once again it occurs to me that I’ve managed to misjudge your
intentions. I’d imagined you’d enjoy hearing how agitated and uncomfortable I’ve been, but now
it’s come down to it I’ve realised you don’t. Instead, your expression is pure affection. You’re so
happy I’ve done this for you – and gratified that I had the nerve (and, indeed, treachery to Jack) to
go through with it – and now you’re hoping I enjoyed it as much as you clearly have yourself. It
doesn’t mean there’s no element of psychological game-playing to it, because of course there is:
there always is with you. But it's not the entirety, and somehow your intense pride and pleasure
recasts the last few hours in a totally different light and makes it seem far more sensuous and
enjoyable than it actually felt at the time. As if proving my point you give a slow smile then
release my wrists so you can cup my face instead. Your fingers, ghosting along my jaw and
cheekbones, feel strangely delicate despite the firmness of the touch.

“Of course I did,” I say now. “I did it for you. God, Hannibal, you were on my mind the whole
day. I mean you always are, but shit – this time was on a different level. I ended up having to do
the secretary’s work because it was impossible to focus on my own.”

You give a low sigh when you hear this then press your lips against my forehead, at the same time
starting to slide your legs upwards until one of them is rammed against my groin. My breath
catches loudly, which make you smile again before cupping my hips in both hands so you can them
rock back and forwards.

“That’s it,” you murmur as I start to pick up my own rhythm. “Good boy, that’s beautiful.”

“Oh yes,” I say quietly. I bite down on my lower lip, thrusting shamelessly against the iron hard
stretch of your thigh. “God, Hannibal. It feels so good.”

“It’s supposed to feel good,” you reply in the same tender way. As you stroke my face I let out
another soft moan and for a while you simply stare at me like someone entranced before taking
hold of my hips again to help me rock them even harder. “How did it feel?” you ask. “What was it
like having it inside you?”

It’s not entirely clear whether you’re referring to the plug or your come; realistically, I suppose it’s
probably both. “I loved it,” I say firmly. It doesn’t even feel like a lie anymore. Right now, it’s easy
to imagine I really did. “It was like I was full of you. I could feel you every time I moved.” I moan
again then reach down to take hold of my cock, despite already knowing you’ll grab my hand to
stop me (which of course you do). “It was like feeling so full, but also empty at the same time,” I
add. “Fuck, it made me so hard. I couldn’t stop thinking how desperate I was for the real thing.”

You hum with satisfaction then lean forwards like you’re about to kiss me before appearing to
change your mind and stroking my lower lip instead. It’s a clear encouragement to open my mouth
so I obey immediately, eagerly sucking your fingers while wantonly gazing up at you from beneath
my eyelashes.

“My poor boy,” you say softly. “I am not happy to hear that. Next time you are going to satisfy
yourself a little more effectively. I want you to go into the bathroom and find a stall, after which
you will call me and let me listen as you put your hands on your body and bring yourself to
orgasm. Do you understand, mano meilė? You are mine now. You belong to me. And that means
you do not observe the same rules of decorum as the rest of them.”

You sound very serious, although if today’s anything to go by I know I haven’t quite reached the
right stage of no-fucks-to-give to obey this particular request. But now is hardly the time to point it
out, so instead I just moan even louder round your fingers before struggling upright so I can get on
my hands and knees for you: arching my back then spreading my legs wide open until you’ve got a
full view of the obscene way the plug’s gleaming handle is protruding out of me. The position is
almost unbearably exposing, but any humiliation I might have felt is obliterated by the fucking
rapturous way you respond to the sight of it. I can literally hear your breath catching as you forget
to speak English again, instead murmuring snatches of something ecstatic to yourself in several
languages before crawling up behind me on the bed. As you take hold of my hips the mattress dips
downwards, followed by another pause while I just hear you breathing until you finally lower your
head to begin licking the taut, slippery skin that’s stretched tightly round the plug.

“Oh my God,” I say faintly. “Oh Hannibal, oh, oh fuck.”

My whole body’s gone totally rigid, eyes widening with the pleasure of it as I try to gulp in feverish
gasps of air. I’ve begun calling your name out by now in a kind of chant, so you lavish some messy
spit-slick kisses across my leg in response before diving straight back in again; spreading me wide
open with both hands, swirling your tongue in feathery circles, then lapping and sucking so
incredibly hard I eventually feel the saliva starting to slide down my thighs. It’s like I have to keep
reminding myself to breathe: every so often you’ll twist the handle forwards to thrust the plug
against my prostate and it’s making every nerve in my body sting. I’m not even sure how long it’s
been going on for because time has lost all normal meaning. It could have been seconds or minutes,
or even hours. All I know is there’s a huge damp patch spreading over the sheet from the crazy
amount of pre-come I’ve leaked on it and that the whole thing so blissful and shameful it’s
genuinely close to being too much.

“Please, please,” I hear myself saying, and it seems like half groan and half plea. “I need it. Oh
fuck, I can’t…it feels so good.”

For a few moments you pull away from me then tangle your fingers into my hair to jerk my head
back. Your other hand is pressing lightly on my back and my skin is so overheated that the
coolness of your touch seems to burn.

“Beloved,” I hear you say. “My beautiful boy.” Your accent always gets more pronounced when
you’re on the edge; I don’t even realise straight away that you’re still speaking English. “Tell me
how good.”

“Incredible,” I manage to reply. “Fuck.” I swallow a few times, darting my tongue out to try and
moisten my lips. You quickly dip your head again, licking around the plug before pulling away so
you can just breathe on me instead; small gusts of air, so damp and warm it promptly makes me
start whimpering with the need to be properly touched. “I like it,” I gasp out. “God, please, I like it
so much. No one’s ever made me feel like you do.”

“Yes,” you say, very low and intense. “Again.”

“No one but you. Never, not ever. Not anywhere close.”

“Yes,” you repeat, in something like a chant. “Yes…”

“Oh fuck, I love it when you eat me out.” I’m babbling now; I sound a bit wild. “Your tongue’s so
warm and wet. So thick. Next time I want to feel it sliding in and out of my ass, licking your come
out of me. Do you understand? I want you to spit it onto my mouth straight afterwards – make me
swallow it. Then make me wait on my hands and knees for you until you’re ready to fuck me again
and fill me up with some more.”

Immediately you press down hard just below where you’re holding the plug, deliberately
increasing the pressure it’s already putting on my prostate. I cry out sharply, cock leaking all over
the bedclothes in a steady stream while my hips jerk with an urgent, useless attempt to get some
pressure where I need it. Fuck, I can actually feel the way I’m getting tighter round the plug. It
makes it feel huge inside me, and as my cock gives another spasm there’s a few frenzied seconds
where I genuinely think I’m going to come.
“Oh,” I say helplessly. “Oh my God.”

There’s a slight pause as I feel your fingers twisting through my hair again. “That’s it,” you say.
“Good boy. You’re so close aren’t you? Just a little more…”

“Please, Hannibal. Please, please…”

“Mano meilė,” you reply, your voice still hitching with the same ragged gasps of breath. “Do you
remember the first time I put one of these inside of you? You were so shy and uncertain; I could
see you blushing at the sight of it. Yet look at you now. It won’t be long before you’re begging me
to use it on you more often.”

“Oh fuck, yes,” I say. “I love it. The only thing better is when you hold me down underneath you
and push your cock into my ass.” Your tongue promptly delivers another hot, wet swipe which
leaves me shuddering violently as a deep ripple of pleasure runs through my entire body. I’m
letting out a string of mewling noises now, losing control of myself just as much as you are. “Oh
God, oh my God,” I finally gasp out. “Fuck, Hannibal. You’re going to make me come.”

“I know my love,” you say. Briefly you pull away again, spitting onto your thumb then rubbing it
round the edge of the plug in slow, slippery circles until I bury my face in my arms and make a
noise like I’m being tortured. I can almost feel the way the muscle is twitching beneath your touch
– and from the low growling noise you’re making it’s clear you can feel it too. I’m so hard it’s
nearly painful, my hips still making the same pitiful little jerks despite there being nothing to meet
them each time they buck forwards except empty air. I really wish now that we’d filmed
ourselves…I’d have loved to watch you doing this to me. It’s like I want to come so badly yet also
don’t want it to be over, all the while letting out the sort of noises I don’t think I’ve ever made
before: very urgent and deep-pitched, interspersed with breathy little moans and cries. It’s making
me self-conscious, but when I try to stifle them by burying my face in my arm you reach out to tug
my hair.

“No,” you say. “I want to hear you. I want all of you, Will; don’t you understand that by now? I
want to hear you, see you, taste you…”

As you’re speaking you stroke my thighs again then push them further apart until you can wedge
yourself into the space and make it impossible for me to close them. Your voice has dropped even
lower by now to the point it’s close to a rasp. To most people it would probably sound intimidating
– eerie, even – but to me it’s deeply sensuous. Meaningful, too, in terms of how much of your
emotions you’re allowing yourself to show.

“You’re so sensitive, aren’t you?” you say softly. “So receptive. How long do you think you could
last like this?”

“I…I don’t know,” I stammer out. Fuck, I’m not sure what kind of reply I can make; surely it’s not
the sort of question you’re even expecting an answer to? “I can’t…I don’t know.”

“Don’t you?” you ask in the same low voice. “Shall we find out?”

As I groan with agreement you quickly lower your head to resume sucking the tender trembling
skin around the plug, only pulling away again to watch as my cock starts to spasm and a thick
thread of pre-come spills out the slit. You make another growling sound when you see it then
scoop it off the sheet with your fingers before pushing up against my lips to make me suck them.

“My love,” you say softly. “Mano gražioji meilė. Look at you. You’re perfect.”
Behind me I can hear how harsh and ragged your breathing is; can feel the way your fingers are
digging urgently into my hips, hard enough to leave bruises. You’re playing with the plug again
now – massaging, probing, exploring – although I’m so far gone I can’t even sense if you’re using
your tongue or your fingers. Which is it? I honestly can’t tell. In the end I just spread my legs even
wider, hips still helplessly grinding into nothingness in search of some much-needed friction that’s
not going to appear. The movement makes the plug handle thrust even more obscenely and you
catch your breath again then mutter something sharp in Lithuanian which I’m convinced is the type
of curse word you’d never allow yourself say in English. In this respect it’s obvious you’d like my
anguish to last much longer, although at the same time I can sense that you won’t. You’re
surprisingly caring that way; it’s like you always understand me well enough to gauge a perfect line
between it being enjoyably intense and becoming fraught and miserable instead. As such you give
the plug a final deep thrust then abruptly haul my shaking body upright until my back’s pressed
tight against your chest.

“That’s it,” you say tenderly. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.” As I rest my head on your
shoulder you curl your palm around my throat, kissing the side of my face then taking hold of your
cock with the other hand so you can rub the thick wet head just above the handle of the plug. I give
a low moan when I feel it then push back harder against you. “Is this what you want, my love?”
you add. “Is it what you’ve been waiting for?”

“God, yes,” I whisper. Somehow I manage to twist my face round, contorting into increasingly
painful angles in search of your mouth. “Always.”

“You want me inside you, don’t you Will?” you add in the same soft voice. “It’s what you need.
Inside your body, inside your mind…it’s what you’ve always needed. You were so stubborn for so
long, weren’t you? So rebellious. You never wanted to admit it.”

My breath hitches loudly at this, head spinning and ribcage heaving unnaturally fast. “I know,” I
say. “I know, I know…”

“You punished me by denying me access to you. Yet you still needed me inside you. Deep
inside…” Slowly you let go of my throat then begin to glide your hand downwards instead: across
my ribs, over my waist, then finally rubbing your thumb into the hollow of both hip bones. “You
feel so fragile,” you add, and for a few seconds I feel your fingers ghosting across the scars.
“You’re so defenceless right now. Mano meilė. I could do whatever I liked to you.”

Not long ago I’d have been vaguely freaked out by this, but now I can just see it for what it is so
make no attempt to pull away. Immediately you begin to rub your face against my neck –
cheekbones, forehead, even the bridge of my nose when you can reach it – then withdraw the plug
nearly all the way before thrusting it back forwards until I moan and collapse against your chest.
My hips are rolling in a series of fitful little stutters, still desperately chasing the sensation.

“Oh God, please…” I gasp out. “I need…”

“I know my love,” you say softly. “You need me, don’t you?”

“I need you. I need you.”

Briefly you let go of the plug then skim your hand down my chest again before taking hold of my
cock. It’s already soaking wet with pre-come but promptly spills all over again the second you rub
your thumb around the slit. You give another groan when you feel it then bury your face against
my hair.

“I know,” I hear you repeating. “But not as much as I need you, I can promise you that. You feel
incredible, beloved. Your body is exquisite. The way you grip onto me when I’m inside you; how
you’re able to show me how much you want me without needing to say a word.” You give my
cock a final stroke then ignore my wail of frustration to reach round and take hold of the plug
instead. “Look how excited you are,” you say softly. “It leaves me helpless when I see you like
this. I am a total slave to you. I’d fall at your feet and worship you; do whatever you demanded of
me. You know how much power you have, don’t you Will? I hope you plan to use it wisely.”

You tenderly kiss the back of my neck and then, with no warning at all, give your hand a rapid
twist until the plug has been pulled free. I cry out sharply; tensing, shuddering, then going utterly
rigid. “Oh my God,” I can hear myself saying. “Oh God, oh God.”

As my breath speeds into a pant you rest your palm across my ribcage to feel the way it’s pulsing
beneath its thin sheen of sweat. Your other arm has wrapped around my chest again to keep me
upright, and it’s only now that you finally start to push your cock against the quivering ring of
muscle; forcing forwards, so persistent and firm, until it abruptly gives way and your entire length
sinks inside me with a single deep thrust. You’ve already slicked yourself up with lube, yet I’ve
been so stretched and loosened by the plug it’s hardly even necessary as I cry out again with a noise
that’s unfamiliar in how intense it is – something low and visceral, almost animal-like – oblivious
by now to everything except how good it feels. You’re so hard it’s like I’m being impaled, the
sensation insanely pleasurable as I writhe around on your cock like I’m trying to ride it. Behind me
I can feel you stroking my face, repeating my name in a hallowed, reverential way like it’s the
words of a prayer.

“Oh fuck,” I gasp out. I sound shocked, almost panicked; it’s like I can’t quite believe it. “I think…
oh my God, I’m going to come. Hannibal. Oh God, I’m coming, I’m coming…”

The weight and warmth of your chest feels so good covering my back as I let my head fall onto
your shoulder again, surreally aware of how we seem to breathing in unison by now – breathing for
one another – while my heart crashes against my ribs in rhythm to each thrust. I can feel the orgasm
starting as a series of deep contractions around your cock, but even though neither of us have
touched my own yet there’s no doubt having you inside me is going to be enough. In fact you’re
already in the process of reaching down to stroke it (having rightly guess I’m too far gone to do it
myself) but before you can even get there I’m trembling and crying out as a series of hot, wet
pulses begin to spatter over the sheets. The main thing I’m really aware of is whiteness – spectral
white noise filling my head, white hot heat in my body, white light sparking in front of my eyes –
and for a few moments I’m genuinely afraid I might cry from the intensity of it and have to bite my
lip in an attempt to get back in control. My body’s absurdly over-sensitive now, like a layer of
skin’s been removed, and as I feel your own hips jerking when you start coming yourself it’s
enough to almost make me lose it completely. God, I’m so glad that it’s you; so glad that no other
person has ever made me feel this way. I could never bear the exposure of it in front of anyone
else.

By this point it’s as if there’s no air left in my lungs, so when you remove your arm my legs
promptly give way until I’ve crumpled onto the bed again like a puppet with its strings cut. You
make an amused noise at the sight of it then curl your body over mine, tenderly stroking my hair
while pressing soft kisses against my neck and shoulders. We’re there for so long it looks like we
might even fall asleep like that, although in the end you eventually get up then vanish into the
bathroom to retrieve a facecloth (and which, as far as Sex Towels go, is like shutting the stable
door after the horse has not only bolted but ejaculated over absolutely everything.)

“We need a shower,” I mutter, my voice almost comically scratchy and hoarse from all the
gasping. I’m feeling slick, wet and fucked wide open in a way that should possibly feel degrading
and yet…doesn’t. You hum in response so I reach out to give you an affectionate poke. “Now.
We’re both gross.”

“Later,” you say, smoothing both palms across my waist in a way that’s unmistakably possessive.
“I want my scent all over you. I want you to smell exactly like me.”

You use the facecloth to wipe me clean, then do the same for yourself before holding a glass of
water in front of my lips and making me take a few sips. Then after that you kiss my hipbone,
before finally propping your laptop on the nightstand so you can start studiously scrolling though it
in search of some music. I wait with interest to see what you’ll choose, because if the past few
weeks are anything to go by it’ll almost certainly be something which indicates your current mood.
Sure enough you select the Hebrides Overture, which is a piece that’s always struck me as dreamy
and lyrical while still retaining a tumultuous stormy undertone. At moments like this it feels as if
you’re talking to me through the music and I like it very much. Even so, it’s a habit I’m still
reluctant to ask you about as you almost certainly won’t admit to it – and, if pressed, might even
stop doing it entirely. In fact, you definitely will: you always hate the thought of being seen as
predictable, even with me. In a way it’s not dissimilar to how we deflect our problems into sex
instead of discussing them like the rational grown-ass adults we’re supposed to be, although
somehow I can’t bring myself to be too discouraged by this. After all, we are trying aren’t we?
We’re communicating better than we’ve ever done – even if we’re not that great at it – and the
truth of this makes me happy in a pure, uncomplicated way that feels slightly unfamiliar simply
because I’m still so unused to it.

As if proving my point you now settle down behind me again, neatly slotting your hips against
mine until your face is nestling in my hair and your breath rustles reassuringly against my neck. If
it was anyone else, I’d actually say you were snuggling me (but it’s you, which means I can’t).
You seem so much calmer now, though; far more relaxed than you’ve been for a while. In terms of
pacifying you, it appears that the golden butt plug and I have been doing the Lord’s Work. In fact,
that whole FBI team should be goddamn grateful to us – they’d probably have had to categorise
several more corpses by now without our intervention. Then I have a sudden memory of Jack
informing the entire taskforce that ‘Will knows how to manage Hannibal’ and am overcome with
an awful urge to laugh.

As I smile to myself in the darkness I feel the sharp edge of your cheekbone pressing against my
own. “Are you awake, mylimaisis?” you ask.

I give a loud yawn, blinking rather groggily as if I’m drunk, then reach round so I can stoke your
hair. You make a contended noise then immediately lean into the touch. “Sort of,” I reply. “Just. I
think I’m conserving my energy to get a shower – I can’t go to sleep like this.”

“Were you planning to go to the office tomorrow?”

“No,” I reply through more yawns. “I wasn’t planning on it. But it depends if anything happens; if
I get a call I might have to go.”

You hum non-commitedly then press another kiss against my cheek. “Tell me how Jack’s been
behaving with you,” you ask.

This time I find myself hesitating, even though it’s far from the first time you’ve posed a question
like this. On the contrary, in fact, because it’s just one of many, many variations of the same theme
in terms of what Jack and I’s relationship is like when you’re not there to keep an eye on us. It’s as
if you’re hungry for details, no matter how small or irrelevant they might be, and it’s getting to the
point I’m thinking I might have to start inventing some simply to keep feeding your insatiable
appetite to hear them. You were so dismissive when I tried to compare the dynamic to a love
triangle, but it really is like one; and I think you know that too. It’s probably why you tried to
deflect the analogy as quickly as you did. Not because it’s too frivolous, but because it hits too
close to home – and because you don’t like admitting that you’ve grown susceptible to the same
petty doubts and rivalries as anybody else. In a weird way it’s like I’ve been a bad influence on
you. For most of your adult life you’ve spurned any kind of real attachment, and growing so close
to another person has forced you to adopt a repertoire of responses that are distinctly human when
you always used to think you were above that type of thing. At least you’re still willing to show it, I
suppose, and I really love you for that. It’s yet another example of something you’d have once
expressed as aggression towards me being conveyed in a more peaceful, humble way instead.

Before answering I turn myself over then slide my hand down to stroke along your cheekbone, very
slow and tender to let you know that I understand what you’re feeling and don’t intend to judge
you for it. “He’s mostly just distracted,” I say. “Preoccupied. It’s safe to assume you’re on his mind
far more than I am.”

“But when you’re with him,” you persist. “When he speaks to you directly?”

I want to reply that he’s pretty much the same as he’s always been, but I know this is too light on
details and won’t be enough to satisfy you. For a few moments I just frown to myself instead,
turning it over in my mind as I try to think of the best way to describe our interactions. It makes my
eyebrows furrow together and I can already see you starting to smile at the sight of it. You always
seem to find it endearing when I do this. It makes you look so solemn, you once said when I asked
you about it. Yet it’s clear you’re still preparing to pounce. Rather like a swan on water – serene
on first inspection yet working away so fiercely and frantically beneath the surface.

“I’d say he’s gruff,” I eventually reply. “He gets impatient with me quite easily.” Then I quickly
add “Not angry, though,” because one of the many paradoxes of your current mood is that while
Jack can’t be too friendly towards me, he’s not allowed to be hostile either (or, God forbid, openly
rude). “It’s like he’s on a permanently short fuse,” I add. “He’s still kind though. I can tell he’s
worried about me.”

You silently digest this for a while then give a slow nod. I know this isn’t what you want to hear:
as far as you’re concerned no one is allowed to be protective towards me except you, which means
Jack presuming to do it is tantamount to poaching on your turf. Even so, I can tell you’re pleased
I’m being honest with you.

“Does he talk much about the past?” you ask.

“Not really, no,” I say slowly. “I think he would have; he kept trying to get me to go for a meal
when he first arrived, and he’d probably have done it then. But since Aronne he’s been too
focussed on you. We don’t have personal discussions. It’s all about logistics.”

“I see.” Briefly you fall silent again then prop your head against mine so you can kiss my temple.
“And what does he say about me?”

“The usual. That you’re unpredictable. Dangerous.” I sigh rather unhappily then rest my hand
across your arm again. “That you need to be caught. He doesn’t admit to being afraid of you, but I
can tell that he is. He’s afraid of what you’re capable of – and that he isn’t confident he’ll be able to
stop you.”

“A rare piece of insight from Uncle Jack,” you say crisply. “Because he is not going to be able to
stop me.”

“Yes,” I reply with a hint of sharpness. “Because you’re not going to give him a chance to.”
Predictably you don’t actually bother to acknowledge this, instead just putting your hand over mine
then trailing a finger along the small bones of my wrist. “So what about the others?” you add.
“How do you find relating to them?”

“It’s hard talking to them about you,” I say with another sigh. “As I said, it makes me feel
conflicted; I don’t like the sense of playing both sides. I don’t like lying to them. And I hate
pretending to be against you. God, I hate it so much. They’re all either afraid of you or in awe of
you, and both feel utterly wrong. It’s not real – none of it’s real. It’s not really you.”

By now I sound a bit overwrought so you gently stroke my hand again as if trying to calm me.
“Who is in awe of me?” you ask.

“Some of the Italians, I suppose. The trainees too. It’s like you’re an urban legend to them.”

“The trainees?” you repeat, and this time your tone seems to have shifted into something
seductively low and hypnotic. “Like Clarice?”

As soon as you ask that I can see the exact type of trap you’ve set and have to resist a sudden urge
to flinch. It really is a lose/lose though, because if I agree then you’ll demand further details (which
it might be dangerous for you to have), whereas if I say no you’ll immediately guess that I’m lying.
Internally I feel like punching myself, but it’s too late now and I can hardly take it back again.
Jesus, you’re so sharp sometimes – it’s almost impossible to get anything past you. Admittedly,
you’ve always had an unnerving ability to get inside someone’s head after only a few seconds of
talking to them, yet while I know it’s already been done to me countless times the idea of it
happening again always bothers me more than I like to admit.

“I suppose so,” I reply, deliberately casual. “She would have studied you, the same as the rest of
them.”

There’s a slight pause as your finger goes still before resuming the same slow stroking. “You don’t
mention her very often,” you say.

“No. I suppose I don’t.”

“And yet you spend time with her. A lot of time.”

“Some,” I say cautiously. “Not a lot.”

“She’s the one who wears L’Air du Temps,” you reply. “Isn’t she? You often come home smelling
of it. That’s how I know, Will…” There’s another small pause in which I can see your eyes
gleaming; directly gazing into mine with all their lethally beautiful blackness. God, it’s like you’re
dragging out the suspense for as long as you can. “That’s how I know she was the one who stopped
you in the city,” you finally add. “You were in touch with her before you even joined the taskforce
weren’t you?”

By this point your calmness is starting to feel unnerving. In a weird way I think I’d almost rather
you just lost your shit, the same as a regular person would. It’s also rather ironic, because I can still
remember you mentioning it when it happened: the way I’d come home smelling of perfume and
guessing that you’d notice while still being unable to do anything about it. To be honest I’m not
even surprised you’ve made the link – dismayed, naturally, but not remotely surprised.

“Why didn’t you mention it?” you now ask.

Because I thought you might go after her, I think bleakly, even though I don’t want to antagonise
you by saying it out loud. “I guess because I didn’t think it was that important,” I say instead. “It
didn’t seem worth mentioning. You knew a trainee had recognised me. It seemed obvious I’d be
working with them when I joined the taskforce.”

“But not just any trainee,” you persist. “The one who reminds you of Abigail.”

I now sigh rather heavily then reach up to stroke your face again. “I know,” I say gently. “And I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t have said that – at least not it in that context.”

This time you just stare at me without speaking, which is a bad sign. It’s like you’re regressing to
how you used to be: the cold, aloof exterior that pretends it’s above being hurt. To coax you out of
it I stroke your face again and you finally relent enough to cover my hand with yours.

“She important to you, isn’t she?” you finally reply.

By now this is growing borderline painful, because while I hate the sense of not being fully open
with you the fear of how you might use the information is continuing to hold me back. It’s not even
for my own sake, as opposed to Clarice’s – not to mention yours, given the real possibility of you
doing something that could put yourself at risk. After all, if one thing’s clear by now it’s that me
asking you not to do something will never be enough and that the simplest thing is to just remove
the incentive entirely. Wordlessly I run my thumb along your cheekbone; a sincere yet silent form
of apology for not being as transparent as I wish I could be.

“It depends how you define important,” I say. “If you mean I am deeply attached to her, then no – I
don’t know her well enough for that. But if you mean do I value her as a person, then yes. I do. It’s
true there are aspects of her which make me think of Abigail. And I liked mentoring her. I want her
to be happy and to do well in her career.” Very briefly I catch your eye. “And I want her to be
safe.”

There’s another slight pause while you continue to gaze at me. “And you confide in her?” you
finally add. “You told her you were leaving the taskforce before you told me.”

Internally I feel myself wince again. “I know,” I reply. “And I’m sorry for that too.” In fact I am
sorry – sorry that I was stupid enough to mention it – but with the shellshock of your Aronne
revelation it scarcely seemed relevant at the time. “I should have told you first,” I add earnestly.
“All I can say is that I wasn’t planning to; it was a very spur of the moment thing. I kind of just
decided it then blurted it out to her. It was a way of making myself commit to it. You know?
Confirming it with someone meant it would be harder to walk back later if I ended up getting cold
feet.” I smile slightly then lean forward to press another kiss against your forehead. “Plus I wanted
someone I could talk about ‘Robert’ with. No one else would have listened to me rambling about
him the way she did.”

This makes your mouth flicker a little before your expression promptly closes down again. Your
eyes are so dark they seem almost entirely pupil. “What else do you tell her?” you say.

In the past I know you’d have sounded haughty or irritated asking this, but now you just sound sad.
In turn, my own reaction is almost equally complicated – a blend of guilt, regret, and more than a
little concern as to whether you might want to investigate this perceived rival more closely. Mostly,
though, I’m just aware of a sense of gratitude that you’re being so honest with me. It’s not easy for
you to be vulnerable and I can image the amount of discipline it’s taking to make yourself show it.

“Nothing,” I now say in a gentle voice. “We just discuss the investigation. The only time I’ve
really opened up to her is when I was talking about you.” I lean forward then kiss you again, my
other hand gripped around the back of your neck. “And that was the last time, I promise. I’ll never
discuss things with anyone unless I’ve already told you first.”
 You give one of your little rumbling sighs at this, apparently satisfied, and I push myself even
closer so I can relish how warm you feel; the sense of strength and safety I always have whenever
I’m with you. In the end I just hold you like that until I realise you’ve fallen asleep, very soft and
restful in my arms like all your normal ferocity has been soothed away. It’s so rare to see you like
this and there’s something about it I find almost unbearably touching. Leaning forward again I now
press my lips against yours.

“I can’t wait to marry you,” I say quietly. “I love you so much.”

Sometimes I feel like I could stay this way forever: just you and me, in our own safe circle of two.
Yet this sense of peacefulness, while hugely comforting, is ultimately still imperfect because deep
down I know I can’t ignore what’s just happened. It’s still there, nagging away at me like an
aching tooth, and it doesn’t matter if I’d like to or want to; I know I can’t ignore the fact that your
fascination with Clarice is unshakable – just like hers is for you – and that one day this mutual
intrigue is going to demand some form of fulfilment. God, it’s like the Jack situation all over again,
isn’t it? Two separate parties, two competing interests, and me as the common link between the
two.

They can’t have you, I think with a surge of fierceness. You belong to me. I won’t let them come
anywhere close. And which is all very well…and yet is also the easiest part by far. If only the rest
was that simple. Because while I still believe I can keep them away from you, what I can’t
guarantee with anywhere near the same confidence is how the hell I’m supposed to keep you away
from them.

Chapter End Notes

Next update ETA: April 3rd

 Chapter 42
Chapter Notes

Hello lovely Fannibals, we’ve been treated this week to some incredible related works
for the fic which I *highly* recommend checking out. Huge thanks to Jimie and
DD_cookmelonger for their exquisite fanart, and to unsernameinuse for their awesome
fic (and who totally gives me a run for my money in writing sassy 1st person Will :-D)

Also, same apologies as last time I’m afraid, as I’m still working through some reader
requests and have nothing to show for it except another 16k words of fluff-porn xD

See the end of the chapter for more notes

When I wake up next morning the first thing I see is you: peacefully sleeping next to me, with one
arm tucked around my waist and the other stretched out along the headboard to graze the back of
my hair. I guess most people wouldn’t find anything remarkable in this, but in our case it feels
unusual because you’re almost always the first one awake. I mean, you really are – I could maybe
count the number of times the opposite has happened in single digits only. For the longest time I
also assumed it simply reflected your limited need for sleep (and which, to be fair, it probably
mostly does) although I’ve since decided that it’s more than just that. Instead, I think it’s due to the
deep dislike you have of lowering your guard: a proud, predatory instinct which makes sleeping
around another person something you’ll avoid out of principle. You’re like a panther who dozes on
the bough of a tree to remain undisturbed, and it transforms your willingness to let me be with you
this way into a display of trust and comfort with my presence that always feels rather profound.
Hell, I can still remember the aftermath of the Muskrat Farm disaster: me, slumped in my bed
exhausted and injured, and you in an even worse state yet just propped up in a chair the entire time.
Even the first few weeks you stayed in my apartment you virtually never slept in the same room.
Seeing you like this used to be like sighting a rare animal in the wild: the type of experience that’s
unexpected – vaguely thrilling – and which I’d want to tell other people about afterwards just to
confirm it was real. I saw a California Condor today. I saw Hannibal sleeping. And now…here
you are.

Look at you, I think, beginning to gently stroke your hair. You, you, you. Who are you, really? It’s a
question I’ve posed in numerous ways to myself over the years but even now an easy answer
escapes me. After all, you’ve been so many things: so much that’s peerless and flawless competing
with the disturbing and degenerate, both my biggest problem and greatest solution. You’re such a
human hall of mirrors, aren’t you? Malign energy with thoughtful smiles, tender touches that
wound without warning, broken promises and earnest endeavours, a lover, an adversary, a fallen
idol, and a faithless friend: lethal in construction, inspirational in execution – and utterly
destructive by design. You’re dreamlike grace with snapping intellect and haughty pragmatism,
someone who’s sadistic yet virtuosic and who elevates death into art. And you’re completely
lacking any normal sense of morality…yet you still brim with an intense, unbridled magnetism that
burns so brightly it sometimes hurts to look at you. In a deeply mysterious way, everything is just
better with you. I’m better: live larger, think sharper, fight harder, love fiercer and feel more loved.
It’s both as simple and as convoluted as that. Because you might not have made me a better person,
but you’ve inspired me to become a better version of myself. And while you didn’t always make
me feel the best, or happiest, or safest, you’ve never failed to make me feel the most. You’ve
understood me in a way that no one else ever has, and I never knew myself as well as I do when
we’re together.

As I feel you stirring beneath my hand I make a soothing sound then reach down to run my
fingertip across a single sharp cheekbone. You did all that, I think. But I finally understand it now,
because once the mystery and spectacle are stripped away it’s still just you behind it all. Just you –
and now me. I once told Jack I was lucky to find you, didn’t I? I meant it at the time, but it was
never really true: I didn’t find you because you were a part of me all along. You’ve always been
there. You’re my own darkness, lit up and illuminated and entirely without shame. You’re like love
set on fire, burning inside of me. The world is full of fleeting thoughts and feelings, but you’re a
constant to cling onto and it makes me feel as if I want to give you all of me. All my shattered
fragments. All of my Self.

You can’t take me over because I’m my own person , I think as I continue the rhythmic stroking
across your face. But I’d still give you everything I have. You can’t control me because I’m
independent and free, but there’s still virtually nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I’m giving you the
biggest thing I have to offer anyone: myself. And you’re repaying me in kind. My Self and Your
Self…one self in exchange for another. Because we’re both just material beings after all – easily
tattered and torn and difficult to patch back together – but just as we were ready to die for each
other, I know that we’re finally ready to live for each other as well.

Reflections like this now help me to realise that I already know the answer to my earlier question,
which is both as humble as it’s intricate: you’re everything. Another thing it is is familiar, because
it’s an insight I’ve known for a very long time – ever since the blood-soaked revelations by the
cliffside with its mad ecstasy and loss of control, and probably even long before that. But it feels so
different now, which means the awareness feels different too. Just so much safer and calmer. Just
here, just like this: just the two of us in the morning sunlight, separate consciousness and
dissenting souls, yet so entirely and perfectly together. Like the two mysterious halves of the yin-
yang symbol which retain their own uniqueness yet are still so intensely and naturally entwined
that there’s no real way for one of them to exist except as part of the other.

These kinds of thoughts are always the best start to the day – and all only possible because you’re
here, sleeping, willing to let me love you. Unfortunately it’s also at this point that I manage to ruin
it all by sneezing very loudly, which of course means that you immediately wake up too (then
proceed to greet me in Lithuanian, because you’re still so relaxed and drowsy you’ve forgotten
how to speak English). In fact, I’d say you look sleepy, which in itself is ridiculously endearing.
Normally the most you could be said to look is tired, and even then that’s fairly unusual. Sleepy is
something sweet and soft – the type of thing I’d expect a child to be – and watching you yawning
and smiling as you tighten your arm round my waist is something I know is never, ever going to
lose its appeal.

Predictably (yet regrettably) you’re also guaranteed to never stay like this for long, which means
it’s now only a matter of time before you’ve snapped wide awake again and are sitting bolt upright
in bed to scroll through your tablet while I’m still burrowing beneath the covers in a convincing
impression of one of The Undead. In other words, pretty much the same as usual; and which turns
out to be how the rest of morning also ends up going, where we get up in the same way we always
do to shower together, then go through the motions of shaving and teeth-brushing (also together),
before standing side-by-side to prepare a mutual breakfast of frittata and fresh orange juice (you)
and black coffee (me). The sun is already bright and fierce in the sky, so after the dishes have been
cleared away you take your laptop onto the balcony to make the most of it while I lurk around in
the living area and announce, possibly for the fifth time that morning: “Oh my God, it’s so hot.”
This is then accompanied by the kind of disdainful snorting noise that seems to have become my
speciality over the years – and which means you have to reply (also for the fifth time): “It’s Italy,
beloved. It’s supposed to be hot.”
My sole response to this is to repeat the snorting noise in your direction – rather like I think you
and the weather are conspiring together to be unreasonable – before stalking a little further into the
living room to stretch out across the sofa. In this respect I’m aware my discontent also has a certain
sense of irony to it, because while I’m the one who imposed our current state of house arrest there’s
no doubt that I’m the one who struggles the most with it. You have an almost infinite capacity to
entertain yourself with limited resources, but I need to be striding through woods or fields: walking,
or fishing, or (best of all) whistling to a pack of dogs. That said, if I’m going to be entombed with
anyone then I’m still glad it’s you. It’s weird to remember how it was only a matter of months ago
that I was insisting on a separate room to guarantee my private space. This recent, enforced
closeness is something I’d have expected to be difficult and instead it’s made me realise that I
don’t ever want to be without it again.

Right on cue a creaking sound now comes floating through the balcony doors as an indication
you've begun to sit upright on your lounger. “Come out of your cave, mylimasis,” I hear you say. “I
want to speak with you.”

This makes me smile, because I can already tell from your tone of voice that you don’t want to
speak about anything in particular – you just want me there with you. Obligingly I now haul myself
to my feet then venture outside onto the balcony, trying not to wince too obviously at the sudden
wall of heat. At the moment I seem to spend most of my time hopping from one patch of shade to
another, although you’ll always be out here yourself to soak it up…not entirely unlike a big lizard. I
smile to myself then affectionately brush my hand against your shoulder before perching rather
gingerly on the edge of the second chair.

“I don’t know how you can stand this,” I say. This is followed by a grunting noise (a close relative
of the snorts) which is meant to imply that the heat is a point of profound personal offence. In fact
the temperature in the city probably isn’t that bad, but the position of the balcony makes it an
absolute suntrap. “The air’s scorching,” I add (grunt). “I hope you’ve put some sunscreen on?”

You give me one of your favourite smug expressions (presumably meant to imply that if sunburn
ever comes for you you’ll kick its ass) before taking a delicate sip of something I can’t quite
identify beyond the fact it’s a pale, shimmering green and has a wafer-thin slice of lime on the edge
of the glass. “It’s infernal,” I add to drive the point home. “Like the hell fires.”

“Then I suppose I must be at home in the hell fires,” you reply with a small smirk. “I’m sure you’ll
get used to it eventually.”

“I don’t want to get used to it,” I say – and which is meant to indicate noble resignation, but only
succeeds in making me sound like a vengeful toddler. In the end I decide it might be better to just
take refuge in silence, so lean back in my chair instead and spend a few moments simply sitting
there to watch you. You’re just so glamourous, aren’t you? All cat-like elegance and casual
grace…I don’t know why it took me so long to realise it. Right now you’re wearing an extremely
well-cut linen shirt (busy defying all known laws of physics by its refusal to grow either limp or
wrinkled), and a slim pair of sunglasses which curve gracefully over the bridge of your nose and
accentuate your cheekbones. I really envy you your skin sometimes: you’ve got the kind of
complexion that skips over the pink, peeling stage and goes straight to being a smooth golden
brown. Then I promptly get flashbacks to buying concealer in America to cover your hickeys – and
the assistant taking one look at me before handing over a shade called ‘porcelain doll’ – and let out
yet another of the long-suffering grunts.

As if reading my mind you peer at me from over the top of your glasses then start to smile. “The
freckles are back,” you say.
“Yeah, I know,” I reply gloomily. “The bastards.”

“You have not evaded the sun as successfully as you’d hoped.”

“Apparently not.”

“Your hair, too: you have a few dark gold strands in it.”

I grunt again to indicate my levels of excitement about this, at which point your faint smirk grows
ever-so-slightly broader. I know there was a time – probably not that long ago – when I might have
been irritated by this, but now I find these looks of yours endearing. There’s just something so
amusing about them. Epic, almost, in how incredibly smug and expressive they are (and always
managing to seem more suitable for some kind of medieval warlord who goes round slaying
dragons and bedding wenches than they are for a debonair psychiatrist/FBI’s Most Wanted). I now
give you a small eyeroll and am promptly rewarded with an even broader smirk in return.

“Sun-kissed,” you add, completely deadpan. “You are so irresistible that even the sun feels a need
to caress you.”

“Oh shut up,” I say with another smile. “Idiot.”

“Brat.”

“Old man.”

“Well, as they say in Italy,” you reply rather playfully, “beati coloro che vivono con gli anziani.
‘Blessed are those who live with the elderly’ . It means you will be able to benefit from the breadth
of my experience.”

“Oh, okay then,” I say. “That’ll be nice for me.”

“Indeed it shall.” You give the most godawful smirk as a kind of finale then replace your
sunglasses as an indication you consider the matter closed. “You are a fortunate boy.”

“Hmm, if you say so,” I reply. Then I reach over to press my bare foot against yours before simply
stretching out across the lounger again to watch you. It’s nice to see how calm and contented you
look, but I still can’t help thinking how incredibly limited all this must feel compared to the type of
life you had the last time you stayed here. Admittedly my guilt over this is also rather irrational,
because it’s not like I can be held responsible for every batshit thing you’ve ever done and the
decision to kill Aronne was entirely your fault. All the same, I still feel bad about it. There’s no
way you’re hiding away like this by choice, after all; the only reason you’re submitting yourself to
it is to try and keep me happy. But irrational or not the awareness of it has gotten thoroughly into
my head by now, nagging and tugging at my nerves until later that evening I decide I can’t stand it
anymore and put my hand on your arm to give it an impromptu stroke of apology.

“I’m sorry things are like this,” I blurt out. “I know how dull it is for you to be stuck inside.”

For a while you just stare at me, slow-blinking like a cat. If you’re surprised by this outburst you
clearly don’t intend to show it. “No,” you finally reply. “It is not dull.”

“It is though.” I’m being stubborn about it now. It’s like I’ve turned into a martyr to my own
inferiority complex (which means we’re probably going to be sat here for the next 20 minutes as I
soliloquize about what a massive fuck-up I am before getting irritated with you when you refuse to
agree with me). To save us both some time I decide to skip ahead to the conclusion and add: “It’s
so different to when you were here with Bedelia.”
This gets your intention immediately. I knew it would: it’s rare for me to mention Bedelia, and
although you never encourage it, it’s also clear that you enjoy the way I still harbour so much envy
towards her. “It is different,” you say after another pause. “But the value attached to the difference
is another matter entirely.”

“She didn’t hold you back though, did she?”

“She did not. But then neither do you.”

“I do,” I say gloomily. “I know you’d never be hiding out if you were by yourself.” Then I want to
add ‘I act this way because I care about you’, only can’t quite bring myself to do it because of how
patronising it might sound. Fortunately though, as you so often can, you seem to guess my meaning
anyway because your whole expression immediately starts to soften.

“I think it’s safe to say Bedelia did not hold any particularly protective feelings towards me,” you
reply. “She would have had little concern as to whether I was caught or not. Besides, I am hardly in
a position to complain. I have chosen to live with a former FBI agent: your attention to issues of
security is not entirely unexpected.”

This makes me smile slightly so you smile back then reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind my
ear. I suppose this should really be an end to it, only it seems my Martyr Complex has other ideas
as it’s still not remotely close to being done. “Although it’s not like we went out much before,” I
add in the same gloomy tone. “Before Jack arrived, I mean.”

“Indeed not,” you say fondly. “The little lone wolf. You really dislike socialising don’t you?”

“Mostly.”

“It’s because you’re an introvert: you get overstimulated very easily. Of course that’s not the same
as being antisocial, because you understand people incredibly well. In fact you understand them
too well, which is why they overwhelm you.”

“Yeah, but, even so…I don’t expect you to stay in all the time because of me.”

“Only in a spirit of compromise,” you reply in the same fond way. “I likewise don’t want you to
feel forced. Watching you in agonies the entire time isn’t my idea of an enjoyable evening.
Besides, I like how aloof you are. You’re quiet and beautiful.”

“Oh come on,” I say with a smirk of my own. “Watching me in agony is one of your favourite
things.”

You give me the tiniest hint of an eyeroll then reach out to tuck away a few more strands of hair
behind the other ear. “Sincerely, mano meilė,” you add. “Bedelia and I’s routine might have held a
certain glamour from a distance, but I can assure you that the reality was very different. Yes, my
time was infinitely more occupied than it is now, but I myself was infinitely less contented. It’s as I
told you before, Will: I missed you very badly. Your absence left an emptiness within me that
nothing else was ever remotely able to fill.”

“I don’t know why,” I say gruffly. I’m deflecting now to avoid the emotion – a bad habit I’m still
not entirely able to break. “I wasn’t exactly good company back then.”

“Perhaps,” you reply before adding, in a rare bit of self-deprecation: “Although I’m sure you
would be entitled to say the same about me.”

“Yes,” I say, beginning to smile too. “Perhaps.”

“Not that it matters,” you add. “Being with you makes me happy, beloved. It always did – even
when you were being objectionable.” You pause then smile again yourself. “Especially when you
were being objectionable.”

“Mmm, yes,” I say wryly. “I suppose ‘objectionable’ would be one way of putting it.”

“But it made me happy all the same,” you reply without any hesitation. “Your emotions were
always something to be savoured. Whether you were angry, mournful, frustrated…they all had a
luminously lethal beauty with dark slender souls. They possessed a certain chaos which I liked very
much. A certain volatility, Will. Such a collection of foibles and uncertainties, of consequence and
principles – a boldness tempered by timidity, a recklessness restrained by caution – and all housed
inside this beautiful boy who was forced to bear the weight of them day after day...”

For a few seconds you fall silent again, gazing into the distance rather dreamily. “Wild and wary,
and precious and audacious,” you finally conclude. “Sometimes it seemed as if you were designed
purely for my express enjoyment; such a breathless capacity to fascinate, intrigue and inspire.”
There’s another silence, this time rather more weighty as you briefly let your eyes fall closed. “If
you only knew how much those small moments with you meant to me.”

Your voice has slightly dropped now and it’s obvious how intensely personal this revelation is. It’s
also the kind of long speech you’d never have given in the past, and seems like yet another sign of
how much more comfortable you’ve become with being open about how you feel. It’s basically
your version of rambling – and I like it more than I have words to say. In the end I just cover my
hand with yours then gently run my thumb along the knuckles.

“It’s okay,” I say quietly. “I know.”

“Good,” you reply in your normal voice. “Then in future kindly keep your foolish observations to
yourself about how I could ever have been happier with Bedelia than I am with you.”

This makes me burst out laughing before leaning forwards to give your cheek an affectionate
nuzzle. “Foolish and hirsute,” you add fondly. “That beautiful face requires a shave.”

“Price thinks I’m so clumsy I’d decapitate myself if I tried to shave it off.” I smile again then trace
my thumb across your own jaw, smooth and flawless as a billiard ball. “But that at least if I did I’d
have denied you the satisfaction of doing it yourself.” Your eyebrows promptly elevate all the way
up your forehead. “Yeah, I know,” I say. “Beethoven levels of tone deaf.”

“It is, indeed, not very tactful.”

“It’s because he’s scared,” I add. “He tries to hide it with humour. Not that he’s the only one.
Everyone’s scared of you.”

“Not you though.”

“No,” I say softly. “Not me.”

For a while you just gaze at me very soulfully before finally raising your own hand to cover mine.
“You know, that is the second joke we have made in as many days at Beethoven’s expense,” you
say with another faint smile. “Such mockery makes me feel guilty.”

“No it doesn’t. You never feel guilty about anything.”

“And yet I do. He brought so much beauty into the world. He deserves our respect.”
I nod with agreement then briefly fall silent myself as I start remembering the last time he was
mentioned. “Mein engel,” I eventually say. “Mein alles, mein eigenes selbst…mein Unsterbliche
Geliebte.”

I’m staring into your eyes again now. Admittedly my accent is terrible, but while I wish I had the
confidence to say the same words in English there’s still no mistaking the sentiment behind them.
As you silently gaze back at me there’s a few moments where you look genuinely moved.
“Mylimasis,” you say very quietly.

“Mano meilė,” I reply before blurting out, without even fully planning to: “Would you play Für
Elise for me?”

Immediately your eyebrows start to re-elevate themselves. “Now?”

“Right now.”

“Are you sure? You seemed very adamant that such a scene should not be repeated.”

“Yeah, I guess I was.” I pause again then glance up at you from beneath a few strands of hair. “But
I trust your judgement.”

At this point another pause now follows in which you just resume your silent gazing before leaning
forward to take my face between both hands and press your lips against my forehead. You do it in
the very gentle way you sometimes have; the one which makes it seem like you’re remembering
how we were several years ago, as if you think I might object.

“I don’t have the music,” is all you say. “It will have to be from memory.”

“That’s okay,” I reply. “Your memory’s not too bad.”

You smile again. “There are likely to be several errors.”

“I don’t mind.” I smile back at you then reach out to place my hand over yours. “It doesn’t have to
be perfect. It just has to be you.”

This time your sole response is to kiss me even harder before getting up to retrieve your key card
while I sit there watching your progress with the same fond (somewhat goofy) smile on my face. I
suppose, realistically, that I should already be having doubts about this; I should be regretting the
suggestion and telling you I’ve changed my mind. I really should, shouldn’t I? That would be the
sane, sensible thing to do. Only it seems I’m not feeling either particularly sane or sensible right
now, so in the end just take hold of your hand then keep hanging onto it – all the way down the
corridor, into the elevator, then across the foyer until we’ve reached the piano and I’m finally
forced to let go. As I watch, you settle yourself onto the stool and lift up the fallboard, taking a few
seconds to knot your fingers together then stretching your arms out in front of you. Your expression
is more serious now, which isn’t especially surprising; you always take music very seriously. I can
tell you’re arranging the piece in your head – selecting the tempo, deciding the time signature –
until you lightly stroke your fingers across the keys like you’re greeting them before finally raising
your hands up again and beginning to play.

It's quite late by now, which means the lobby is deserted. No one except us and the receptionist,
almost nodding off across his desk before jolting upright at the sound of the famous opening
because he clearly wants to listen to you too. Not just hear, though; really listen. It’s such a simple
introduction too, isn’t it? Just six separate notes. Yet you still manage to infuse it with so much
emotion, lingering tenderly over every single one of them until the motif has taken on a pleading,
yearning undertone that’s impossibly beautiful while still desperately sad. Silently I now stand
behind you and wrap my arms around your chest, the touch very light so as not to disturb your
playing. I’m remembering what you said about historians believing it was composed as a love
confession and no one listening to you now could ever convince themselves of anything else.

The piece is short, but seems longer from its loveliness, and when you finally draw to a close the
receptionist springs back to life again to give you an impromptu round of applause. The noise is
harsh in the otherwise silent lobby and as it starts echoing out I find myself overcome with a petty
urge to scowl at him. It’s stupid really, I know it is, but it somehow feels like he’s interrupting: that
this is our moment and he’s blundering his way into it without an invitation. Possibly you think the
same, because rather than graciously acknowledge the praise as you normally would you instead
ignore him completely – and which, as displays of rudeness go, is really quite unusual. Even so, it
still feels like the spell is broken. There was something about it before that was almost magical: the
stillness and silence beyond the music or the dimness from the antique lamps which could have
passed for candles and made it seem like stepping back in time to another century. You could have
been performing in a drawing room somewhere, elegantly aristocratic in a cravat and waistcoat
with me sitting captivated in a nearby chair yet unable to express the breathless admiration. The
love that dare not speak its name. I smile slightly to myself, my finger running slowly along the
back of your neck, and I suddenly know – without a shadow of a doubt – that I need to get you
back to our room and into our bed without wasting another single goddamn second.

As you so often do, it appears you’ve immediately guessed what I’m thinking (to be fair, the
obvious erection digging into your spine will also be doing its part to clue you in) because you now
jump to your feet without even bothering to close the piano then seize hold of my hand and
practically drag me across the floor towards the elevator. Another couple arrives at the last minute
and gets in too, which means we end up separated and are forced to stand apart from each other
against opposite walls for a distance that feels like miles. The overhead lightbulb’s blown which
plunges everything into shadows and makes you look vaguely sinister: your angular features
sharply sculptured by a flickering strip of light which spills across your face to illuminates your
eyes and forehead but absolutely nothing else. The entire time you’re staring at me in that forceful,
unblinking way you have and just a few seconds of it is enough to make the other couple fall into
an awkward silence as they wait to reach their floor. I suppose the energy between us is so intense
it must seem hostile to an outsider; possibly they think they’ve just wandered into someone else’s
argument and we’re only moments away from a fight breaking out. Did you see those guys’ faces?
they’ll say to each other when they’re back in their room. They looked like they wanted to rip each
other to pieces. Not that it really matters though, because I guess, in a way…we do. There was
always that sense of wanting to fuse together, wasn’t there, even if it meant we’d have to break into
fragments to do it. Like my body was your body…like I was you and you were me. And while
things might be so much calmer now, it’ll often still feel that we’re not two people anymore but
one: two halves of the same whole, where I’m no longer certain where I’ve ended and you begin.
The awareness of it makes me think of your words from a few months ago – ‘When you gaze too
long into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you’ – and as I gaze back at your gleaming eyes I’m
overcome with a powerful sense of intimacy at how willing we still are to fall into the same dark
chasm together, each one entwined around the other with limbs and skin and breath that are
eternally and fatally connected. All in all, it seems like the longest fucking elevator ride of my
entire life; and while the other couple might be glad to see the back of us, it can’t even begin to
compare to the surge of relief I feel when the bell finally goes for our floor.

As soon as we’re out you immediately grip my hand again: the touch very firm and unwavering,
and with a tightness that borders on painful and an air of possessiveness which in the past I might
have resented but in this context find oddly touching because it means you’re letting me see how
emotional you are. Besides, I’m feeling slightly light-headed by now so it makes you seem like the
only sense of constancy in the midst of it; your skin so warm and firm with a ridge of bone and coil
of muscle, flesh and blood amid all the shadows. When we finally get to the room you roughly tug
me inside then for a few moments go utterly still until all I can hear is the faint rustle of your
breath in the darkness. From this angle the shadows make your face looks unworldly – all jagged
hollows and unnatural slants – and you simply continue to stare at me for what feels like hours
before abruptly coming back to life again to strike out as fast as a snake or mantis as your arm
shoots through the darkness to wrap around my chest. When your mouth crushes against mine I
moan into it, refusing to let go of you for even the few seconds it takes to stumble into the
bedroom…at which point you promptly pounce on me all over again, tearing at my clothes,
clawing at my shoulders, then kissing me with a fiery urgency that’s as equally passionate as it’s
ferocious. Neither of us have bothered to turn the lights on yet, and the shafts of moonlight
streaming through the window casts everything in a steely, silvery glow that’s eerie yet beautiful
and somehow exactly right for the moment.

It's only when we’re on the bed that you finally seem to calm down, your breath still rasping out in
little jagged snarls as you make a visible effort to get yourself under control. After that you just
resume the intense, silent staring until I give a sigh of impatience – at which point you smile
slightly, then dart your hand out to flick open the top few buttons of my shirt. My own breath
promptly hitches in response, so you smile again before lowering your head to kiss me; hungrily
licking into my mouth then tugging on my lower lip with your teeth before nosing my chin up so
you can kiss me on the throat instead. You’re always so attentive when you do this, aren’t you? It’s
like your entire focus constricts and in that moment there’s nothing else in the world that matters to
you. In fact it’s not until I’ve started gasping in earnest that you finally pull away again and slide
your palm over the bare skin beneath the shirt.

“You’re not going to be needing this,” you say quietly. “Take it off: take everything off. I want to
watch you.”

I smile too then begin to slowly unfasten the remaining buttons without ever once breaking eye
contact. As usual it’s one of yours and the silk is almost unbearably sensuous in how soft and
clinging it feels as it peels away from my skin. In fact, I’m half expecting you to tell me to fold it
up – and am struggling to decide whether I’m going to obey or not (I’m not) – before realising that
you clearly don’t care about the fate of the shirt and are watching me instead with such blatant
approval that I can feel myself starting to blush.

“How docile you’re being,” you say with amusement. “It’s really quite charming; all the more so
for being extremely out of character.” You pause very briefly then reach out to rest a finger
beneath my chin, gently guiding it towards you until my face is tilted upright. “So much so that
I’m convinced within myself that it’s merely an act,” you add. “Designed to lure me into a false
sense of security just before I get ambushed.”

This speech is concluded with another of the faint smiles (and which somehow manages to be far
more suggestive than any of the previous ones) before you start deftly shrugging off your own
clothes in a way that lacks a shred of the sort of self-consciousness that even now I often have
myself. You smug old bastard, I think fondly. As if reading my mind you pause again to give me
another smile (likewise distinguished by being far more wolfish than your usual feline variety)
then continue to unfasten your shirt, precise and methodical like someone with all the time in the
world. In this respect you’re modelling a degree of self-restraint which you clearly don’t feel, and
as I watch you do it I can’t help thinking it’s because you’re uncomfortable with how much you’ve
revealed of yourself in the past few days by behaving so possessively. It’s like you’ve let your
guard down by showing how much you need me – and although I’ve no desire to force you into
displaying something you’d rather conceal, it feels important to me that you don’t restrain yourself
either. For a while I just sit there deep in thought, struggling to find a way to tempt you to unwind
until I find myself hitting on a sudden flash of inspiration. Leaning forward I now delicately run my
lips along the edge of jaw until I feel you quiver.

“Do you want me to wear my collar for you?” I ask, very soft and intense. I deliberately put a slight
emphasis on the ‘my’; the fact that it’s no longer ‘the collar’, but something I own – something I
care about – simply because it was you who bought it for me. “Because I will,” I add in a firmer
voice. “I want to. I want you to put it on me.”

As soon as I say that you give a small moan. I can actually hear you do it, the same way I can feel
the muscle in your jaw start clenching at how deeply and reflexively you want to say yes. Maybe
it’s naïve, but somehow I didn’t totally expect this level of enthusiasm: it’s as if you’ve been
desperate for me to wear it again, but (in a rare show of restraint), have been forcing yourself not to
mention it after seeing how uncomfortable it made me last time. But of course you were right,
because it did – it made me very uncomfortable – and it’s now rather strange to realise how far
things have shifted in merely a matter of months. Back then there seemed to be an uneasy
symbolism about it, yet now it just feels like a private game to play between ourselves: something
fun and slightly risqué that can be enjoyed in the moment then safely forgotten about afterwards.

It only takes a second or two to reflect on this, but you’re so goddamn keen that in the same span of
time you’ve already managed to leap across to the closet to retrieve the collar before bounding back
again to re-join me by the bed. It’s actually quite touching: the fact you’re so eager yet have
managed to hold it back before tonight out of respect to my reservations. It feels like another sign
of how much effort you’re making to behave more considerately towards me – often in ways I’m
not fully aware of – and I give a small sigh in response then obediently dip my head down to give
you full access to my neck. For a short while you simply lay your palm across it, the pressure very
warm and firm, before carefully starting to fasten the collar then running your finger round the
edges to make sure it’s not too tight.

“Look at you,” you say once it’s finally in place. Your voice has dropped again now; the low,
smoky rumble that’s a clear sign you’re close to losing control. “Mano meilė. Mano gražus
berniukas. If you had any idea…”

Your hand is skimming over my face as you’re speaking so I quickly open my mouth to suck your
fingers, tongue swirling lavishly across the pads while alternating with a light scrape of teeth. Then
I lean forward to steal another kiss (for no better reason than it’s impossible not to) before dropping
to my knees so I can spit straight onto your cock and begin slowly rubbing my thumb around the
head. Your eyes immediately fall closed, breath rumbling out of you in a long low sigh, so I
increase the pressure then lean a little further backwards on my heels so I can admire how
powerfully sensuous you always manage to look when I’m doing this to you. Most people in the
same position might seem vaguely exposed – vulnerable, even – yet you never do. Instead you’re a
vision of curved muscle and rapacious energy, all your ferocity just pulsing away beneath the
surface. It’s one of your many paradoxes, I suppose; the same way you have your art, music, and
cooking on the one hand while also being legendarily violent and aggressive on the other. In fact, I
almost feel like I should be calling you ‘Sir’ while I’m wearing the collar (only don’t quite trust
myself to manage it without cackling) so instead just put my hands behind my back to give the
illusion of them being tied before tilting my head to look right at you and opening my mouth.

Your breath promptly hitches again, one hand winding straight into my hair as you take hold of
your cock with the other to guide it between my lips like you’re feeding it to me. I moan around it
as it pushes in, quickly followed with a stifled whimpering noise at the sumptuous way I can feel it
growing even harder and thicker in my mouth. The whole experience is just so gloriously wet and
messy as I suck the head; using as much saliva as possible to keep everything wet and soft, then
interspersing rapturous kisses with worshipful licks until finally relaxing my throat enough to
attempt to swallow you down. Fuck though, it’s a serious mouthful…it feels like I’ve barely got my
lips halfway round it and it’s already hitting the back of my throat. In fact I’m definitely taking
more than I can comfortably manage – at some points even choking on it – but it’s turning me on
so much I don’t remotely care. It's like I’ve just been overwhelmed with a thrillingly primal urge to
possess and nothing else matters anymore. Not comfort, not composure…nothing except trying to
make you feel as good as possible. Above me I can hear you gasping, your fingers winding tighter
into my hair until you eventually let go so you can push my chin up with your hand to make sure I
keep looking up at you. At the same time you stop tugging my hair and begin to gently stroke it
instead, tucking a few strands behind my ear then smoothing it out of my eyes. The sense of being
touched so tenderly makes me give another breathy moan, my hips grinding franticly against your
leg to get some much-needed friction before pulling back a little and widening my mouth so you
can see the way your cock is lying right across my tongue.

God only knows how wanton it looks, because it’s at that point you completely lose control of
yourself: hauling me upright by the collar, then gathering me against your chest to shower my face
and hair with rapturous kisses before pushing me straight back down to my knees again. It’s like
you can’t decide where you most want my mouth to be, and in the end you wind up doing it so
often that it’s impossible to get any kind of rhythm going. It doesn’t matter though; I always like
kissing you so much that I don’t really mind. Eventually I just pull away entirely, nuzzling your
stomach for a few seconds before giving your cock a farewell kiss then shuffling round until I’m
kneeling behind you instead. I’m trying to hide it, but I’m actually a bit nervous: I’ve only ever
tried rimming you a handful of times, and now the moment’s arrived to try it again I’ve realised
I’m not remotely confident in my ability to do a good job. Admittedly this is also rather selfish
considering how much I enjoy it myself, but I’ve always had a lingering, squeamish self-
consciousness about it that’s been difficult to overcome. Eating out another man seems to reach,
then exceed, my personal Sex Frontier and reminds me a bit of those ‘here be dragons’ signs on
Medieval maps to indicate that beyond a certain point lies the unknown. When you gaze too long
into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you, I think with a tiny smirk. Fuck, I really want to though: so
much. And it's not like it’ll really matter if I’m terrible. If nothing else, there’s no doubt you’ll
appreciate the effort.

In this respect you must surely have guessed what I’ve got in mind. Even so, I still think you’re
expecting me to lose my nerve, because when I bend my head forwards you actually give a low
gasp of surprise. I make a humming noise in response then use both hands to spread you wide
open; swirling my tongue in feathery little circles, interspersed with some long slow licks, then
finally tapering it down into a narrow point to try and work the tip inside you. I’m doing my best to
mimic your own technique, although God knows how effective it is. My enthusiasm must be
obvious though, and I think it’s that you’re responding to as much as anything else. Encouraged, I
begin mouthing at you even harder with messy, open-mouth kisses before carefully sliding a
forefinger into the tight smooth heat of your body so I can lick around it. I’m immediately
rewarded by a sharp intake of breath and promptly feel my own breath catching in response.

“Jesus, you feel incredible,” I say as I you start to arch yourself against my hand. “Fuck, Hannibal.
I want you so much…you’ve no idea.”

I’m going a bit quicker than intended by now, but I’m so desperate to hear you make that noise
again that it’s impossible to slow things down. Oh God, you’re enjoying it so much; at one point
you even drop forward at the waist so you can rest your hands on the bed to give me better access.
I suppose the fact I’m doing it while wearing the collar must be adding a certain erotic tension,
because when you finally grab my shoulders to haul me upright it’s easy to guess you’re worried
that it's going to make you come if it goes on much longer. In the end you wind up pouncing on me
so quickly I barely get to see your face, but even the few fleeting seconds it’s visible still leaves me
in no doubt as to how happy you are. You actually look moved. It’s like you’re genuinely touched I
wanted to push past my hang-ups to please you, and the sight of it immediately fills me with a
renewed sense of guilt for being so selfish and self-absorbed to not attempt it earlier. I don’t have
particularly long to dwell on this though, because you’re already scraping your teeth along my jaw
as your other hand roughly pushes my legs apart. The intention is obvious, so I roll towards the
nightstand to fumble around for the lube before throwing it over to you to neatly catch one-handed.

“It’s running low,” I say.

You give a quick nod in response, which is meant to imply you’ll take care of it. I’m banned from
buying lube: I always get the sort of generic drugstore bottles that make you take one look at them
before your entire face descends into a ‘and what the ever-loving fuck is this’ expression. The type
you buy, in contrast, arrives by mail from France in discreet little gift boxes, smelling faintly of
coconut oil and with a silky, cushiony thickness that’s slippery without being greasy. It admittedly
puts my crusty bottles of Astroglide to shame, and I now sit and watch the way it’s glistening in the
lamplight as you drizzle some onto your fingers to slick yourself up before passing it back to me
again.

“Get on your knees, beloved,” you say.

Your implication, once again, is not exactly subtle. I smile slightly to myself then obediently drop
down onto all fours, spreading my legs wide apart as I reach round behind me to make sure you’ll
have the best possible view of the ecstatic way I’m fingering myself open. I moan loudly the entire
time I’m doing it, although it quickly chokes off into a startled ‘oof’ noise when you suddenly seize
hold of my waist again to drag me back upright. You kneel down yourself behind me, then for a
while simply stay like that in total silence, pressing kisses against my throat as your hand skims
down across my chest and waist. The touch is noticeably tender – almost worshipful in how slow
and lingering it is – and I give another soft moan then tip my head back against your shoulder.
Briefly I can feel your lips brushing over my forehead, your hand gently cupping my face as you
murmur something quiet in Lithuanian.

“I love you,” I say, equally quietly. I feel emotional now; flushed and almost trembling with an
overload of sensation. I think it’s partly to do with how much the dynamic has changed: the fact I
feel so safe and comfortable with you that even something like the collar has ceased to be a source
of threat as opposed to a source of pleasure between two equals. “I love you so much.”

“Aš tave myliu,” you say. “Aš tave dievinu. More than you know, Will. More than I have words to
tell you.”

As you’re speaking you start to kiss me again, one arm tucked beneath my shoulders to keep my
back arched while your other hand curls around my throat to make sure my head stays resting on
your shoulder. You tilt your own head at the same time until your cheek is pressing against my
hair, continuing to hold me close until I finally feel the thick, wet head of your cock start to nudge
up against me. I let out a loud whine without even meaning to then catch my lip between my teeth.
Oh God, you’re so hard by now; you won’t even need to use your hand to guide yourself in.

“Please,” I manage to gasp out. “Please, I need you, I…”

Before I can even finish your hips have already snapped forward in a single deep thrust. And oh, oh
fuck, it feels phenomenal: I call your name out then collapse against your chest, a series of breathy
little moans streaming out of my mouth as I take the full, swollen length of your cock inch by inch.
Your lips press rapturously across the edge of the collar as for a few moments we simply rock
against each other and I listen to the sounds I’m making: the panting desperate cries, half-
maddened with desire, or the way I’m gasping your name over and over again. And you, for once,
seem completely unable to gain control of yourself either as you hold me even tighter against you,
stroking my damp hair so roughly my head snaps back before making a sound that’s nearly a snarl
and possessively gripping my throat with your hand. Your long fingers feel so firm and dextrous as
they curl around it, and I’m acutely aware of how easily you could crush it right now if you wanted
without any effort at all. Then I draw in a ragged breath. Breathe out. Try to focus and find I can’t,
because – oh God – everything’s so intense. You’re so intense. It’s like I feel so much for you that
it’s more than one mind or body could reasonably be expected to hold.

It's possible you’ve realised how overwhelmed I am, because you now pause for a few seconds to
skim your lips very soothingly along the side of my jaw. “Be still, my love,” I hear you saying.
“Just stay as you are and let me take care of you.”

You pause again, inhaling deeply against my neck like you’re trying to breathe me in, then take
hold of my hips in both hands so you can drag me further down onto your cock. “Oh God,” I say in
something close to a whisper. “Please, please...”

“You can be so wild sometimes, Will,” you add in the same soft voice. “So rebellious. It’s good on
occasion to simply capture you then keep you helpless for a while. Because you are helpless right
now, aren’t you beloved? You have no choice except to be in my arms and take what I give you.”

“Yes,” I say fervently. “Yes. I want it so much.”

“I know, mano meilė. You crave it, don’t you? To feel this slim little body be stretched and filled
so deeply…but only by me.” You wait a few more moments then give another sigh before letting
your hand drift slowly downwards to begin stoking my cock. The way you do it feels extremely
indulgent and leisurely – decadent, almost, in how clearly it’s intended to tantalise. “Look at you,”
you murmur straight into my ear. “My beautiful boy. You’re so, so hard. Mano brangiausia meilė.
You’re loving this aren’t you?”

It’s hardly as if you need an answer to this question, but of course that’s not why you’re asking; it’s
because you want to hear me say it. I give a noisy moan of agreement then on an impulse take hold
of your free hand in mine, kissing your fingers before running it down my chest until it’s directly
pressing across the scars. I hear your breath catch then. It’s rare I’ll let you touch them at all, and
this is the first time I’ve actually invited you to do it. I can already tell you’re making the most of
the opportunity, your fingertips stoking ecstatically across each ridge and crevice like you’re trying
to memorise the textures and sensations exactly as they are.

I break off to moan again then press your palm down flat against my abdomen where there’s an
unmistakable tremor from how deep you’re sunk inside me. “Can you feel that?” I ask breathlessly.
“God, Hannibal, you’re huge. Your cock’s so fucking big. And you’re right, I love it.” I sound a bit
wild by now; I’m not even sure what I’m really saying. “I love it when you make me wear my
collar for you,” I add. “Or when you hold me down and push the plugs inside me. I’m such a slut
for you, aren’t I? I pretend to be so calm and reserved all the time, but even then I still can’t hide it.
Shit, I want you so much, you just…you don’t understand. It’s like I’m addicted to you. Sometimes
I even wish there was two of you, just so I could feel you fuck me in my mouth and my ass at the
same time.”

There’s no doubt you’ll enjoy hearing this. All the same, your reaction still surpasses even my
highest expectations when you give a low groan then for a few moments let your hips go totally
still as your entire body shudders. Oh fuck, I think with amazement. You’re actually going to come.
In fact, in the end, you don’t – although it’s clear that even your iron levels of self-control have
come perilously close to being breached. Instead you let rip with a string of something very fast,
and very foreign, then slam your palm hard against the wall in what’s an obvious attempt to ease
yourself back from the brink. I give a helpless moan at the sight of it – briefly even thinking I
might come myself – only for it to turn into a yelp halfway through as you put your hands on my
hips and abruptly pull yourself out of me. For a few seconds you just kneel there, breathing very
rapidly, then finally shower my face with another torrent of kisses before taking hold of the collar
and gently pushing my head down.

“Oh fuck, yes,” I say.

Thank God for your pretentious lube. It means your cock tastes faintly of coconut as I suck it
almost frantically – messily, urgently – while you drag your fingers through my hair and let out
another rumbling growl. By this point I’m so overwhelmed I’m barely coordinated anymore; it’s
like I’m just kneeling with my mouth wide open so you can thrust your hips back and forwards to
fuck it. Oh God, God…I love it so much. Even so, I hardly seem to be there for any time at all until
you’re pulling me upright to sink into your waiting arms, gasping against my skin then dragging
my head back to kiss me with incredible care and thoroughness (brutal-hard, tender-gentle) before
thrusting your cock deep inside my ass again. After that it carries on this way for several minutes,
alternating wildly from one to the other until I’m a gasping trembling mess and you’re not in a
much better state yourself. It’s like I’m crazed with desire, helplessly aware of how hot and heavy
my cock feels between my legs – the way the blood is pulsing there – or how it’s leaking across the
sheets in a steady stream as my body clenches and tightens around you, already quivering on the
verge of orgasm.

“Oh God,” I manage to gasp out. I sound totally desperate by now and when you give your hips
another thrust I make a small mewling sound then bite down on my lip. “I’m going to…oh God,
Hannibal, please…I think I’m going to come.”

It’s not even an exaggeration; I really am. Behind me you make another growl, a sort of rich
vibration deep in your throat, then reach down to press a steadying palm against the base of my
spine. The touch is tender, and seems partly to reassure me…although I know you well enough by
now to guess it’s also to keep me bent over long enough for you to admire the sight of my ass
sliding up and down your cock. As if proving me right you quickly spit on your thumb then deliver
some teasing stokes to the tight slippery skin that’s stretched around it until I’m making helpless
wailing noises and arching my back into a stronger curve. God, it’s so intense; my eyes are
widening almost feverishly as I gulp in frantic gasps of air. I’m so close now it’s unbelievable, but
when it looks like you’re about to jerk me off you suddenly seem to change your mind at the last
minute and swerve your hand to start stroking my hipbone instead.

“Forgive me,” you say as I let out a frustrated groan. You pause for a while, drawing in some
ragged breaths of your own, then lean down to nuzzle the side of my throat with your face. Your
sigh is so low and smouldering it’s almost a hiss. “Forgive me, my love. Truly. Only I’m not quite
ready for this to be over.”

My only reply is to gasp out something nonsensical, so you gather me up in your arms again then
press me to your chest for a few more moments before laying me back down on the bed. I give a
small growl of resentment – an automatic response to being held in place by someone physically
stronger than I am – but even as it happens I know I don’t really mean it. You’re always so gentle
in your forcefulness, so when you flip me onto my back I still allow it without complaint, letting
myself be guided until I’m positioned how you want me with my legs spread open and my feet flat
on the mattress. Vaguely I’m aware of you putting pillows underneath my head, obviously wanting
to do everything you can to make me comfortable, then gently smoothing my damp hair off my
forehead.

“Look at you,” you say in a voice that’s unusually tender. “My imago. My dearest. Mano meilė.”
I open my mouth to reply, only to find nothing comes out except a sort of demented gurgling noise.
At the sound of it my eyebrows promptly descend across my forehead with confusion, which
makes you smile again then lean forward to kiss me very softly on the lips. At the same time, you
reach over to angle the bedside lamp until the beam is directly on me, lighting me up. It’s so
comfortable to realise that this no longer bothers me: that tonight I’ve become one of your tableaus
and I don’t even care.

“You are achingly beautiful like this,” you say as you pull away again. “Wearing nothing except
the collar of the one who owns you and loves you. Like a Roman concubine…Antinous, for
example.” Your finger is running along the edge of the collar now, the touch delicate yet strangely
thoughtful. “Have you heard of Antinous, Will? He was the lover of the Emperor Hadrian: the
head of the Roman Empire, and the most powerful ruler in the world, yet still destined to be
brought to helpless, breathless submission by a beautiful younger man.”

As I let out another sigh you rub your face along the side of my cheek, your skin warm and satiny-
smooth with a musky salty tang of sweat and arousal. At the same time your palm is gliding across
my ribs, thumbing at the bones with light strokes then moving down to caress the muscles in my
abdomen. You’re touching the scars again now; I knew you would. It was obvious the temptation
would prove too much for you.

“Because you are beautiful,” you continue in the same soft voice. “Such a pale, slim exterior…yet
so strong and wiry beneath it. Look how firm your muscles are: designed for running and jumping
and fighting. All this belongs to me now, beloved; you know that don’t you? Your body belongs to
me as much as my own does. As much as Antinous belonged to Hadrian.”

For a few seconds I feel you burying your face in my hair again before you finally shift downwards
to scrape your teeth into the hollow at the base of my throat. “Antinous was a Greek servant,” you
add when you eventually pull away. “Did you know that? It was something they were able to
reclaim in their favour, as it meant the relationship was not remarked upon. Had he been a Roman it
would have caused a scandal, but foreigners were held in only slightly higher esteem than animals.
To be seen using him for pleasure would have been little more remarkable than to be seen tossing
sticks for a dog. Of course, another thing for which he was known was as an individual of unusual
beauty, just like you…Renowned, amongst other things, for having lustrous curls of light brown
hair.”

I give a snort of laughter and you smile back at me then lean down to nuzzle your forehead against
mine. “When Antinous died,” you add, beginning to skim your lips against the edge of the collar,
“the Emperor was so bereft he named a city in his honour and encouraged the Romans to deify him
as a God. For a while the cult of Antinous rivalled Christianity. What do you think of that, beloved:
the lengths to which a powerful, older man would go to cherish the object of his fixation?”

The supreme casualness with which you’ve just compared yourself to a Roman Emperor is both
breathtakingly arrogant while somehow managing to be hugely endearing; briefly I press my face
into your bicep to hide the fact I’m struggling not to smile. You smile too then give the collar a
light tug with your forefinger.

“Would you like that Will?” you ask. “It would mean you’d have no responsibility at all beyond
living in luxury and letting me love you. All you’d have to do in return was allow me to use you for
my pleasure. Your body would belong entirely to me, and I would be the only one allowed to
explore it. And you know that I would explore it; I would dedicate myself to discovering every
inch of you, inside and out. Here for example…open your mouth, beloved.”

I obey immediately, letting out a low moan as you massage my lower lip with your thumb before
sliding your fingers inside my mouth so I can suck them. “Or here,” you murmur in the same
rhythmic voice. As you’re speaking you trail your other hand downwards towards my ass, slowly
massaging the stretched, slippery skin with the pad of your finger without ever pushing inside. For
a few moments you fall silent again, listening to the way I’m moaning around the fingers which are
still sliding in and out of my mouth.

“Would you like that?” you finally repeat. “Lying on silk all day looking beautiful while I went
and fought wars on your behalf? It would mean I’d have the image of you in my mind when I was
slicing my enemies into slivers; you would be my idolatry and inspiration. I would return to our
palace while their bodies were still warm and there you’d be laid out for me; beautiful and wanton,
waiting to give me your body as my reward. Sometimes I might go abroad for certain campaigns –
I’d have to take you with me wouldn’t I? Keep you in a tent, heavily guarded, so I could have you
whenever I needed you. Not that a guard would truly be necessary, because no one else would ever
dare to touch you. They’d all know you belonged to me. I would kill anyone who tried. And you’d
help me do it, wouldn’t you? So fierce and ruthless as you are…I might instigate the execution, but
you’d still push me aside so you could inflict the fatal blow yourself.”

You pause very briefly to catch my eye, then smile again before starting to kiss your way down my
chest. “Of course, I know you wouldn’t really like such a life,” you add between each press of your
mouth. “Would you mylimasis? You’d get bored; you’d want to be out on the battlefield yourself.
I’d want you there too: I’d want you by my side at all times. I would have to do as Hadrian did; to
use the rules of the system against it and ensure that myself and my beloved could do whatever we
pleased. And my fate would likewise be the same as Hadrian’s…in that I would be destined to
become a slave to you. I would be loathed and feared on the outside, then come into your arms and
find myself utterly powerless.”

Another, longer pause now follows in which you simply lie there in silence with your head pressed
against my chest. It’s like you’re listening to my heartbeat; in fact, I think you actually are. I
murmur your name very softly then reach down to card my fingers through your hair, pulling away
every so often to stroke against your cheek or jaw. You immediately sigh with contentment then
lean into the touch.

“You would have seemed so vulnerable the first time you were brought to me,” you eventually say,
and this time it’s almost as if you’re speaking more to yourself. “A senior servant would have
prepared you in advance before I even met you. Bathed you, draped you in silk. Placed laurel
leaves in your hair. He’d have used scented oils to make you ready for me, so the first time I spread
your legs apart you’d have already been slick and glistening; just waiting for me to slide inside
your body to take my pleasure from it. And I would have looked at you then assumed you were
something fascinating, yet disposable; something to amuse myself with until I finally grew bored
of you. But how fatally mistaken I would have been…”

There’s another slight pause; you don’t actually add ‘just like I was in real life’, although it’s the
first thing that immediately occurs to me. “Of course, I would have seen your beauty,” you finally
add. “Sensed your intelligence. But I would not really have grasped the full potential of you. I
would never have known my fate was so tied to yours. That I would love you so fiercely; that I
would have no choice but to worship you. I wonder if Hadrian knew, the first time he laid his eyes
upon Antinous? Whether he knew that he was looking at his destiny…”

For a while now you just lie there in silence again, very thoughtful and peaceful with your head on
my chest as my fingers continue running through your hair in the same gentle rhythm. It’s not
entirely clear what you’re thinking: all I know is that I don’t want to blunder in and disturb you
with a string of clumsy questions about it. Instead, I’m content to stay like this in companionable
quiet – listening to the soft sound of our breaths as they rise and fall together – until you finally
snap back to life again and lick a bead of sweat from my ribcage before stroking both palms across
my torso. I let out a small gasp, struck by how exploratory yet deeply reverential your touch
somehow manages to be. It's like you’re familiarising yourself with each curve and contour of my
body: devoting close attention to every plane of bone and stretch of muscle, then pulling away to
murmur my name before lowering your head again to glide your lips across the skin. It must only
have been going on for a minute or two, yet already I can feel the first prickle of moisture start to
gather around my eyelashes. The thing is though, is that it’s impossible not to. I can’t not be
emotional, because I’m still not entirely used to my body being treated this way. Other people have
flattered it (occasionally), enjoyed it (possibly) or, far more likely, conspired to exploit it or cause
it harm. But no one has ever treated it with such extraordinary devotion and care. No one has ever
caught their breath at the sight of it, or rapturously run their hands across all its scars and
imperfections like it’s something precious and unique to be savoured. No one except you.

If before was about pushing my limits then now is about making me feel cherished and cared for: a
perfect blend of both soothing and stimulating. Normally I think I’d have been growing impatient –
pushing your hand down, demanding more – but even though you’ve only graduated as far as my
ribcage I’m still strangely content for you to take your time. It just feels so good. So grounding…
and such a very strong sense of being loved. I’m not even sure how long it’s lasted for, because it’s
only when I’ve started to quiver with need and arousal that you finally decide to take things further
and cradle the base of my cock with one hand. As your tongue swirls tenderly round the head I arch
my back off the mattress, flinging my arm across my face as I murmur out your name. You flick
your tongue across the tip in response then slowly shift to a series of longer licks, shallow kisses
and worshipfully languorous sucks; lingering as much as possible the entire time, like you want to
relish every single second of my cock sliding in and out of your mouth.

“Oh,” I say faintly. “Oh God.” I’m shaking uncontrollably now, pre-come spilling over my
abdomen as you push a broad thumb deep inside my ass and start licking the stretched, slick skin
around it. “No,” I gasp out. “Please, you’ve got to stop. I’m going to…I’m…”

My voice is raw, catching in the back of my throat, and as my body gives another violent shudder
I’m gripped by a panicked sense of shame that I’m going to ruin things by coming too soon. I let
out another broken-off whine, fingers tangling helplessly into your hair until you briefly pull away
to press a kiss on the edge of my hipbone, followed by another one across the scars.

“It’s all right, my love,” you say softly. “I want you to enjoy yourself. Mylimasis. Mano meilė. Just
let me love you. Nothing else matters.”

You sound very serious, and in that moment it feels entirely true because nothing else does matter.
Not Jack. Not the investigation. Nothing except me and you and how much we want and need each
other. I gasp your name out again rather helplessly, quickly followed with another moan as you
take hold of my right leg then tug it upright until my foot is flat on the bed. Once you’ve got me
how you want me you duck your head to begin laving my cock with your tongue again, your hand
slowly running down my thigh until I’m quivering and giving small whimpers as it starts to skim
back upwards, this time on the inside. The skin is so slick with sweat that your palm slides very
effortlessly, my breath hitching into another sharp inhale as you drag your tongue across my
sternum while your other hand traces tiny circles across the hollow of both hipbones. I know you
want to finger me open again, and the anticipation of waiting for you to do it is the best kind of
torment. It’s like I’m consumed with a succession of little trembling thrusts, my cock so heavy and
throbbing that when your fingers return to my thigh I feel it twitching across my stomach as another
trickle of pre-come spills out the slit.

I must look rather wild by now, with a flushed face and glittering eyes. All I can do is shiver,
combined with some urgent whines, until you finally murmur my name then slide your hand back
upwards to begin massaging the tight, quivering muscle with the pads of two fingers. At first you
simply rub in circles to match the rhythm of your mouth on my cock, but the skin is so slippery that
any resistance soon eagerly relaxes beneath your fingers. I think we must both feel it happen at the
same time, because you sigh appreciatively then quickly lean up the bed to press ardent kisses
against my cheeks and eyelids – calling me ‘my dearest’ and ‘my love’ – before drawing your hand
back to thrust both fingers deep inside me. My whole body immediately gives a frantic jolt, drawn
taut and strained as I hover on the absolute edge. I want to buck up towards you, but you’ve slung
your arm across my hips until I’ve got no choice but to lie there and take whatever you want to
give me. Oh God, you’re buried knuckle-deep by now; you must surely be able to feel the way I’m
tightening around you. Then as the stroking and pressing becomes more insistent I simply cry out
even louder because it’s good – it feels so good – and I know I could probably come just from this.
Just from two of your fingers inside me, it would probably be enough…a bit longer and it’s going
to be enough.

You make a soft noise of approval then lean down to run your tongue along the curve of my
hipbone. “You feel luscious,” you say. Your voice sounds very soothing; it’s as if you’re inviting
me to respond to you. “So smooth and tight. You always show me how much you want to feel me
inside you, beloved…you let me know without ever needing to utter a word.”

I give another low moan, attempting to steady myself by focusing on the way your other hand feels
pressing on my leg: how gentle the touch is, the slight calluses on your thumb and index finger, or
how firm and warm your skin feels against mine. I pivot myself off the bed as I’m doing it –
wrapping one leg across you then digging my heel into your shoulder blade – but you quickly push
me back down again, your finger crooking far enough to rub my prostate until my cock is spasming
across my stomach in another glistening rush of pre-come. You sigh with pleasure at the sight,
quickly leaning over to lap it up before flattening your tongue against the base of my cock so you
can drag it along the length. At the same time you’re spreading my legs wider apart, your fingers
thrusting while your tongue alternates wet strokes with teasing licks; gasping very loudly the entire
time so I’ll hear it and know you consider me something delectable you can’t get enough of.

By this point I’m bucking my hips in a stuttering motion, struggling between the urge to rock
upwards into your mouth or push downwards to where your fingers are scissoring me open. To
help me out you wrap your free arm beneath my waist to hoist me into a better angle: swiping your
tongue across the head of my cock, then wrapping your lips around it to swallow so deeply I can
feel the head sliding wet and hard against the back of your throat. I make a noise that’s nearly a
wail, my fingers tangling frantically into your hair and tugging with increasing urgency as I try to
force your head down. It is (let’s be real) incredibly rude, but needless to say you don’t seem to
mind. Instead you pull away to nuzzle my thigh before promptly switching over; this time using
your hand to gently stroke my cock as your tongue slides further down between my legs.

I try to call out to you, but once more the words get lost in a breathy moan as you grip my
trembling thighs to keep me still then start licking with hot, wet swipes. You’re using the tip to just
tease my ass open without ever fully breaching it; even so, I’m already so loose and stretched from
your fingers that it’s still shockingly easy for the thick tongue to finally thrust its way inside. My
spine snaps back at the sense of it, every muscle quivering and tightening as I practically vibrate
my way off the bed. In response you stroke my cock a bit harder then let go completely so you can
use both hands to spread my legs: the movement helps your tongue to push in even deeper, so when
you finally do touch my cock again I can feel the tremor of it running through my whole body,
complementing the wet thrust of your tongue as it slides in and out of my ass. God, it just feels so
muscular. So warm, wet, and firm as it spears me open.

“Oh fuck,” I manage to gasp. “Fuck, Hannibal.” My breath is hitching into a series of frantic pants;
I’m not sure you’ll even understand what I’m saying. “Oh God…please, please, I’m going to…
I’m…”

You pause for a few moments to kiss my hipbone, murmuring a stream of something tender in
Lithuanian before briefly replacing your tongue with two long fingers. They’re so slick with saliva
and pre-come that they easily slide in knuckle-deep, leaving my legs to tremble even harder with
the strain of it until you have to grab hold of them to stop me squirming away. The entire time the
thickness of your tongue is starting to move again, prolonging the sensation with every thrust until
I let out a helpless wail and clench down tightly like I’m trying to keep it as far inside me as
possible. Oh fuck…fuck, you’re pushing your thumb in now next to your tongue, probing and
exploring the slippery tightness while reaching up to stroke my cock again with your free hand.
You sigh very softly to yourself the whole time – like there’s nothing in the world you’d rather be
doing than eating me out – and in response I keep making these embarrassing little breathy noises
that I can’t seem to hold back. It makes me sound like I’m about to cry. Although God knows by
now, maybe I am? It’s just so intensely good and makes the overload of sensation hard to process.
It’s like I’m desperate to come but at the same time never want it to be over.

“I love you,” I keep repeating in a kind of chant. “I love you so much. Oh God Hannibal, I like it, I
really like it. It feels so good, I can’t....”

This time your response is to prise me open with a thumb and finger, lapping against the rim for
several seconds before plunging your tongue deep between the gap you’ve made. Having my ass so
thoroughly explored is getting me visibly harder and I can actually feel the way my cock is
twitching; my whole body starting to tremble and tighten as it prepares itself for orgasm. You
moan slightly yourself then thrust your face back and forwards a few times before pulling away
again to stroke me with a single fingertip to slowly smear the saliva around. I whimper again,
fingers clawing helplessly against the sheets, so you briefly take hold of both my hands in yours
and tenderly run your thumb across the knuckles. It leaves my cock lying neglected on my
stomach, hotly swollen and almost painfully hard, but in the end it doesn’t even matter anymore
because when you lower your head to resume eating me out I find myself whimpering as my whole
body goes rigid. It’s like I can feel the little clench of muscle clenching and unclenching in
anticipation as your tongue rubs insistently against it.

“Oh,” I hear myself gasping. “Oh my God. I’m gonna…oh fuck, oh fuck. Hannibal, please, I
can’t…I’m going to come…”

Vaguely I’m aware of you reaching out to take hold of my cock but by now it’s far too late. Your
tongue is still deep inside my ass and as you start sucking at the rim that’s all it takes for me to
give a final, helpless shudder as my body convulses and I come all over myself completely
untouched. It spatters messily across my stomach in a series of thick, hot pulses; at one point
spurting so hard I even feel a feel a few drops hit the base of my throat.

My eyes are screwed tightly closed, but above me I can hear the sound of you panting before your
hand gently cradles the side of my face. It’s obvious you want nothing more than to force my legs
up to my chest and fuck me senseless, but I’ll be too sensitive by now and I know you won’t want
to hurt me. Instead you just kneel between my legs again then take hold of my knee with one hand
– presumably for no better reason than it’s the nearest bit of me in reach – before starting to jerk
yourself off with the other. I loudly suck in my breath at the sight and sound of it, murmuring “Oh
fuck” in something close to a whisper. In fact you’re so turned on it takes you less than a minute to
come yourself (something of a personal record) but you still push deep inside my ass at the very
last second to ensure I get pumped full of it.

By now I’m so soaking wet and slippery that you can easily slide in without needing more lube,
and for a few frenzied moments it almost feels like you’re staying hard for both of us out of sheer
force of will. You make a weird series of noises while you do it; somewhere between a growl and a
grunt which are rough and almost animal-like, as well as distinctly out of character for how
unrestrained they are. It also lasts for a very long time, but even after you’ve finished you still seem
to stay hard for ages, rolling your hips in increasingly shallow thrusts until you’re finally forced to
accept defeat and pull away. God, you’ve come so much I can feel it running out of me onto the
sheets. For a while I just lie there, vaguely shell-shocked and blinking at the ceiling, before blindly
reaching out to take hold of your forearms so I can tug you up the bed towards me.

“You’re miles away up there,” I say. My voice is distinctly hoarse and scratchy from so much
panting; I pause then clear my throat a few times. “I want you. Get yourself down here.”

You obey immediately with a contented sigh, positioning yourself until I’m flat against the
mattress and you can drape yourself across me. You shift your hips and torso around as you go,
tangling your long legs with mine, then finally wrapping an arm under and around my shoulders so
that I’m completely enclosed without having to bear your entire weight. The intimacy of it is
striking – and not something I’d ever have imagined being comfortable with – yet whenever you
do it I find it reassuring. It’s like a sense of having someone I know to be immensely powerful
offering me shelter and security, and never fails to make me feel valued in a way I don’t always
know how to be on my own. Rather than pulling away I therefore just stretch out instead, allowing
myself to grow soft and pliant as above me you murmur my name then press your teeth just above
the collar, tugging it very gently without any risk of breaking the skin.

“You feel so fragile like this,” you say tenderly. “So small and vulnerable beneath me – even
though I know you’re not. It’s such a powerful disguise, beloved. No one looking at you would
guess how lethal you are.”

I mutter something drowsy in response then wriggle in closer until my face is completely hidden
against your arm. I really want to tell you something profound about how enjoyable that was, only
the second I open my mouth to try it I immediately find myself starting to laugh…then realise I
can’t actually seem to stop. Eventually you prop yourself up on one elbow and simply watch me do
it, a fond smile flickering over your face the entire time.

“You are giggling,” you say finally. “There is no other word to describe it.”

“I am not.” I try and fail to sober up then ultimately let rip with another snort that’s only slightly
less subdued than the previous ones. “I am not giggling.”

“Cackling?” You smile again then run an affectionate finger along my jaw. “Screeching?”

“Oh God, shut up,” I say.

“Giggle away if you wish to, mano meilė: posit-coital hysteria is a very noble phenomenon.”

“I am not…” There’s a pause as one of the laughs turns into a very small hiccup; you raise your
eyebrows questioningly. “I am not hysterical.”

“Of course, Galen also documented post-coital tristesse,” you add in a thoughtful voice. “So it’s
not as if it couldn’t be worse. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate you did not choose that
direction and begin attacking me instead.”

I determinedly screw my eyes closed in an attempt to calm down (then do my best to ignore the
way you’ve started stroking the bridge of my nose in a dickish attempt to make me open them).
“Maybe I could go the French route next time,” I add. “What’s it called when someone loses
consciousness after orgasm?”
“La petite mort.”

“Oh yeah, that’s it: ‘the little death’.” I finally open my eyes just so I can roll them at you. “That
seems a bit more up your alley. I’ll have to see what I can do.”

“What a ghoul you are beloved.”

“You love it, you liar.”

“Yes, I suppose I do,” you say. “It appears I am both a liar and a hypocrite.”

“Pretty much,” I reply. “I’d say that covers it.” You start smiling again in response, then for a few
moments simply stroke my hair in calming silence until I’ve finally grown completely still and
quiet and am letting out little rumbling purr-like noises at how soothing it feels. “Look at you,
being so nice,” I add, my voice soft and gruff with tiredness. “You’re never like this with other
people.”

“Am I not?”

“You know you aren’t.”

“No,” you agree. “I don’t suppose I am – although I do know how to be on occasion. I also didn’t
intend to be so with you at first; I freely confess it. You appear to have conquered me rather
thoroughly.”

“Yeah,” I say smugly. “I know I have.” I run my hand through my hair then let out a final gasp of
laughter. “God, Hannibal, that was crazy. The whole thing was insane.” I pause then catch your
eye to grin at you. “We should definitely do it again.”

“We should,” you say. “I concur.” You smile too then reach down to start unfastening the collar,
gently running your finger across the indentation marks left behind by the leather. “How hot your
skin feels,” you add softly. “So humid. I feel I could hold a mirror over your body and it would
mist over as if touched by warm breath.”

“That’s just a nice way of saying I’m sweaty. But thanks.”

“You are…delectable,” you reply. “Luscious. And as a lover, I should say that you are completely
unsurpassed. The way you respond is perfection itself.” You give a low sigh of pleasure then
slowly drag your tongue along my throat to lick away the sweat. “My exquisite little whore.”

As you say this I’m halfway through yawning and promptly start choking on my own spit: you
wait until I can breathe again with a look of polite anticipation on your face. “Jesus!” I splutter out,
struggling with another sudden urge to laugh. “Have you lost your mind? Don’t ever call me that.”

“I apologise,” you reply, despite not sounding remotely sorry. “Although I assume it goes without
saying that it is not intended as an insult. Quite the contrary, in fact, because I have a very great
aversion to moralising language and enjoy a chance to subvert it whenever I can.” You pause then
give me a long, slow glance. “What if I called you a killer? Would that provoke equal offence?”

“It’s hardly the same type of thing,” I say gloomily. “Although I suppose you might as well call me
what you want to – you do most of the time anyway. Boy. Mongoose.” I pause myself and then
narrow my eyes. “Shrew.”

“Yes,” you say with typical patience. “Only this word has very particular connotations. It’s
intended to shame those who display enthusiasm for sex – or even merely give the appearance of
doing so – so when I use it, you can rest assured that I am applauding you for being sufficiently
audacious and spirited to ignore society’s confining, fastidious rules. I think you understand me
well enough by now to know that I don’t subscribe to rationing one’s pleasure in anything – and if
it’s something one is encouraged to forgo, then I am likely to pursue it even more passionately.
One should always have the freedom to pursue one’s needs without a fear of repercussions…sexual
appetite being among them.”

“Oh spare me the semantics analysis,” I say. In this respect your choice of ‘appetite’ as a noun also
seems very deliberate and I can briefly feel myself struggling with another urge to smile. Instead I
just yawn again then close my eyes, slinging my arm around your waist at the same time so I can
huddle a bit closer against you. “Anyway, I don’t think that’s a word men need to worry about
reclaiming.”

“No,” you agree. “Probably not. But you see, I am not remotely interested in what men as a
collective are required to do. My interest is with you: and watching you begin to shed your
inhibitions over what you should, and should not, allow yourself to enjoy has been almost
unspeakably rewarding. You are showing a level of comfort with your body – and the pursuit of its
pleasure – which you never used to have in the past.”

“Well, it’s because it’s with you,” I say gruffly. “You make me feel unashamed.”

I’m expecting you to respond to this with another lecture (or possibly call me some unholy
combination of Boyish Mongoose Whore Shrew) but instead you seem to sense the delicacy of the
moment and instead just lean forward to press your lips against my forehead.

“Aš tave labai myliu, mylimasis,” you say softly. “That’s good to hear.”

“Yes,” I reply, equally softly. “I know it is.”

I’m getting tired now, although it’s in a pleasant, drowsy sort of way; nothing like the type of
leaden exhaustion I used to experience in the past. I contentedly huddle up to your chest, reaching
round at the same time to rearrange the blanket to make sure you’re properly covered. In fact your
previous speech (as awful as it was) has made me realise that I’m also feeling quite moved by the
story of Hadrian and Antinous. Admittedly the only thing I knew about him before tonight was that
he built Hadrian’s Wall (and the only reason I know that is because it was an inspiration for Game
of Thrones) yet there’s something profoundly depressing about the fact the most powerful person
in the world could have had a relationship 2000 years ago that would be virtually impossible for a
leader today. Leaning over I give you another kiss against the nearest cheekbone.

“So Hadrian turned Antinous into a God?” I add fondly. “Are you planning to upgrade your gift-
giving skills?”

Your sole response to this is the most horrendous smirk (clearly meant to imply that only plebs and
peasants found entire religions on behalf of their spoilt manbaby boyfriends and that anything
you’d decide to do would kick its sorry ass in comparison). Then after that you just lie there gazing
at me, running your hand through my hair while pausing every so often to wind a piece round your
finger. You’re basically playing with it; I smile to myself again then push up even closer against
you.

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” you say eventually. Your other hand has strayed downwards now,
the fingers pressing warmly against my chest. “So anxious, Will. Yet so resolute in spite of it.
You’re a courageous boy aren’t you?”

“Enough with the boy,” I mutter from where my face is buried in your shoulder. “And I’m not
anxious.”

“But you are,” you say, quiet yet firm. “You are anxious about Jack. And about me. So wary and
unsure, beloved – yet here you stay. It’s impressive. Fearlessness might be a gift of nature and
temperament, but true courage is not the absence of fear, but feeling afraid and persisting
regardless.” You finally remove your hand so you can wrap both arms around me instead, pulling
me tight against you before adding in a softer voice: “Fear is not a reason to cease and desist; it is
the inspiration to strike out. And you have the most exquisite grace under pressure.”

I now open my eyes again then pull back a little so I can look at you. “Have I though?” I ask
sardonically.

“Of course you have: native, natural grace. And beauty. And darkness. You conceal it so well
don’t you, Will Graham…but you know that I can still see you.”

I smile at you rather wryly then reach up so stroke your hair off your forehead. “I’ll tell you what,”
I say. “Let’s make a deal after we’re married: I won’t make you found me a religion, and in
exchange you stop psychoanalysing me whenever we have sex.”

“But I am not analysing you. It is a descriptive exercise, not an exploratory one. I speak as I find.”

“That,” I say, “is complete bullshit and you know it.”

You smile too then lean over to cover my hand with yours. “Perhaps ‘anxious’ was the wrong
choice of word,” you add. “But you do retain a certain wariness, don’t you?”

A short pause now follows as I mull this question over, doing my best to formulate a way of being
honest that’s also not too condemnatory. “About the future?” I finally reply. “Yeah, I guess so. I’m
concerned about me and Matteo – and about you and Jack. Mostly about you.” I sigh slightly then
give your hand a small squeeze. “I wish you were more predictable, Hannibal. But then in a way,
I’m also glad you’re not. I know I’d never want to change you – even I could.”

You immediately start to smile again; one of those rare, genuine ones which always seem to light
up your face. It’s obvious how much this answer has pleased you, and sometimes it can still feel
startling to see you look so happy and realise I’m the cause. It’s so different from before, isn’t it?
The way I spent so many years as your greatest source of conflict just as you were mine. For a
while now I just gaze at you in silence, admiring the smooth line of your cupid’s bow and way
your lower lip seems to curve. Nevertheless, when you do speak again the response is still typically
cryptic.

“I doubt the suspense is going to endure much longer,” you say. “Nature abhors a vacuum. This
city is an empty space at present and such things go against the laws of nature. It needs to be filled
– and very soon it shall be.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better,” I reply, completely deadpan, “then I want you to know
that you’re failing miserably.”

“No, I am not trying to console you,” you reply in the same soft voice. “I am trying to inspire you.
I think you are compensating for my own detachment; I do not take the situation very seriously,
which makes you feel the need to raise an even louder alarm. Over time, I believe we’ll learn to
grow more attuned to each other in how we approach a threat. You will become more casual, and I
will be…”

“No,” I say. “You won’t.”

 You laugh at this then lean down to briefly bury your face in my hair. “Well, regardless,” you say.
“In the meanwhile, I want you to embrace our current circumstances and all the potential that they
offer us. A confrontation is coming Will; I want you to relish it as much as I do.” You pause again,
this time for much longer, then give one of your rather eerie smiles. “La carne più dolce è vicina
alle ossa,” you say.

“What does that mean?”

“An old Italian proverb: The sweetest flesh is near the bones.” As you’re speaking you lean a little
further forward, lips skimming against my cheekbone with a warm rustle of breath. “It means
reaching the finale is the most rewarding part, beloved. And it means that everything we’ve been
waiting for is finally going to be ours.”

Chapter End Notes

No portraits, obvs, but if anyone’s interested here are Hadrian and Antinous’ husband
statues, which are currently kept side by side in the British Museum <3 I also heard
that ‘the beloved’ was a Roman term for being the bottom (‘the lover’ was the top) so
if you ever see references to Antinous being referred to as Hadrian’s ‘beloved’ then
that’s literally what it means :-)

In other news, if you had the misfortune to read my meltdown in the author notes last
week (since deleted after I came to my senses) then apologies, because…cringe. As
you may have guessed there were a few rl issues that were weighing on me, but
fortunately they’ve been resolved now so I’m feeling more upbeat :-D

Huge thanks also to the people who were offering support and I’m so sorry that time
pressures meant I couldn’t respond personally. I saw a few suggestions of releasing
updates on Patreon as a form of troll-slaying, but while this is a *very* kind idea I’d
never want to charge people to read my rambling, smutty Hannigram. I think the only
way I’d ask people to show support is simply commenting on the fic, as getting a
better balance of positive/negative interactions is incredibly helpful (plus I just really
love hearing from The Fannibals). However, there are a ton of good reasons why
people don’t like leaving messages on AO3 so please don’t ever feel obliged.
Ultimately the fact that I’m so freaking hated in this fandom is my fault not yours, so
don’t ever feel bad if you prefer to read without leaving comments – you are still very
loved and appreciated here regardless <3

People who’ve read TDG or BHATB will know this harassment has been going on for
years now, and while I can mostly truck on despite it, every so often it does end up
getting to me. The fic is so close to being finished that this will hopefully be my final
word on it, but in the meantime I really did want to apologise to everyone who’s just
here for a bit of escapism and has found themselves subjected to this endless silly
drama!

Thanks so much for your patience and see you soon for the next chapter xox
 Chapter 43
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

This statement of yours is so cryptic – so rife with hidden meaning – that it immediately strikes me
as something I should probably worry about. As with most of your statements it’s also extremely
ominous; and that, plus the crypticness, seems like a perfect set of precedents for putting me on my
guard. I suppose I really should be, shouldn’t I? It seems like it would be the sensible thing to do. I
should be interrogating you; demanding you explain yourself until it’s clear exactly what you
meant and what your plan is. But the problem is worry and wariness both require energy to deal
with, and right now I feel far too tired for either of these things. So, in the end, I simply choose to
ignore them and just pull you a little closer instead until I can sling my arm around your waist then
run my fingers up and down the notches of your spine. I’m really drowsy by now – exhausted, even
– yet at the same time I don’t want to go to sleep because I’m not quite ready to leave you. Oh
God, that really is embarrassing, isn’t it? It’s true though because I don’t: I don’t want to go
somewhere you can’t follow.

The awareness of this is intense and I’m not even sure of the right words to describe it – something
which in itself is fairly unusual, because where you’re concerned I almost never run out of words. I
mean I really don’t: it’s like I store them all up to scatter in your direction, and no one else ever
gets as many as you do. The closest I can get to capturing the sensation is that it’s more than
needing you or missing you…at which point it’s hard not to imagine you rolling your eyes, because
of course you’d never say something like that yourself. A similar declaration from you would be
elaborate and beautiful, full of elegant phrasing and obscure ideas. You’d never say something so
dull and awkward as ‘I miss you when I’m sleeping’; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. But I’m
not you. Which is why I’m lying here, reluctant to close my eyes, knowing I have something so
profound and personal that I want to tell you yet not really understanding how.

The confusion reminds me a little of that famous poem: ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the
ways.’ I can’t remember how the rest of it goes…I suppose that’s the sort of thing you’d probably
know. But you see, there are so many ways and they’re all so incredibly hard to comprehend or
express. Like the way I love you for wanting the person I am, not the person I’ve spent my whole
life pretending to be. Or the way I love you not only for who you are, but for who I feel I can be
when I’m with you. Maybe it’s not really my fault after all, because why would I want to miss any
of that? Why would I want to go somewhere so lonely and silent for minutes, let alone hours,
without taking you with me? You, with all your elegant malice and dark imperatives. With your
angular face and the gleaming eyes…

I eventually fall asleep still trying to work it out, only to wake up next morning with a jolt of
surprise to realise it’s already gone 11.00. This is late for me (even more so for you) so it’s hardly
unexpected to see you’re already sitting next to me fully dressed, one hand holding your iPad while
the other rests across the pillow to graze the top of my hair. For a few moments I just stare at you,
blinking and squinting rather sleepily, before hearing myself announce from totally out of nowhere:
“I really love you.”

This feels like such a random brain ejaculation that as soon as I’ve said it I can feel myself blushing
(quickly followed by a rush of empathy for how disorientated you always are whenever you wake
up and forget to speak English). You don’t show any signs of amusement or mockery though,
instead just smiling at me very fondly before running your finger down the side of my jaw.
“Aš tave myliu,” you say. “To the extent it seems I cannot think of a single thing better to do than
to sit here and watch over you while you sleep.”

I start smiling too then lazily fumble upwards to take hold of your hand. “I’m going to remind you
about that,” I say between yawns. “When we’re old and grey, and you try to pretend you’ve always
been intellectually superior. I’m going to remind you about the time you spent an entire morning
watching me drool over a hotel pillow.”

“Thank you in advance,” you say, beginning to idly stroke my knuckles with your thumb. “I’m sure
I shall be very much obliged to you.”

I smile again, then spend a few moments heroically trying (and completely failing) to summon the
necessary levels of energy to check my phone. Oh fuck, why can’t I seem to manage it? I mean it’s
right there.

“I’m so tired,” I say fretfully. God knows why I have a need to inform you of this: it’s not as if it
isn’t obvious. “I feel like I’ve been in a coma.”

Your features promptly arrange themselves into the type of giga-smug expression that implies you
intend to take full credit for my current state of mental/physical collapse. I can’t help smirking back
at you, aware of how my fingers have started straying towards the friction marks from the collar
with even fully meaning to. I immediately see your eyes flick towards them too before your grip
begins to tighten on my other hand. The touch is possessive, yet somehow rather tender at the same
time; a sort of wordless reminder of how happy and appreciative you are that I was so willing to do
that for you.

“I suppose I should get up,” I now add though more yawns. This is meant as a form of self-
instruction, although there’s clearly a part of me who thinks I should just fuck off seeing how all I
end up doing is continuing to lie there like a proverbial beached whale. I saw a photo of one once
from Massachusetts; all sad and pale and bloated, yet still marginally more dignified than I am
right now. That photo is me. I am the whale. There should probably be a group of Greenpeace
activists camped out round the bed, pouring water on me and trying to irrigate my blow hole...

“Oh God, I think I’m going demented,” I say. “Tell me to get up.”

“I shall tell you no such thing.” By now your smug levels are close to going nuclear: it’s obvious
how much you love the idea of being the one responsible for the state I’m in. “There is absolutely
no requirement for you to get up unless you wish to.”

“I do wish to.”

“Then I’m sure you will achieve it without any intervention from me.” You pause again then give
me a particularly feline smile. “Besides, you never do what I ask. I would surely have greater
success by simply ordering you to stay in bed.”

I huff out a laugh then lumber rather arduously onto my side so I can hunch up against you. You’re
so warm. It’s like I can feel your body heat shimmering though the thin fabric of your shirt;
essential and elemental, pulsing out from the very heart of you. “I’m just exhausted,” I add in an
unintentionally pitiful way.

I don’t even need to see your face to know that the smug expression will have gone thermonuclear
again. “I’m not surprised,” is all you reply. “You have been…exerting yourself.”

“Mmm, I have been thoroughly exerted,” I say wryly. I have too: exerted into the mattress and
within an inch of my life. Exerted so hard I can barely walk straight. “I’m never heard it called that
before,” I add. “I suppose it’s one way of putting it.”

“I suppose it is,” you reply in a more serious voice. “Although you also seem to have slept rather
poorly. You were very restless during the night.”

“Oh,” I say. “Was I?”

“You were. It was as if your dreams were troubling you.”

“Oh,” I repeat. “I didn’t realise.”

If I sound surprised, it’s because I am (and I didn’t). In fact, I almost never have nightmares now –
although even if I do it hardly matters because you’ve managed to develop an entire system for
dealing with them. You’re such a light sleeper yourself that at the first sign of one starting you’ll
always do something to stop it: stroking my hair, murmuring something soothing in a foreign
language and then, if that doesn’t work, just waking me up entirely before they can take a full grip.
It always makes me wonder how much of their reduction is due to your caretaking and how much
is simply a result of feeling so much safer and happier. Probably it’s mostly the latter, although the
contribution of the former can’t be discounted either. In this respect I’ll often wake up by myself in
the soothing phase – the reason I discovered your routine in the first place – but last night I didn’t
even do that, so I’m guessing it couldn’t have been too bad.

“I imagine this relates to our previous discussion?” you ask now. “That general sense of unease
you feel? Even in sleep it pursues you.”

“I guess,” I say slowly. “I mean…yeah, I’m not happy with the situation. You know that.”

“I do know: and I dislike seeing you in such suspense. It makes me feel that the situation needs to
be resolved sooner rather than later.”

“Which means what, exactly?” I reply with a hint of sharpness. “Just cut the ambiguity for once,
Hannibal. If you’ve got something planned then I want you to tell me.”

I sound very firm, although even as I’m asking this I know that you won’t. After all, you haven’t
informed me in advance of a single thing you’ve done so far and there’s no reason to think you’re
going to change that pattern now. The problem is that as far as you’re concerned this is your
version of teamwork: your job is to toss the hand grenade, whereas mine is to ‘benefit’ from the
chaos and then catch my breath and try to process what the hell just happened while you just sit
there and congratulate yourself for collaborating so seamlessly. After a few more years together
you might agree to tone it down (to be fair, you’ve started to tone it down already) but it’s still too
early to change your basic template. But then it’s also too early to fully change mine – and in this
respect is yet another reminder of the ongoing challenge I have of learning to accept your most
extreme edges exactly as they are.

Briefly I now cast a glance towards you. I don’t have to be happy about it, but I still have enough
self-awareness to recognise the mutual irony of the situation: namely that it’s a struggle you’re
having to engage in too. You want me to be as gleefully destructive as you are and still can’t fully
hide the disappointment you feel every time that I won’t. I suppose it’s a trade-off we’ve both had
to settle for in our different ways. I want you to be more human, while you want me to be more
inhumane, yet regardless of how frustrating it gets we’ll both still agree to it anyway. We’ll forgive
these monstrous parts of each other – our mutually intolerable morals and immorality – because it’s
a compromise we feel we have no choice but to make. I guess that’s what love is, isn’t it? To
extend a single viewpoint into one that encompasses and makes room for a second. It takes
patience, courage, and generosity; and sometimes I think it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do
in my life. Harder than discovering your deceptions or healing from your assaults: to simply try and
see the world the way you do and appreciate your point of view. To understand you. To forgo
one’s own perspective to love and sacrifice for another…

In the past I know this is something we’d have started arguing about, but now I simply sigh in
resignation then run my hand across your back. “You’re a menace,” is all I say.

“But that implies I am a threat,” you reply very calmly. “I am the very opposite – at least where
you are concerned.”

This, of course, does nothing except reaffirm your longstanding conviction that every shitty thing
you do is ‘for my own good.’ It’s incredibly tempting to call you out on it, but I know it would end
up spiralling into the same destructive dynamic we had before; and even then, it’s not like it would
change anything. I could be genuinely distressed, and you still wouldn’t tell me – and you’d do it
without a single shred of remorse, simply because you’d consider your silence to be the most
elegant, efficient course of action. Honestly, you can be such a massive pain in the ass when you
want to be. God knows how you managed to last so long as a psychiatrist. Surely most of your
patients must have got to point of wanting to exterminate you, or themselves (or most likely both).

“Fine,” I now say out loud. “I mean it in the informal way, in that you are an annoyance. Like the
title of that cartoon.” You raise your eyebrows in polite incomprehension, and I realise I’m not
exactly helping my case in that I can’t remember the name of it either. “You are a nuisance,” I say
instead. “A bother. A pest. You know when they describe dogs running loose in parks as a public
menace?”

“I do.”

“Well,” I conclude with a hint of triumph. “Those dogs are you.”

“Such things you say to me.”

“Yes,” I reply smugly. “They are very rude.”

“Abominably so.”

“Yet you’re just going to sit here and take it, aren’t you?”

“It would appear that I am.”

“Oh dear Dr Lecter,” I say in an innocent voice. “You’re turning into a bit of a pushover, aren’t
you?”

“Evidently.” You give an exaggerated sigh then raise your eyes up heavenwards like a Medieval
martyr. “I seem to be suffering from a regrettable lack of willpower.”

I can’t help letting out a snort of laughter (despite the fact encouraging your atrocious puns is the
absolute last thing I should be doing) and you quickly swoop down to rub your forehead against
mine. “What a charming smile you have Will,” you say. “I could bite it right off your face.”

I yawn again then give you a small shove. “Thanks,” I say. “Although on reflection, I’d probably
prefer you didn’t. And stop calling me beautiful. It’s dumb.”

“The list of prohibited terms to call you is growing rather long.” There’s a slight pause; it’s as if
you’re inviting me to congratulate myself on having unlocked a new achievement level by
becoming the official Beautiful Boyish Mongoose Shew Whore. “Yet you are beautiful, so what
am I to do?”

“I think you should accept you’re proof of the dictum that ‘love is blind.’”

“In my case love would be better served through being deaf,” you reply, utterly deadpan. “That
way I could be spared the pain of listening to how inane and rude you are.”

“Thanks,” I say drily. “At least that’s a more accurate description than ‘beautiful’.”

As I watch your eyebrows begin descending down your forehead again. “Do you think I have bad
taste?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is entirely the point. Which is why when I say you’re beautiful you know that I am telling you
the truth.”

This causes me to simultaneously disprove your deaf/blind assertions by letting out a self-
conscious and spectacularly unattractive grunt. Even so, I can’t deny there’s still something
exceedingly ego-stroking about lolling around like a beached whale (with mad sex hair) while
someone is insisting, earnestly and at length, about how incredibly goddamn beautiful I am. In this
respect, it’s also reminding me of that time Francis Dolarhyde said I was ‘purposeful’ rather than
handsome (that toothy, self-righteous, hood-wearing bastard), because if there was any justice in
the world (which there isn’t) then he should now be spinning in his grave so fast it's altering the
Earth's magnetic field. At least I’ve still had the last laugh, I suppose, seeing how it’s safe to
assume that he currently looks like complete shit by anybody’s standards…

It's at this point I realise that my dementia appears to be repeating itself, which means the best
thing I could probably do would be to have a shower and clear my head before there’s a risk of
repeating any of this crap out loud. It’s obvious you’ve already had one yourself, but you still insist
on joining me anyway; standing behind me to scrub my back, then taking advantage of how sleepy
and slow I am by darting down to wash my hair for me, despite this being something you’re
normally not allowed to do. Afterwards you follow me into the kitchenette then lean against the
counter to watch me while I stumble around and attempt to brew some coffee. You’re usually
attentive at the best of times, but even by your own standards this level of scrutiny is extreme – and
it’s only when I notice your eyes flitting to my throat again that it finally dawns on me you’re still
suffering from an excess of The Feels after the whole thing with the collar. You wouldn’t normally
be so obvious about it, and as you begin to gaze even harder it’s impossible not to feel rather
touched by how much emotional honesty you’re showing. It’s not like I even blame you, because
last night was very striking: yet another illustration of how much better we’ve become at granting
permission to clamber over each other’s barriers and bask in all the hidden feeling that lies on the
opposite side. Both of us being more trusting while prepared to relinquish more control, simply on
the understanding that the other person will keep it safe for us than hand it back whenever it’s
wanted. It’s also true that the sex might be a more dramatic example of it – yet it’s not like it isn’t
happening in other countless small ways day-to-day.

As if reading my mind, you now appear very silently behind me to wrap your arms around my
chest. It’s one of your classic ambush moves (no doubt employed very successfully across the
years for murdering multiple people to death) and I smile to myself then give you an affectionate
dig in the ribs with my elbow. Your response is to tighten your grip even further then bury your
face in my hair.

“You were perfect last night,” you say.

I awkwardly clear my throat a few times before realising what I’m doing and making a conscious
effort to just stay with the compliment rather than trying to laugh it off. “Well, so were you,” I
reply. “It was incredible. It always is.”

Before I can even finish you’re trailing your finger down my throat in the sort of leisurely,
sensuous way that’s guaranteed to make me quiver. “You are exquisitely sensitive,” you say,
beginning to ghost your lips along the side of my ear. “Your body has learnt to become so attuned
to me. Mano meilė. You can’t help yourself now, can you? I believe I could easily make you
climax without you even wanting to.”

I smile again then give you another dig in the ribs. “Yeah, you probably could,” I say. “But you’re
not going to, are you, because it would be rude.”

This time you give a sigh that’s positively lavish in how deep and shouldering it is before
skimming a hand down my chest to hover around my belt; lingering for a few moments then
dipping down with a single fingertip to rub feathery circles against my hipbone.

“Come back to bed,” you say.

I gasp out a laugh then tip my head back against your shoulder. “No,” I tell you. “I’ve literally just
got up – and you saw what a saga that was.”

“Yet look how well you achieved it. I’m sure you could acquit yourself with equal heroism for a
second time.”

“No, I can’t,” I say. “I still haven’t recovered from the last night.”

You immediately stop stroking my hip then pause for a few moments before pressing a kiss against
my temple. “Why?” you ask in a more serious voice. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I say fondly. “Of course not: not at all. I just mean that I’m tired – and I don’t have your
freakishly high libido.”

You make a soft humming noise, although whether this is from relief I’m not injured or in honour
of your mutant sex drive is impossible to tell. “Then come to Rome with me instead,” you say.

“From going back to bed to going to Rome?” I ask with another laugh. “That’s quite the upgrade.”

“I want to take you shopping.”

“What…seriously?”

“I am entirely serious.”

“But it’s too far.”

“It is less than a four-hour drive.”

“In a car. Which we don’t have.”

“Then we shall go in a cab.”

“We shall not,” I say firmly. “It would probably be cheaper to buy a car. Besides, too many people
would see you. I don’t want to risk it.”

My tone of voice must make it obvious I’m not backing down, because you now give the most
extravagant sigh of them all before letting go entirely so you can lean against the counter with your
long legs stretched out in front of you. It’s clear from your expression that you think I’m not only
an unfeasibly boring bastard but also a total killjoy (although I suppose I might as well be when I
get the chance, seeing how you insist on killing everything else). I extend my own leg then give
your foot a gentle nudge with mine.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I do appreciate the offer. But…it’s just not the right time.”

“On the contrary: it is a perfect time. I wish to indulge you, and thus require an opportunity to do
so.”

“You do it anyway. I don’t have to go to Rome to be indulged.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” you say thoughtfully. “Yet how inspired I am to take you anyway.
It’s really quite curious...” You pause again, slowly running your eyes down my face and back
again before finally starting to smile. “I want you to be my accomplice,” you add. “My confederate
who partakes in all my misdeeds. Yet I at the same time I want you to be my lover who I flatter and
worship, and for whom I bankrupt myself buying beautiful, frivolous gifts.”

You’re being a bit frivolous yourself now, but beneath the playful tone I can tell that this is a rare
bit of self-disclosure on your part. The contradiction you’re expressing is genuine, because while
it’s true you might want me blood-drenched and sin-stained, my relative moral purity is still
something that fascinates you – even as you’re actively trying to demolish it. You alluded to it only
a few weeks ago while reminiscing about the way I was when we first met: ‘You were always so
innocent compared to everyone around you,’ you’d said. ‘Like the Lamb of Revelation. A symbol of
tormented justice, striking down the evildoers with godlike vengeance…’ And so much might have
changed since those days, yet in many ways the dynamic remains the same. You still want to be
the serpent who comes to tempt and corrupt the goodness yet now, just like then, wouldn’t be fully
satisfied if you succeeded – just the same as I’d never be content with bleaching away all your
darkness.

As I remember your speech from last night I can now almost feel myself smirking. It’s like you
want me to be both saintly yet simultaneously debased. Both the Madonna and the Whore: a proxy
for your sister while a canvas on which to paint all your most depraved, destructive desires. I
suppose you never expected to find someone who could house such contradictions within the same
mind and body, and I know it’s why you get such a charge out of me submitting to you: not
because you’ve forced me into it, but simply because I want to. And the sex, once again, might be
an especially visceral demonstration of this, yet we both know the concept is infinitely more
complex. After all, I’ve spent my entire life weighted down by a conventional sense of what’s
good and what’s evil. Loving you is a limitless exercise in having to reconsider it – and never fully
knowing which side my particular coin is going to fall is always going to be an endless source of
captivation for you.

In the end I just glance up then smile again. It’s not as if you need any of this spelling out; I know
you understand. And besides, it’s not like I don’t view you in a similarly contradictory way. I want
you as an antagonist whose deeper immorality is a consolation for my own darkness, yet I also
need you as a source of comfort, safety, and stability. I suppose it’s always been that way, hasn’t
it? It’s why I always want to change you, yet fundamentally need you to remain the same.

“Well, that’s okay,” is all I finally reply. “I can be both.”

You immediately smile back at me before uncurling yourself away from the counter to move
closer. It’s like you can only go so long without needing to touch me; I smile again myself, then
hook both arms around your neck so I can press my face against yours. “It won’t take me that long
to recover,” I say fondly. “We can go to bed as soon as I get back.”

Before I’ve even finished speaking I can feel your hand tighten on my shoulder. “Get back from
where?” you ask.

I now pull back a little to look at you, startled by the abrupt change in tone. “I told you before,” I
say. “I need to go into the office this afternoon.”

This time there’s another, longer pause. Oh God, I think unhappily. It’s obvious how pissed off you
are – and while it seems you’re going to honour our agreement by not arguing over it, I’m still fully
aware of how bad I’ve made myself look. Normally I only have limited patience for your demands
to never focus on anything except you, but this time there feels something particularly clumsy and
hurtful about spurning two of your requests in a row only to run off and spend all afternoon with
Jack instead.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say now. “If you’d really prefer me to stay then I will.”

“But then I would be rescinding on my part of the bargain,” you reply. You sound distinctly chilly;
not angry, exactly, more like disappointed – which is somehow even worse. “If you want to, you
should go.”

“But I don’t want to,” I say gloomily. “That’s half the problem.”

For a few moments you simply gaze at me before your expression begins to soften. “I suppose your
Uncle Jack is haranguing you again,” you add in a gentler voice. “What seems to be the issue this
time?”

“Nothing specific,” I reply in same fretful way. “I just don’t want him checking up on me. He
always gets angsty if he hasn’t seen me in person for a few days.”

As soon as I’ve said this your eyebrows start to furrow – an inevitable response to Jack presuming
to show any protective feelings towards me when as far as you’re concerned that’s entirely your
responsibility. I can’t help smiling again at the sight of it before giving you a playful prod on the
arm.

“Well, who’s fault is that?” I add. “You shouldn’t have tried to kill me so many times, should
you?”

This makes you sigh again; for a few moments you look like you’re struggling not to roll your eyes
at me. “You are a little horror,” you say.

“I thought I was a Shew Whore?”

“Well whatever else you are,” you reply, beginning to smile again, “you are mine. And I am not
prepared to continue sharing you with Jack for very long.”

“It won’t be for long,” I say. I’m deliberately misinterpreting your meaning now, but any
discussion about your ultimate plans for Jack are bound to spiral into a fight (not least because you
still refuse to discuss them) and the last thing I want is to destroy the positivity of the last few days
with another pointless argument. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“As late as that?” you ask. “It seems rather excessive merely to put Jack’s mind at rest.”

I give a small sigh of my own then replace my hand on your arm. “But I’m not just going for Jack,”
I say. “I told Clarice I’d work through some of the autopsy reports with her.”
Instinctively I dislike mentioning Clarice, but after last week’s conversation I know I dislike the
idea of lying to you even more. All the same, I still hold back from revealing the real reason I want
to see her: namely to keep a closer eye on how things are progressing on the Macellaio copycat.
This caution feels more than reasonable (seeing how it happens to be me) but there’s no doubt that
even a hint of being concerned about it would be disastrous for Clarice’s safety. If you think she’s
close to discovering the truth then you won’t hesitate to go after her, and all my assurances to the
contrary would never be enough to stop you. It’s your nature. I can’t change it. All I can do is avert
a situation where you feel like you need to act.

Fortunately, none of this turmoil manages to show on my face, because you now start to smile
again – clearly pleased at how honest I’m being – then press a farewell kiss to my forehead in a
protective, almost fatherly way, before letting go entirely so you can prowl over to the desk to
retrieve your puzzle box. It’s been a while since you last used it, and there’s something about the
sight of you settling down onto the sofa to play with it that I can’t help feeling quite touched by. In
a weird way, I think it’s because it manages to illustrate how much more relaxed I’m learning to be
with how inscrutable you are. I used to get so frustrated with you in the past, but in the last few
months I’ve begun to see it differently; at worst something I can learn to tolerate, but at best
something I can actively enjoy. Because I can: I can enjoy trying to decode you. You’re like
Churchill’s attempts to forecast the actions of Russia: a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an
enigma…but perhaps there is a key.

I now throw a quick glance at you; how Sphinxy and inscrutable you look as you lean back against
the cushions, relaxed and informal in a way you never used to be when we first met. Do you have a
key? Sometimes I think you do, whereas other times I’m not so sure – although I know it’s safe to
say that you feel the same way about me. You’re also searching for my key, and it’s the inability to
ever fully solve each other that keeps us coming back for more.

As if drawn by the force of my stare you now look up yourself and catch my eye. “I love you,” I
blurt out.

“And I you,” you reply, your voice unusually low and soft. “Aš tave labai myliu. I adore you, Will.
You’re everything to me.”

You sound deeply sincere, and the force of emotion you’re expressing fills me with a sudden,
urgent sense of how I really don’t want to leave you; not even for the few hours it’ll take to see
Jack. It’s the same helpless devotion which overwhelmed me last night and the intensity is almost
enough to scare me, because even now I’m still not used to feeling so fiercely dependent on
another person as I am on you. You could torment and torture me as much as you liked without it
being enough to make me walk away, yet now your incentive is a positive one the power of it
leaves me utterly breathless. Although perhaps that’s not entirely true either, because it’s not like
you didn’t also have positive motives in the past. After all, you could always look beyond the
horror and fear and see the human being sat across from you in the opposite chair, just like I
always could with you. You saw the deformed, distorted parts of me but still wanted them anyway.
You always thought I was beautiful.

By this point there seems like a genuine risk I could be stood here all day and I now give myself a
rough mental shake. I have to leave, I tell myself firmly. This is what responsibility is. I have to
keep us safe. With a huge effort I force myself to collect my briefcase then finally turn around to
mutter, with obvious reluctance: “I better get going.”

As I watch you click the final layer of the puzzle box into place then glance up again to smile at
me. The faint shadow falling across your face makes your eyes seem as if they’re gleaming.
 “See you very soon,” you say.

Chapter End Notes

Next update ETA: May 8th

 Chapter 44
Chapter Notes

Huge thanks to faintestblush, who’s taken the time to compile a lovely playlist of all
the classical music mentioned in this fic, which you can treat your ears to here

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Across the table Clarice turns the last page of the report then gives a small sigh before pushing the
whole thing aside and taking a sip of coffee instead. The light catches her wrist while she does it
and I can immediately see that she’s wearing a new watch: an imitation Gucci, presumably bought
from one of the many traders who pedal them from table-top stalls in the small, dark streets that
wind out around the Duomo. As far as replicas go it’s a fairly good one, although I know it would
never occur to her to pretend that it’s genuine. She’ll just smile and enjoy its true authenticity – as a
memento of a trip to Florence – and there’s something about the simple sincerity of the gesture that
I can’t help being touched by. Contentedly scavenging in the sunlight for fake designer jewellery,
knowing she could never afford the real thing…is it the kind of thing that Abigail might have
done? Possibly, possibly not. It’s hard to say.

“I like your watch,” I blurt out.

“Oh, thanks,” says Clarice. She seems surprised that I’ve noticed and now casts a rather wry
glance at it before extending her hand towards me for a closer inspection. “It was only €30. Total
trash, of course: it’ll probably fall apart the second I get home. But I liked it so much I couldn’t
resist.”

“No, it’s nice,” I say. I falter for a few seconds, trying to summon a suitable adjective to garnish
this pathetically faint praise. It’s actually rather difficult; I’ve never really known what sorts of
things women like to hear. “It’s…pretty,” I eventually add.

Clarice smiles again then gives me an appreciative nod. I think she quite enjoys my clumsily
masculine attempt at compliments, even though convincing flattery is something I’m fairly terrible
with – and always have been. You’re so much better at it than I am. If you were here you’d already
be purring over the watch in your smoky voice. ‘It’s exquisite,’ you’d say. ‘All the timeless
panache of an original.’ At the image of it I now give a small sigh of my own: I’ve only been away
a few hours but I’m already starting to miss you. Your absence makes me restless. It’s like I can’t
stop thinking about what you might be doing, although I suppose this is the same old paradox it’s
always been – I want you, and I wish you were here, yet at the same time I’m so, so glad that
you’re not.

“Well…speaking of time,” adds Clarice. She rolls her eyes a little like she’s wincing at the
obviousness of the pun (unaware I’ve been so bludgeoned with yours across the years that I barely
even notice) then picks up the folder again with another, louder sigh. “I do appreciate yours, Will. I
never expected that last meeting to run on so long. You must be desperate to get home.”

I shrug then replace my cup on the table. “No more than you are, I guess.”

“But you don’t have to be here,” says Clarice with another smile. “You’re doing me a favour.”
“It’s fine,” I reply, hoping I don’t sound too martyred about it. “Anyway, it’s better than being in
the office.”

In this case it refers to Hunter’s coffee shop, which is where we’re currently sitting (and no doubt
breaching several data protection laws by doing so but is also the kind of thing I’ve never cared
about very much – not even in the days when I did still have the energy to care). In turn, it seems
he’s been busy with refurbishment since we were last here, because the previous expanse of plastic
has mostly been replaced with wood and the room is glowing very cosily from a mixture of candles
and fairy lights instead of the old fluorescent strips. Combined with an assortment of Ficus plants
and trailing ferns the whole thing has such a snug, grotto-like appearance that I almost expect to
see a tiger go padding past with yellow eyes that gleam amongst the leaves. It’s nice; I like it. I
think you’d like it too. In fact, considering I expected today to be utterly torturous in every
category I could think of (as well as several others waiting to be invented) I’m forced to admit that
things seem to be concluding slightly better than I’d hoped for.

As if reading my mind, Clarice replaces her own cup on the table then catches my eyes. “Yes, you
must have been glad to get out of there,” she says. I raise my eyebrows questioningly and she adds:
“Rossi and Bianchi were being really intense with you.”

By now I’m so used to Clarice’s perceptiveness that it doesn’t surprise me she’d have noticed the
two Italian officers’ incessant staring (and know both their names as well) – although it doesn’t
mean I have to be especially happy about it. On the other hand, what she doesn’t know is that
today they actually spoke to me. Admittedly it wasn’t much – ‘This is the first time you’ve been
here for a while?’, practically spat out their mouths like the question tasted bad – yet their hostile
tone spoke volumes beyond the tepid meaning of the words.

“They worked with Aronne,” is all I now say. “The cop who was murdered.” God, why am I even
telling her this? It’s not like she doesn’t already know. “He disliked me quite a bit and it seems to
have been inherited.”

Clarice nods slowly then takes another sip of coffee. “Why did he dislike you?”

Because almost everyone does, I think with grim satisfaction. It’s not as if I care. After all, no one
likes you either. “Honestly?” I say instead. “I’m not entirely sure. Personality clash, I guess. I
seemed to get under his skin.”

“Yes, there’s certainly some resentment in the Italian team,” replies Clarice in a thoughtful tone.
“They feel undermined by us, and it’s easy to see why. Our presence here implies they can’t handle
it.”

“Because they can’t,” I say flatly. “And they should be grateful for that. Extensive expertise with
serial killers is hardly desirable knowledge.”

Clarice nods again, appearing to silently digest this, before adding with typical frankness: “You
don’t think they blame you for his death?”

My hand, currently stirring my coffee, goes still very briefly until finally starting to move again a
little faster than before. “Maybe,” I say. “Although the Italians are much less aware of my
background than the FBI team is. Most of them seem to think Hannibal’s arrival is a coincidence –
or that he’s here because of Jack.”

“Agreed,” says Clarice. “Not that it matters. Regardless of his reasons for coming back, it would
still be totally unreasonable to blame you for what he did.”
“Of course,” I reply in the same flat tone. “But their colleague has been murdered. Reasonableness
doesn’t come into it.”

Oh God, I’m getting so bored now…all these endless platitudes. Reasonableness doesn’t come into
it. It could be the name of a play from the 1800s: a brittle social comedy where everyone sits
around sipping tea and trading arch insults before abruptly getting married in the final act.
Although if I’m honest Aronne appeared so deeply unpopular that it’s hard to imagine anyone
caring enough about his loss to bother blaming me for being the bait who drew you back to
Florence. That sort of reproach comes from an emotional attachment, and whatever the hell is
going on with the two of them seems to be fuelled by a motive that’s far more cold and rational.

“Well, anyway…” I say, suddenly deciding that I’m sick of talking about it. “Did you have any
other questions about the copycat?”

“Yes, kind of,” replies Clarice. “Or at least about Mr Alessandri.” She pauses then gives a small
grimace of distaste. “I’ve been discovering more about his background: a lot more. And look Will,
I know I shouldn’t say this…but it really seems that karma finally caught up with him.”

“Oh?” I ask, deliberately casual. “How so?”

“Because he was a terrible person,” says Clarice bluntly. “There was an extreme extortion
operation going on behind the scenes: almost at the level of a side-business. From what I can
gather he was a regular Charles Milverton.”

“Who?”

Clarice smiles slightly. “Sorry. I guess that’s a pretty obscure reference.”

I smile too then shake my head. “No, it’s okay,” I reply. “I think I remember now. Sherlock
Holmes, right?”

“Right,” says Clarice. “I’ve never read the books, but my dad was a police officer and he used to
love the old TV adaptations. I remember watching them with him every Sunday...” For a few
moments she falls silent, an expression of genuine sadness passing over her face before it vanishes
again almost as quickly. “Milverton was a professional blackmailer,” she adds. “And all-round
repulsive guy. Even so, Matteo Alessandri could still have given him some serious competition.
Most of the files were missing from his safe, so we’ll probably never know the extent of it. But
from what I could piece together it seems he had an operation going back at least six years. Money.
Sex. It just beggars belief: the amount of lives he must have ruined...” She pauses then shakes her,
briefly looking thoughtful. “The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton: that’s the name of the
story. Did you know how ends?”

“No.”

“He dies,” replies Clarice in a sombre voice. “But the thing is, his death is seen as righteous. He’s
murdered by Lady Huxley, the wife of one of his victims, but Holmes and Watson don’t intervene.
They just stand there and let it happen. Afterwards, Watson says ‘it was no affair of ours; that
justice had overtaken a villain’.”

“Yeah,” I say heavily. “I guess things were a lot simpler in those days.”

“I guess they were,” replies Clarice after another pause. “Look, I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve
to have his killer held accountable; I’m definitely not saying that. It’s my job and I’m glad to do it.
But…”
“But it’s hard to feel too bad for him?”

“Exactly.” She glances round then lowers her voice slightly, despite there being no one nearby to
overhear. “If anyone had it coming, then that person was probably him. It complicates it though,
doesn’t it?”

I’ve been waiting the last few minutes for her to say this but now that the moment’s come it’s
actually surprisingly hard to be too dismayed about it. Then my first thought is how much you’d
probably enjoy adding ‘Lady Huxley’ to my existing list of terrible nicknames before deciding that
for the sake of accuracy it really ought to be ‘Lady Lecter’ instead. Then after that I just feel like
putting my head in my hands, because…oh God. It’s like I’m going a bit mad: the whole thing is
deadly serious and now that it’s most needed I’m struggling to find the right capacity to care. It’s
yet another sign of your influence, I suppose, because you’re almost never reactive yourself. You
simply watch and wait, infinitely cunning and patient, then coolly select the right course of action
whenever the time might come. You don’t panic or grow unnerved; you don’t do anything from a
place of fear. You just…wait.

Very calmly I now reach out to take a piece of taralli, chewing on it in a thoughtful, meditative
way like I’m gazing upon the Serene Valley of My Missing Fucks. “Yes, potentially,” I say. “It
certainly opens up a different motive.”

“Of course, in the story Milverton gets shot,” adds Clarice. “And that’s exactly what you’d expect
to see in a case like this – something quick and simple. Only that’s not what happened.”

“No,” I say. “It’s not.”

“When I first mentioned a copycat I assumed it was a random offender.” She hesitates for a few
moments then gestures towards the pile of folders, her features briefly creasing into another small
frown. “But now I’m not so sure anymore; the details are too precise. If I’m right and it really
wasn’t Il Macellaio, then the killer would have needed specialised knowledge to make it look so
similar – and that’s not something an ordinary blackmail victim would have. I don’t know, Will.
It’s like it would either have had to be someone with a lot of expertise in violent offending, or
someone with a lot of awareness of Il Macellaio. Maybe even someone from within the task force.”
She gives a rather wry laugh then glances up to catch my eye. “Now tell me I’m crazy?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I say in the same calm way.

“But I can’t go in and suggest that to Mr Crawford.”

“Well, you can’t not tell him.” I pause myself then take another sip of coffee. In my mind’s eye I
can see the way I must look: as aloof and detached as you are. “It’s a possible lead. You know you
can’t keep it to yourself.”

“Yeah, I know. I have a meeting with him tomorrow – I was going to brief him on it then.”

“Then just outline the facts,” I say briskly. “You don’t have to speculate about what they might
mean, at least not at this stage. The implications are obvious. If he thinks it’s a valid line of enquiry
then he’ll tell you so.”

“I guess.” She catches my eye then smiles again, this time rather self-consciously. “Sorry, I know
I’m overthinking it. I just want him to take me seriously.”

“Trust me,” I say in a gentler voice. “He takes you seriously.”

Clarice opens her mouth to reply, only to have to quickly close it again as she notices Hunter
bearing down on us with a tray of cappuccinos and bomboloni. He’s smiling broadly as he does it,
rather eager and breathless, and as I look at him I’m aware of a sudden sharp pang of irritation.
God, it’s so strange to remember the days when I once saw him as a symbol of lost potential: an
avatar of all the friendships I could never hope to have. Although then again, maybe it’s not?
Maybe it’s not strange at all. After all, it’s not really that dissimilar from how I grew so willing to
discard my separate bedroom or the American souvenirs…just the simple realisation that I no
longer wanted any of these things once I’d learnt to accept how much I wanted you.

“Thanks,” I say. I’m deliberately sounding as polite as possible, over-compensating for the
annoyance I’m doing my best to hide. “But we didn’t order these.”

“I know,” says Hunter. “They’re on the house. Hey man, look, I’m sorry to interrupt, but…” He
deposits the tray on the table then shuffles from one foot to the other like he can’t contain himself
any longer. His voice had dropped now, almost theatrical in how excited he is. “You’re Will
Graham, aren’t you?”

Oh fuck, I think bleakly. In fact, my immediate instinct is to say no, but the certainty with which
he’s asking implies that he’s not really asking at all; he already knows exactly who I am, and this is
just my opportunity to confirm it. Besides, I can hardly deny my own existence with Clarice sitting
right there. In the end I just nod, terse and slightly irritated like I can’t believe he would hassle me
over something so obvious.

“I knew it,” says Hunter. “Man, you’re all over the Internet! I can’t believe you’ve been coming
here so long and never told me.”

“Why would I tell you?” The effort it’s taking not to snap at him is extreme although somehow I
still seem to be managing it. “It’s not exactly interesting.”

“You’re too modest my guy. It’s very interesting.” He smiles again, spreading out both hands as if
inviting us to appreciate how incredibly goddamn interesting it is. “All the times I was talking
about the Cage novels, and I had an actual FBI agent right here!”

By now he almost sounds ready to burst; God knows what he’d say if he knew he currently had
two of them. “Actually, I’m not an agent anymore,” I say. “And I can’t discuss any of the cases
I’ve worked on.”

Hunter’s face immediately starts to fall (confirming not only his disappointment, but also how I
appear to be constitutionally incapable of not behaving like a total dick when an opportunity
presents itself). “Aw, man, that’s too bad,” he says. “Seriously, I have so much I want to ask you
about.”

Oh God, he’s going to mention you isn’t he? I can just tell. He’s already lowering his voice,
adopting the dramatic, slightly awed tone that people so often have when your name is mentioned.
Even Jack does it sometimes. Even Clarice. And all in reference to a version of you that I can
barely stand to talk about, because (not to put too fine a point on it), it triggers the absolute fuck out
of me. This is a version of you who’s real in the same way Robert is real, in that it takes other
people’s awareness to breathe life into him…only in this case his presence is painful and
horrifying, simply because he’s not you. I don’t want him to exist anymore, and every time
someone names him in this reverential way it instantly resurrects him and every terrible thing he
did to me.

Possibly some of this might show in my face because Hunter now repeats the same awkward
shuffling motion before leaning down to retrieve the tray, “Look, I’ll leave you to it,” he says.
“Sorry to interrupt. But hey man…anything you can talk about, well, just stop by some time. As
much coffee as you want. On the house.”

“Sure,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’ll do that.”

Hunter smiles appreciatively then gives his head another dip before finally retreating behind the
counter again where he belongs. I watch him go with my eyes slightly narrowed while Clarice
glances from me to him then reaches over to take one of the bomboloni – presumably as a gesture
of politeness more than anything else, given that she discreetly folds it into her napkin without
actually eating it.

“Well, that was unexpected,” she says. “You’ve got quite a fan there.”

“I’ve had fans before,” I say drily. “Somehow it never works out.”

Clarice darts me a quick look of sympathy. She doesn’t seem inclined to pursue it, although I
suppose she doesn’t really need to. She’ll have already heard about the whole thing – most likely
more than once, and from several different viewpoints. Even so, while the situations admittedly
aren’t the same there’s no denying that the whole scene with Hunter has still left me deeply
uncomfortable. Being recognised is the one thing I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to avoid and having
my anonymity stripped away like this makes me wary and resentful; the proverbial snail dragged
out of its shell. At least I had the sense to never come here with you I suppose, although somehow
even that isn’t quite the consolation it should have been. God, we really need to leave this place,
don’t we? It seems to be pretty much cursed as far as we’re concerned. I need to speak to you about
it again later…I need to find a way to make you change your mind.

Across the table Clarice is now picking up Matteo’s file. As she turns the page I catch a quick
glimpse of his photograph and for a few fleeting moments it’s like I can hear that oily voice again;
can see the beetling eyes as they crawled up and down my face. I want to add you to my collection.
It’s true he turned out to be the detective story villain, but of course I didn’t know that when I was
planning my crime scene and packing my gleaming little knife. As far as I was concerned his only
source of wrongdoing was to be a threat to your safety – and while his behaviour gave me a moral
escape clause, there’s no doubt I would have killed him anyway if I’d had to. Because I would have
done, wouldn’t I? I would have done it for you.

“I just had a final query about the autopsy findings,” Clarice is saying. She looks up then falters
slightly, obviously catching sight of my expression. “If that’s okay?”

Fuck, I’m so tired, I think helplessly. I’m so tired of all of this. Then with an enormous force of
effort I force my features into something resembling neutral; pitch my voice into something
resembling calm.

“Of course,” I hear myself saying. “That’s totally fine.”

*****

By the time we eventually leave the café it’s already getting dark. The moon is very bright
overhead; a sharp slice of silver, shrouded in a misty veil of cloud. The previous heat of the day
has also descended into an oppressive, clammy coolness and Clarice now shivers slightly in the air
then thrusts her hands a little deeper into her pockets.

“I should get a cab,” she says. “Would you mind calling one for me? Sorry, but my cell is flat.”

“You’ll be waiting ages at this time.” My voice in my own ears is rather striking; it sounds about as
weary as if feel. “Where’s your hotel?”
“Via delle Terme.”

“That’s only a few blocks away – it’d be quicker to go on foot.”

Clarice nods with approval then hesitates when she sees I’m turning round too. “Thanks, but you
don’t have to walk me back,” she adds. “In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want to put you out.”

“The city has two serial killers in it,” I say grimly. “I’m walking you back.”

Clarice hesitates once more as the undeniable truth of this does battle with a reluctance to cause me
any inconvenience. The frown between her eyebrows likewise indicates a sense of pride at how she
doesn’t need an escort and can take care of herself – although in the end it’s a greater sense of
caution that ultimately seems to win out. “Well okay then, thank you,” she says. “I appreciate it.
The next drinks are on me.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” says Clarice. “But then you don’t have to do this.”

I smile rather wryly, then take a few steps sideways until she’s got space to move around me and
we’re both facing in the right direction down the street. After that the next few minutes simply
pass by in a comfortably companionate silence, which is something I’m grateful for and a quality
in her I’ve always been able to appreciate. Unlike most people she doesn’t feel a need to cram a
string of pointless observations together, instead being content to let the silence settle in a way that
always feels restful rather than awkward. Jack, to be fair, is also fairly good at this, although the
best person of all is you.

“Your knowledge of the city is impressive,” says Clarice eventually. I hum slightly as a request to
clarify, and she adds: “The way you knew exactly where the hotel was.”

“Oh yeah, right,” I say. “I guess I’ve lived here for a while now, you just pick it up. I do a lot of
walking with Robert, too. He loves it here – he could spend all day just looking round.”

Of course, I’m well aware I could have just left it at the first part. There was no need to mention
‘Robert’ at all. I can’t help it though, because by this point I’m almost a bit of an addict; it’s like a
craving, urgent desire to find someone (anyone) who can provide an audience for my need to have
us acknowledged. In my head Robert has turned into your benevolent twin – your person suit, who
acts as the sanitised, socially acceptable version – although of course the similarity is only skin
deep because there was only ever one, wasn’t there? Only ever you. The fact we’re supposed to
have met in college means he’s younger than you are, so I imagine him with his hair a little longer,
his clothes slightly less formal, and with the fervent, faintly neurotic intensity of the artist he’s
pretending to be. He’s the type of person who always tips precisely 15% of the bill, apologises
more often than you do, stares less, smiles more, and genuinely cares what people think of him. He
has your hypnotic gaze, alpine cheekbones, and the same smoky voice – even though he’d never
use it to murmur your elegant lies or darkly cryptic truths. And if I met him in real life I know I’d
get bored of him within a week, but instead I can simply smile at him then catch his eye because
we both know it’s you underneath.

“How’s Robert doing?” Clarice now asks, exactly as I was hoping she would.

“He’s okay,” I reply, deliberately casual. Then I add that’s he’s ‘bearing up’ (because bearing up is
exactly the type of thing that Robert would do) before allowing a bit more of you to sneak through
and concluding with: “He’s extremely tough. He’s dealing with it.”
“Good,” says Clarice. “He must be concerned about you.” Given that this is far too obvious to
require an answer she doesn’t actually wait for one, and instead just adds: “Are you expecting to
see him soon?”

“I hope so.”

“Good,” repeats Clarice. “I hope so too. I know I’ve said this before Will, but you always seem so
happy when you talk about him. Your whole expression changes, your voice; everything. You’re
lucky to have such a supportive partner. Most people spend their entire lives looking for a
connection like that.”

“Yes,” I reply quietly. “I spent my entire life looking.”

I sound very sincere as I say this, even though I know it’s not completely true because I wasn’t
looking. After all, why would I? Why waste time searching for something I didn’t believe could
exist? It would have been like hunting for unicorns or Spanish Gold: a mythical, unobtainable item
that’s intriguing to think about but utterly impossible to ever lay hands on. A connection like that
was a concept that only existed for me in pictures or stories. It was never a living thing with a
beautiful angular face and darkly intricate mind; something warm and breathing that could be
touched and held and made love to. Someone like you was impossible to imagine, even for
someone as imaginative as I’m supposed to be. You defied expectation. Even now I’ll often look at
you and can scarcely believe that you’re real. But of course there’s no way I can explain any of
this, so eventually just add, rather lamely: “You’re right. I am lucky.”

“Well, so is he,” replies Clarice. “Actually, I take that back, because it’s not just luck. From what
you described it needed a lot of effort and openness from both of you to make things work. He
sounds very special Will, but you are too – and you deserve someone who’s good enough to be
with you.”

This is probably the most personal observation she’s ever shared with me and I can’t help being
slightly surprised by it. In fact, it’s possible she feels the same because she promptly falls silent
again – although even now it still retains the same calm, comfortable quality as before. Oh wow, I
didn’t quite mean to say all that, she might be thinking, but I know she won’t waste time getting
embarrassed over it. She’s just sincere and honest to a fault, and in a way it’s quite sad to think how
a few more years in the BSU are destined to harden her to a point of briskness and cynicism which
would never dream of a disclosure like this. There’s no room in law enforcement for romanticism;
I remember you discussing that once yourself. ‘Romanticism celebrates the individual,’ you said.
‘The inventive, the impulsive, the imaginative, the inspirational and the expressive .’ You’d paused
then, a smile flickering over your face as you slowly ran your finger right across my forehead. ‘The
power of one.’

Overhead the moon still looks misty and raw, the sky pockmarked with stars as hard and flinty as
chips of ice. I’ve hardly ever seen skies like this in American cities; the air pollution is too bad.
I’ve never seen an American city so quiet either, although that difference has an even uglier
explanation because this isn’t a town that’s used to violent death. People are afraid now: of course
no one wants to be out after dark. After all, it’s not just one killer roaming free right now, but two.
One a rash, impetuous newcomer and the other with an almost legendary, mythical status who’s
travelled from across the seas to hunt here.

“It’s real shame to see it this way,” says Clarice, as if reading my mind. She leaves a rather solemn
pause then gestures in front of her, inviting me to commiserate with how dismal and deserted
everything is. “I’d imagine this would normally be overflowing.”

As she finishes speaking a lonely gust of wind blows a can along the cobblestones; the metallic
 clatter is exaggeratedly loud in the otherwise silent street and both of us jump at the exact same
time, startled by the sudden noise. “Maybe not so much out here,” I say wearily. “But the city
centre would definitely be more crowded.”

“Everyone’s so scared, aren’t they? I imagine the economy will have taken quite a hit from lost
tourism.”

“Of course.”

“It’s not like I’d blame them,” adds Clarice. “I suppose it’s just interesting how humans gauge risk.
There’d be a greater chance of something going wrong while getting on the airplane; even more so
from riding in a cab from the airport. We’re always so selective in where we choose to see threats.”

“True,” I reply in the same weary voice. “But I guess we have to be. Life would be pretty
unbearable otherwise.”

“I know. It’s just that the odds of running into either of them is infinitesimally small, yet still
people stay away. Especially in Dr Lecter’s case. From what I’ve read it’s not like he would target
some random tourist.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s not really his style. In that respect I’d be far more worried about Il Macellaio.”

Clarice clears her throat like she’s about to reply, only this time I never do find out what she was
planning to say. Perhaps it was something about how much better the odds are for the tourists; or
possibly how they could worry about Il Macellaio, but myself and Jack should worry about you.
Or maybe it was a combination of both those things – or maybe none at all – but in the end all that
happens is that her breath stutters into silence before catching in a sharp inhale. It’s like she’s in
physical pain and I swing round immediately, my own mouth opening to ask if she’s okay even
while it's obvious that she’s anything but. In fact she’s not even facing me now; she’s just gazing
straight ahead with a frozen expression and eyes that are far too wide and staring. It’s been a long,
long time since I’ve seen anyone look like that and it’s so dramatic it could almost be an
illustration: you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Instinctively I turn round again too, but at first all I
can see are the shadows. Nothing but two dark outlines, my own and hers, stretching out across the
cobblestones like spilled ink until they finally merge together to blend into a third silhouette as it
fully emerges in front of us.

And that’s when I know.

The shock of this realisation is powerful enough to steal my breath away, yet even as I’m thinking
it I’m aware it’s not really true. Maybe I knew already. Maybe I’d guessed? I think I might have
done…I think I just didn’t want to admit it. The thing is, you’ve gone too far this time; even for
you it’s too much. I suppose you probably know that too – the difference is that you just don’t
care. And now I’m here, thinking all this, and none of it remotely matters because there you are
anyway. Stood in the moonlight like it’s your own personal spotlight, stunning and terrifying with
your long dark coat and your gleaming eyes. Just standing there, watching…watching and waiting
until the time comes that you decide you’ve waited long enough and finally take a slow step right
towards us.

Chapter End Notes

Lol, everyone probably knows this factoid already…but I recently watched BBC
Sherlock (it’s good! OMG I MIGHT WRITE FIC) and discovered while doing this
chapter that the character based on Milverton is played by Lars ‘the-brother-of-Mads’
Mikkelsen xD

Next update ETA: May 22nd

 Chapter 45
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

For the next few moments there’s only stillness: just a grim, grinding stretch of nothingness where
no one either moves or speaks and all of us simply stand there in silence while watching everyone
else. In this respect the silence is incredibly deceptive though, because there’s still a rich range of
reactions on display in spite of it – all of which are as varied as they’re entirely predictable. My
own response is a blend of shock and resentment, whereas yours is relish combined with a certain
curiosity, but I think the person I’m most acutely aware of is Clarice. She is, after all, the only one
of us who doesn’t understand what’s happening and it’s easy to imagine how horrified she must be.
Even so, imagination is also about as much as I’ll have to go on, because whatever she’s truly
feeling she does extremely little to show it. This isn’t surprising, of course. FBI agents are trained
to tolerate extreme stress and I as I watch her I can almost see her putting the theory into practice:
doing her best to modulate her breathing, perhaps attempting some visualization or mental focus
techniques. Nevertheless, I can still tell that she’s scared. Terrified, even – because of course she is.
Why wouldn’t she be? She’s brave, not stupid. Maybe she’s remembering all those crime scene
photos she must have been shown in Quantico? Or then again, maybe she’s not. Maybe it’s the
opposite; maybe she doesn’t dare let herself think of them at all? It’s not as if I’d blame her. In the
glaring lights of the lecture theatre they always looked more like abstract art than an actual human
being. They did though, didn’t they? Grotesque gashes that roiled and overflowed with foam and
gore and splashes of scarlet…a stark, visceral reminder of exactly what you’re capable of.

Up until now you still haven’t spoken yourself and as the silence limps on it finally occurs to me
that you might be waiting for me to break it first. Is that it, then? Is that what you wanted; to set
this up as some kind of twisted loyalty test to see if I’m prepared to publicly claim you? It’s
honestly hard to say for sure. You can be so mercurial that way: possibly the theatricality of the
gesture would appeal to you, or possibly you wouldn’t want to subject me to it – but either way you
can fuck all the way off, because you’ve created this situation without consulting me and now you
can damn well own it. What was it you said a few weeks ago? What happens next depends on your
choices, not mine. You are the author of this particular narrative, Will. I am giving the pen to you.
Perhaps this is your version of that – a sort of choose-your-own adventure power move simply to
see what I’ll do – but right now it’s hard to care too much about it because it’s a game I’m feeling
far too frustrated and angry to play. Nevertheless, the resentment is still only ever skin deep
because if the time comes I know I won’t reject you either. I’ll ignore my own shame and Clarice’s
horror and embrace you in front of her if I have to: it would be utterly overwhelming but I know I’d
still do it, even though the threat of exposure is already making my heart quicken and my breath
catch. I’m sorry, I now tell her silently. I’m so sorry for everything. Not that it really matters if I’m
sorry or not. My remorse is pointless because there’s no doubt I’ll still choose you. I won’t let you
hurt her, but I also won’t take her side over yours; and the only concession I’m willing to make is
that I refuse to make it easy for you to do it.

God, you’re really staring at me aren’t you? Initially your focus was more on Clarice, but it seems
you might have already lost interest because your eyes have now slid back to me again and this
time refuse to move. Clarice has clearly noticed it too (and promptly assumed the worst) because
she quickly manoeuvres herself until she’s stood slightly in front of me in what’s an obvious
attempt at protection. Of course, if the situation were what she believes it to be then this gesture
would be tragically futile; only she doesn’t know – and as such it’s impossible not to notice and be
touched by it. I’ve got your back, is what she’s saying. You can count on me if you need it. After
all, there’s no doubt she could just run away if she wanted to: as far as she’s concerned you don’t
care about her at all and I’m the one you’re really here for. She could let me take the full force of a
possible attack, knowing that I’m physically stronger than she is and far more able to fight you off.
But she doesn’t; she stays and supports, simply because it’s the right thing to do. Her instinct is to
defend the innocent, even when they’re like me and profoundly guilty, and if the situation was
what she thinks it is then I know I’d put a hand on her shoulder to pull her back again with an
instinct that was equally strong. The problem is that I don’t want to touch her in front of you. It
doesn’t matter how casual or fleeting the contact is, you still won’t like it; and right now, it feels
incredibly important to not to give you any greater cause to resent her than you already have. In the
end I just move forward myself as a kind of barrier, still holding the same stubborn silence – at
which point I immediately feel Clarice shift again as she starts to move her hand down towards her
pocket.

My main thought then is to thank God and fuck that we’re not in the States anymore and aren’t
allowed to carry guns. I can only guess the shock of the situation has made her briefly forget that
her phone is flat, but while the movement is incredibly subtle your eyes still fly straight down to
her coat. Presumably you’re thinking the exact same thing, because it’s now that you take a sudden
step forward and say: “I would appreciate it if you would put your hands where I can see them.”

At the sound of your voice Clarice gives a sharp flinch. I suppose she’s never actually heard you
speak before, has she? At most she might have come across some old news footage or interview
tapes, although even those wouldn’t have been adequate preparation for the real thing. A recording
can’t quite capture the clipped distinctiveness of your accent, the low smoky register, or the way
it’s so rhythmic while also being vaguely threatening; a tiger’s purr, rumbling over cello strings. In
this respect you also don’t state any consequences for disobeying you, but then of course you don’t
really need to – the implication is there regardless and her imagination will do the rest – and she
now quickly extends her arms in front of her, both palms outright in what’s an obvious gesture of
compliance. It’s an effective attempt at de-escalation, and to play along I suppose I should
probably do the same…only there’s no way I’m going to stand here in front of you with my hands
in the air, so eventually just let them dangle rather uselessly by my sides as a sort of half-assed
compromise. At the same time I try to glance at her in a show of reassurance, but by now she’s not
even looking at me anymore: she’s staring straight at you instead. From the angle of her gaze I get
the sense she’s looking at your own hands, although this is an urge I can easily empathise with
because I remember once having a similar fascination with them myself. They’re rather striking,
your hands. It’s the way they combine strength and width of bone with a certain supple elegance.
An artist’s or musician’s hands. Surgeon’s hands. And just knowing what they’ve done and what
they’re capable of…knowing what they could do to whoever’s within their reach.

As if reading my mind, you now smile slightly then take another slow step forward as your eyes
slide away from Clarice and back to me again. “Hello Will,” you say.

It’s only two words – a mere three syllables – but it feels significant anyway, because this is the
clearest signal you’ve shown so far that you don’t want to give away our real relationship (at
least…you don’t want to yet). Either way though, the performative aspect is still obvious because
you usually speak to me in a tone that’s warm with affection whereas this is distinctly chilly and
aloof: the type of tone you’d have used if we genuinely had been reunited after a long and bitter
absence. It confirms that whatever else you might be planning you prefer to keep the deception
about us going for a little longer – and while this might fill me with the usual consuming blend of
guilt and relief, I still know it’s something I’m more than willing to agree with. Oh God, I’ve
always wanted it both ways, haven’t I? I want to stand beside you yet also have Clarice keep faith
in me; to allow the world to know about us while somehow keeping my reputation intact. I’m your
Lamb of Revelation but also your Great Red Dragon…so deeply wanting to be good, yet so
profoundly needing to be bad. You said as much yourself a few months ago, didn’t you? I
remember it now; the way you quoted Von Goethe at me in your smouldering voice. ‘Two souls,
alas, are dwelling in my breast,’ you said. ‘And one is striving to forsake its brother…’

In all this time I still haven’t said anything, and as you continue staring it now occurs to me that I
really ought to respond. With what, though? What would I have said to you if this had been real?
Something rather sardonic, I suppose. Slightly mocking. Hello Hannibal. Long time, no see. No,
that’s not right. I wouldn’t have used your first name. I would have called you Dr Lecter; I would
have been more comfortable the less personal we were, exactly like I was in real-life. Only I don’t
want to do that, because as angry as I am with you I can’t bring myself to renounce you either.
Even if it’s just playacting. Even if it’s something you’ve set up yourself…I just can’t do it. So in
the end I don’t say anything at all, although I guess that’s still as plausible a reaction as any. You’d
never have fallen for it yourself of course, but at least Clarice doesn’t know me well enough to
understand how out of character it is. No doubt she’ll just assume that shock and fear have stolen
all my words away.

“Back to the same old hunting ground,” you eventually add once it’s obvious I’m not planning to
reply. You pause then give another eerie little smile: a faint glimmer of teeth in the moonlight.
“Should the universe contract; should time reverse and teacups come together. We can’t travel
through time but we can still come back to it, can’t we Will? The emotions, the memories, the
spaces where we met and spoke…they always persist.” There’s another pause as I see your teeth
gleam at me again. “One can always return to the scene of the crime.”

Your tone, if possible, has grown even more ominous and if this were real then I know this is the
point you’d have said something taunting. It would be something cruel and humiliating –
deliberately designed to devastate – yet even though it would make the scene more realistic I can
tell that you can’t quite bring yourself to do it. You big sentimental old bastard, I think, fond even
as I’m furious. Although of course if this was real then it would also have been the other way
round, because it would have been me who came after you. You’d be staring at me through the
shadows, very blank and inscrutable to conceal the sense of hurt underneath. ‘You came here just to
look at me,’ you’d say. ‘Came to get the old scent again. Why don’t you just smell yourself?’ And I
should be staring at you too, feeling as if your gaze was going right through the back of my skull. I
should be confused and unsettled, wondering why I still can’t exorcise the ghost of you after so
many years of trying.

The awareness of this is acute – the sense of how things might have been – and I stand there I
know it’s my turn to be disturbed, possibly even more than Clarice, simply from the shock of
confronting a version of you who I no longer recognise. This is the version who’d stalk me through
the darkness to tenderly slice me apart and it’s honestly like looking at a different person. There’s
no trace of you: the one who smiles and laughs, who ruffles my hair or who rolls their eyes in mock
exasperation. The human part of you. What’s standing here instead is the version who went over
the cliff and knowing it’s an act still does surprisingly little to dilute the shocking intensity of
seeing him again. I know I should be angry with you (and I am) but at the same time the contrast
makes me want to fling my arms around you too. It’s stupid, I know, but I still help it, because even
though we’ve spent hours discussing my own Becoming it’s so powerfully obvious that over the
last year it’s really you who’s changed far more than me.

I think a trace of this emotion might possibly show in my face because it’s now that I see your
expression start to soften. No one else would ever notice it but it’s definitely there; and is (let’s be
real) probably the closest you’ll ever get to apologising for pulling an insane stunt like this in the
first place. With what seems like a visible effort you now finally drag your eyes away from me
then turn to face Clarice instead, who flinches slightly, yet continues to hold her ground.

“Do you know who I am?” you ask.

Of course you’re already well aware of the answer, but it’s not like that matters because it isn’t the
reason you’re asking. You don’t expect to know; you expect to be told. It’s as if you just can’t help
yourself, and the whole dynamic feels similar to how a cat will lazily extend its paw to swipe at a
bird: not because it needs to, or even particularly wants to, but simply because it can. As you’re
speaking I hear Clarice catch her breath, although this show of distress is another thing that’s
hardly surprising. After all, she’s smart enough to know that there’s every reason in the world to
fear your attention. At some point she’s also managed to shift herself until she’s standing in front of
me again, which means I really ought to move forward too to take her place as the human shield.
How long could it possibly go on for though? Both of us inching nearer and nearer, competing to
be the sacrificial offering until we’re finally close enough for you to pounce on.

“Yes,” Clarice now says, her voice quiet but firm. “Yes, Dr Lecter. I know who you are.”

She’s being polite to you, which is good; you’ll like that. In turn, I can see how intently you’re
looking at her and can’t help wondering how it must feel to have the subject of your sketch brought
so vividly to life before your eyes. You’re normally not too interested in coincidences; your mind is
too precise and logical for that. A coincidence is merely a series of mathematical probabilities, you
once told me. Even so, I can still tell that this particular probability hasn’t managed to bypass you
completely.

“Then we only need to partly acquaint ourselves,” you finally reply. “You’re FBI, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir,” says Clarice. Once again, I can’t help admiring her tone. It’s courteous without being
submissive, which given the circumstances is a difficult combination to pull off. “I’m a trainee. My
name is Clarice Starling.”

You take a slow step forward, presumably to see if Clarice will shrink back (which she doesn’t). I
know this is another thing you’ll like; you’ve always had a certain respect for people who don’t
show they’re afraid of you. “And what brings you here, Clarice Starling?” you reply. “Migrating so
far from home…was it myself or Il Macellaio?”

Once more, of course, you already know the answer to this, although I suppose this time the
subterfuge is more for my sake as yours. After all, you can’t show you know too much about her
without it looking suspicious, but at the same time clearly can’t resist an opportunity to interrogate
her now that you’ve got the chance. I wonder if you’re trying to detect the trace of Abigail in her
that I claimed I was able to see? Although even as I’m thinking this I can see how futile it is
because yes, of course you are – why wouldn’t you be? Tonight is like a form of experiment. It’s a
way for you to observe her in her natural habitat before she finally discovers the truth about me,
and in this respect it seems the whole thing has been pretty much inevitable. After all, it’s one thing
to resent you for what you’ve done yet I know I still can’t deny my own share of responsibility for
making it happen. Once you understood how much I cared about her it was only a matter of time
before you’d need to see her for yourself. In a way the only surprising thing is that you’ve managed
to wait for as long as you have.

“I was brought here for the Macellaio taskforce,” Clarice is now replying in the same measured
way. “I haven’t been assigned to anything to do with you, sir. Mr Crawford is directing that
himself.”

“Naturally,” you say with a slight curl of your lip. “No doubt assisted and abetted very ably by Mr
Graham.”

Clarice throws me a rather nervous glance then turns round to face you again. “Yes sir. But Will
has been helping me with Il Macellaio.”
“I’m sure he has.” There’s a pause, just long enough for your mouth to flicker into one of your
more inscrutable smiles. “Will does so love to help. It’s an interesting assignment, isn’t it Agent
Starling? Il Macellaio is such an eager boy; brutal and reckless, yet still evading every attempt at
capture. Your career trajectory will thank you for this.”

Clarice hesitates then glances at me for a second time. “It is sir, yes. That’s true. And I’m very
grateful to have been able to learn from Will. But that’s not the only reason why I wanted to be
involved.”

Your eyes now narrow slightly, which is a sure sign that you’re interested. Not that this is
surprising; such probing levels of detail about her was exactly what you came here for. “So why
did you?” you ask.

“Because he’s hurt a lot of people,” replies Clarice with simple sincerity. “He needs to be stopped.
And the Italian police can’t catch him on their own.”

This time you don’t react straight away, and I can immediately tell that her answer has intrigued
you. You tend to be incredibly cynical about people’s motivations – nearly always assuming a
mercenary desire for compelling them to do what they do – and by asking this question you were
delving into her mind to discover exactly what type of incentive might drive her. Perhaps some
evidence of egotistical control and ambition (like Jack), or an anguished fascination with violence
(like me), or maybe even some unresolved source of rage or trauma that could seed a lasting
hunger for wanting to pursue the worst of the worst. And yet she hasn’t said that; not anywhere
close. As I watch you briefly flit your eyes downwards, appraising the way she’s trying to shield
me from you, before finally returning to her face.

“You wish to protect?” you ask. “Perhaps more than you wish to hunt. That’s very commendable,
Agent Starling: to have come so far to shelter the innocent.”

Clarice hesitates again; I think she’s assumed that you’re mocking her, even though I know you’re
not. “It’s my job, sir.”

“Yet guilt and innocence are such very fixed concepts,” you reply without missing a beat.
“Morality itself is always relative.” As I watch your eyes slowly track back to me again and this
time stay there. “Wouldn’t you agree, Will?”

I give a slow nod in response, subtly inclining my hands towards you without fully realising I’m
doing it. “Of course,” I reply. My voice sounds very dry and toneless, although I think it’s more
from the shocking surrealness of the situation than any genuine attempt at acting. “And therefore
separates matters of fact from matters of value.” As I watch your Sphinx-like smile grows ever-so-
slightly broader. “No single perspective is ever the whole truth.”

“Indeed it is not,” you say. “How wonderfully abstract you are, Will; you must never change that
about yourself. After all, I am already looking forward to holding many more of these
conversations in the future.” You pause then give me another of your intensely eerie stares, once
again a perfect replica of your former self. “Just like old times.”

Clarice promptly throws another wary glance in my direction. It’s clear she’s interpreted this as a
threat, although I suppose that’s exactly how you intended her to take it. And in turn, it’s easy to
imagine how much you’re relishing the deception because it doesn’t matter to you that she doesn’t
know yet; the truly important thing is that you do. Knowledge really is power where you’re
concerned, and the sense of omniscience you get from tugging at everyone’s strings is a fix that
you’ll never, ever grow tired of. In fact, now my initial shock’s worn off, I can see how the fact
you’ve chosen to keep our relationship secret for a little longer isn’t all that surprising. After all,
your real concern is with Jack finding out and I know it’ll be important to you that he’s the one
who discovers it first. Tonight wasn’t to drop bombshells, it was simply to satisfy your curiosity
about Clarice – and the awareness almost makes me want to punch you, because right now it feels
like only you would ever go to such insanely risky lengths for such a fundamentally pointless aim.
Although perhaps that’s not entirely fair, because I know as far as you’re concerned it’s not
pointless. The real reason you’re here is me, and in a weird way it’s actually a genuine
compliment. Clarice is a source of interest to you in the sense she provides you with a mirror to
gaze into my thoughts and emotions; and if I’d manage to hide my own interest a little better,
there’s no question you’d have ever bothered trying to meet her. Of course, you hinted enough
times that you wanted to, but somehow I never thought you’d really do it – and which of course
was an error of epic proportions, because I of all people should know how incredibly risky it is to
ever, ever underestimate you.

The truth of this is fairly undeniable, but dwelling on it has made me aware of how my concern has
quickly begun to shift again: spiralling away from Clarice’s safety and landing squarely back on
yours. Every second you’re out here is a tremendous risk, and it means that the mind games and
introspection can wait – the only thing I can care about anymore is seeing you safe and seeing you
gone. In all this time I haven’t moved or spoken, but you understand me so well that I think you
can still sense my burgeoning agitation because it’s now that you finally take a step backwards in
what I desperately hope is in preparation to leave.

“Well, this has been a very enjoyable interlude,” you say. “A chance to strike a new acquaintance
and reignite an old one.” As you’re speaking you slowly swivel your head from me back to Clarice,
the movement somewhat eerie and predatory. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Agent Starling.”

Clarice swallows audibly but continues to meet your gaze. “Thank you, sir.”

“You seem to be a very admirable person,” you add. “And because of that I am going to extend
you something I almost never do: a warning.” Briefly you fall silent again, letting it stretch out just
long enough to be unsettling before adding: “Which is that when I leave…I strongly advise you do
not attempt to follow me.”

You don’t bother including me in this, although I suppose the implication is that I’m so familiar
with the consequences of trying to cross you that a warning isn’t even necessary. Then there’s
another pause – almost like you’re taunting us with the possibility you won’t leave – before you
finally turn around again and vanish into the depths of a nearby alleyway just as abruptly as you
first appeared. Clarice lets out her breath in a long, low sigh so I take advantage of the distraction to
slip my hand into my pocket and quickly turn off my phone. Then after that I simply stare
wordlessly into the darkness in what’s a convincing imitation of someone in profound shock. It
feels humiliating to do this, but the necessity of it is so great that it doesn’t even bother me. The
longer the delay, the longer you’ll have to guarantee a swift and safe departure. Every single
second counts, and right now I don’t remotely care how I get them.

“Will,” I hear Clarice saying. “Will. Are you okay?”

It’s true she didn’t sound distressed before, but there’s no doubt she does now. I suppose she’s
heard all the stories of my fragile, damaged psyche; possibly she’s worried that the shock of the
encounter has pushed me to the edge and made me snap completely. In fact it’s tempting to prolong
it for a little longer, but full-on catatonia is stretching the bounds of credibility – even for an
encounter with you – and I now blink a few times as if I’m finally jolting back to reality again. Not
that the irony of this is lost on me either, because reality is actually the last place I want to be.
Reality is stressful and depressing and requires choices I really don’t want to make…choices like
having to pretend to be invested with trying to catch you. But treachery is the only way to keep us
both safe and I mentally now give myself a firm shake as I prepare to do what needs to be done.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Sorry, it’s just…no, I’m fine.” Clarice nods with obvious relief, but as she
straightens up again I reach out to clamp a hand down on her arm. “Don’t even think about going
after him,” I snap, my voice deliberately low and urgent. “Not unarmed. You might think you
understand what you’re dealing with but trust me – you don’t. Call the police. Do it now. Then call
Jack as well.”

Before I’ve even finished speaking I’ve already starting sprinting in the direction of the alleyway.
Now I’m the one pretending to be my old self, just like you were: charging off into the night, ready
to do battle with monsters. What was it you said that time? He who fights with monsters should
look to it that he does not himself become a monster. Only I did become the monster – or at least
allowed myself to love one – and this version of myself feels equally unfamiliar as yours did. It’s
clumsy and comfortless, like ill-fitting clothes, yet it’s also something that’s impossible to shed
until I’m away from all this and back with you again. It makes me wonder if this is how a snake
feels when it sloughs its skin, although I suppose no…almost certainly not. They don’t grieve the
loss of it, do they? They don’t cherish or commit to the version of themselves that existed in that
moment – merely cast it away and focus on the next incarnation. The snake knows it exists in a
constant state of flux and conversion; there’s never only one version of a snake. It’s always on the
verge of Becoming.

In this respect is seems overly optimistic to think Clarice will have forgotten her phone is flat, but a
part of me still can’t help hoping she won’t realise until I’m out of earshot. Unfortunately, she
shouts out almost straight away, although it still delays things a little longer for me to return to give
her mine – after which she’ll have to wait another 20 seconds or so for it to turn back on. The
whole stupid pantomime has probably only bought you about three minutes, but that doesn’t matter
too much; you’ll be able to do what you need to in far less time than that. I might always be
accusing you of being reckless, but I know that you’re not. Not really. What you are is fearless,
which isn’t entirely the same. You’ll take risks no one else would ever consider – exactly as you’ve
done tonight – but your sense of calculation still remains extraordinarily well-tuned. You pulled a
stunt like this simply because you wanted to, and because you could, but if there was a chance it
could put either of us in serious danger there’s no doubt you’d never have done it.

This whole time I’ve been moving blindly through the knot of alleyways, playing a part without an
audience even present to witness it, and it’s now that I finally draw to a halt so I can lean against a
nearby wall. The bricks are cold and rough though the thin material of my shirt, but I can’t bring
myself to care. How long should I leave it before going back again to say I couldn’t find you? Ten
minutes? Maybe 15? It’s oddly lonely to be stranded here in the dark, lingering in the shadows
while I wait out the rest of the time, but I wasn’t expecting you to reappear again tonight and am
deeply relieved to find I’ve been proven right. With any luck you’ll already be in a cab by now,
elegantly draped along the back seat with the usual Sphinxy smile flickering across your face.
Your breath will be smooth and even. You won’t have broken a sweat. You’ll be fine. You will,
won’t you? You always are.

By this time I can already hear the police sirens: that first low wail, signalling more to come,
grinding out in the night air like something in pain. They’re so loud, aren’t they…I think I’d
forgotten just how incredibly harsh they are. Oh God, I keep thinking to myself. Oh God, oh God.
At one point I might have even said it out loud, although I’ve no idea why; why appeal to a God I
don’t believe in, when even if I did you and I are the last people He’d want to help? I still keep
thinking it anyway though (OhGodOhGodOhGod) because it’s not over yet, is it? No of course it’s
not – it’s only just starting. In this respect my resentment for what you’ve done remains fierce, but
it’s already been easily smothered by a far greater concern for your safety. I care less about why
you did it as opposed to the fact you did it successfully; and it’s why I’m stood here right now,
 slumped against the wall in the moonlight, subsumed with the all the anxiety it would never occur
to you to feel yourself. Not that anxiety is truly the right word for it. What I’m feeling is more like
a sense of inevitability – an inexorable sense of an ending. What was it you told me the other
night? It was that Italian proverb, wasn’t it: The sweetest flesh is near the bones. You were leaning
down towards me as you said it, your lips skimming against my cheekbone with a warm rustle of
breath. It means reaching the finale is the most rewarding part, beloved . And so it’s now, here in
the moonlight with the wail of the sirens, that I finally get the full awareness of what you meant.
Because it really is starting now, isn’t it? Your finale; our dénouement. The audience takes their
seats, lights fade to black, the sound of a snare drum and then…go.

Chapter End Notes

Next update ETA: June 05

 Chapter 46
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

In the end I’m not even sure how long I spend standing in the dark and the silence, simply because
everything which happens after that seems to pass in something of a blur. It’s like suspended
animation…like time standing still. In reality I don’t think it could have been that long – not more
than 15 minutes – although whatever it was is more than enough to have raised the alarm and by
the time I’ve made it back to Clarice again the cavalry has already arrived. Because of course it
has: the entire contingent is there (squad cars, support units, even an ambulance), and in a way the
excess of it almost feels like a form of mockery on your part. So much expense and resources, all
for one person and you’re not even here. It’s as if you’ve tricked them into throwing a huge,
elaborate party in your honour and then stood everyone up at the last moment by deciding not to
show. Although of course it’s not really like that at all, is it? It’s a stupid analogy, I don’t know
why I’m even wasting time with it. Then eventually I simply stand there to wearily scrub my hand
across my face, because more than anything I think I’m just aware of being tired. God, I really am
though: I’m so, so tired. I’m tired of all of this, of everything. I’m tired of you pulling these
dangerous, theatrical stunts without telling me and I’m tired of trying to restore some order to all
the chaos you leave behind you once it’s over. But most of all I’m tired of being this version of my
old self: the one who believes in law and order (when I no longer do) or who wants to do the right
thing (when I don’t). I’m so terribly tired of him, yet perhaps more than anything I’m utterly,
spectacularly, lethally tired of never finding enough conviction to finally leave him behind. I can’t
fully accept him – mostly because you can’t – but even after all these years it seems I still can’t
bring myself to fully abandon him either.

This entire time I’ve just been leaning against the wall in a kind of haze and it’s only now that a
police officer abruptly appears in front of me to announce something loud and irritated in Italian. I
think she’s assumed I’m a random spectator (and is asking me to kindly fuck off) although I can’t
be bothered to feel annoyed by it. Maybe I should, but I can’t. In fact she’s done me a favour if
anything, because her presence was pretty much exactly what I needed to force me out of all this
shitty introspection and jolt back into reality again. Not that ‘reality’ is quite the right word for
what’s happening though, as there’s also something truly surreal in how this ancient, quaint little
street is now being lit up like a set-piece from CSI. Medieval buildings spliced with state-of-the-art
policing: a jarring, discordant clash of Old Europe and modern America, with the smiling spectre
of you in the centre of it all.

Right on cue the officer now steps aside and it’s then that I finally see Jack is here (predictability
leading the charge), his face bathed blue and red from the sirens and wearing an expression that’s
extraordinarily grim. Standing next to him is Clarice, arms folded defensively across her chest, and
it seems they both manage to glance up at the exact same moment to notice me. I suppose I was
missing long enough for them to start worrying you might have got to me first; they don’t know I
deliberately came back a different way to avoid the ground unit that’s crawling outwards like a
spiderweb in search of you. In this respect I’ve already braced myself for one of Jack’s lectures at
being reckless enough to chase after you unarmed (‘Do you have some kind of death wish, Will?’),
although in the end it doesn’t actually happen. Perhaps it’s because he’s not that much of a
hypocrite? After all, he knows he would have done the same himself. Instead he just comes striding
over then stares at me in silence for a few seconds before clamping his hand down on my shoulder.
The affection of it is obvious; it’s as if he wanted to hug me then changed his mind at the last
moment. Maybe he’s concerned about looking unprofessional in front of everyone, or maybe he
thinks I’d be uncomfortable with the attention. Who knows? It could be anything, really. I don’t
care enough to try and work it out.

“No sign?” asks Jack now, even though it’s obvious there hasn’t been and I don’t know why the
hell he’s bothering to ask. I shake my head in response, pretending to look suitably weary and
defeated, then stand and watch from beneath my eyelashes as his expression starts to crumple into
the type of concerned frown I always remember him wearing years ago whenever I was being
particularly pitiful. Not that I care. Right now, his sympathy is useful – and is far preferable to his
suspicion. In this respect I decide I might as well play on it for a bit longer, so instead of replying
just stay there in mournful silence, sighing rather dismally at intervals then pausing to blink at him
like a Disney cow from over the top of my glasses.

“We’ll get him,” adds Jack, which seems the only reaction he can muster in response to such a
gratuitous blinking/sighing combination (and suggests that the two of them together have managed
to reduce him to the type of platitudes he normally hates). In fact, he sounds very certain as he says
it, although I can’t help wondering if he truly believes this. After all, he never really got you, did
he? Not once. The only time it ever happened was when you gave him permission first.

“You’ll need a report,” is all I eventually say. It’s phrased as a statement, not a question, because of
course he’ll need one – the main thing he needs to realise is that he’s not getting one right now.
“I’ll come by the station first thing tomorrow.”

Jack opens his mouth to object, at which point Clarice throws me a quick glance then coughs
politely to get his attention. “I’ll do one sir,” she says. “Will and I have the same information.”

I nod at her gratefully, and then (because I can’t be bothered to say anything else) simply thrust my
hands into my pockets and perform an awkward shuffling movement with both feet. To be honest I
think this is the point I’d normally have just walked away, only right now I feel like I can’t because
I’m too paranoid about doing anything which might piss Jack off any more than necessary. Not that
my caution matters that much – it’s clear how reluctant he is for me to leave – and in the end I get
so desperate I have to resort to turning up the dial on my Sad Face to mega intensity until it seems
like only the most cold-hearted of bastards would force me to stand here answering questions when
I clearly ought to be lying on a fainting couch somewhere with a handkerchief and an invalid bell.

“So…I’ll see you tomorrow,” I finally say in an attempt to seal the deal. I repeat the awkward
shuffling motion as I’m speaking (then realise it’s turned into a kind of tap-dance routine so decide
I better stop). “You did great tonight,” I add to Clarice instead; mostly because she did, but also
because it seems like the least I can do now that she’s taken report duty on my behalf. “The way
you held it together was very impressive.”

“Likewise,” replies Clarice with obvious warmth. “I know how I felt when I saw him: I can’t even
imagine how it must have been for you.”

Jack reaches out to give me another clap me the shoulder. “Will’s very tough,” he says (and which
immediately makes me feel like I should ratchet up the Sad Face again just to prove him wrong).
“But yes, I agree – excellent work Starling. You did well to keep your composure.”

Clarice smiles at this, pleased yet typically modest. “Thank you, sir,” she says. “Although I didn’t
exactly do a stellar job of calling the police. My Italian is so terrible. The operator must have
thought I was a hoax at first; just some crazed American claiming I’d seen Hannibal Lecter
running round the streets.”

“Well, it’s not like mine would have been any better,” replies Jack in a kindly way. “Regardless,
you got the job done.” He pauses then falls silent for a few moments, taking turns to glance at us
rather solemnly from one to the other. “The main thing is that you’re both okay.”
“But it’s like I told you,” I pipe up. “Hannibal won’t hurt me as long as he thinks I’m sticking to
my side of the bargain.” Jack turns to look at me again and I pause a few moments myself before
performing a truly wretched combination of foot-shuffling and Sad Face-pulling as a kind of
emergency Nuclear Option. “Look, I’m tired,” I add because fuck, I really can’t stand this
anymore. “I’m going to head off. I want some time to think over what he said then I’ll catch up
with you in the morning.”

It's obvious Jack has a lot more he wants to say about this, although in the end another look at my
Sad Face seems like it’s enough to finally admit defeat. “I’ll arrange a squad car to take you,” he
says. He smiles at me again, followed by another clap on the shoulder that’s so goddamn hearty it
nearly sends me bouncing off the side of the ambulance “You can’t possibly go back on your
own.”

Oh shit, I think gloomily. Shit-shit-shit. The annoyance, of course, is completely unreasonable as it

was easy to guess he’d make an offer like this – given the circumstances he could hardly do
anything else – and I know it’s unfair to resent him for it. But fair or not I still resent him anyway,
because while a ride in a squad car is the absolute last fucking thing I want right now I also know
there’s no way I can refuse it without looking suspicious. In the end I have to get the driver to drop
me at some random hotel in Santa Croce before loitering round in the lobby for another five
minutes until I can finally call a cab to take me to the right destination. The delay is a genuine
ordeal, and I spend the entire journey in a state of anguished anticipation that’s torn between
condemning what you’ve done and a painfully gnawing anxiety that something might have gone
wrong while you were doing it. Only the latter is far too disturbing to pay much attention to and
it’s not long before I find myself focussing obsessively on the former instead, simply because it’s
so much easier to be angry with you than it is to have any fears for your safety. By the time I reach
the hotel I’m ready to burst and am so impatient I go tearing upstairs on foot because I can’t be
bothered to wait for the elevator. Adrenaline makes my hands tremble so much it takes several
attempts to get the door open – and when I finally stumble inside to see you lounging on the sofa,
I’m hit with a wave of relief so intensely powerful that for a few moments I can’t do anything
except stand there in silence to let it crash over me.

In this respect, the current scene in the suite feels like a glimpse into another reality. I mean it
really does – from one extreme to the other – because you’ve got music playing in the background
(something lush and sweeping with lots of violins) and are sipping from a glass of wine while
wearing an expression of calmness that’s almost fiendish in its intensity. In other words, you look
like someone without a single concern in the world, and the contrast with my own state of stress
and exhaustion is so extreme that it practically feels like an insult. I also know in the old days I’d
have probably started yelling at you by now – possibly even punched you – but in the end it’s
surprisingly easy to just silently walk over to stand behind you then stroke your hair (even though
you don’t deserve it) for no other reason than I’m so happy to see you’re okay. To be honest I
don’t think I even feel that shocked anymore. After all, I always knew you could do something like
this; I simply assumed that you wouldn’t. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I’m not even that
angry either, because by this point it’s a given that you can’t help yourself and are always going to
do the cruellest, most hazardous thing possible. If anything, what I probably feel more resentful of
is myself and my ongoing willingness to tolerate it. Years and years and years: has long has it been
going on for by now? Of course, I did it unknowingly at first but eventually I did know…and then I
still kept doing it anyway.

It's at this point I realise I’ve been stood here so long your hand has crept upwards to cover mine,
so it’s now that I let go completely then sit down next to you on the sofa so I can pour out some
wine. There’s already a second glass placed there; clearly (and correctly) you'd anticipated me
wanting alcohol of some kind. I’m so wired my hands are still shaking and I’m aware of you
watching me the entire time as I struggle not to spill any: very calm and inscrutable with your usual
lethal patience. Having finally managed to pour a glass I now down the whole thing in one go then
lean back against the sofa with my eyes closed. If I listen hard I can hear you breathing within the
darkness of my skull: a very soft rustling like silk slithering over the floor.

“Jesus, Hannibal,” I finally say. “I don’t even know what to tell you. What the hell were you
thinking?”

There’s a slight pause: even though my eyes are closed I can still sense how intensely you’re
staring at me. “Tonight has been difficult for you,” you reply. “I understand that. You should take
this opportunity to express whatever you feel is necessary.”

Your voice sounds unusually gentle, and I immediately know what you’re really telling me is that I
should feel okay to cry in front of you if I want to. In fact, you’re not entirely wrong. A part of me
does want to cry (probably for the catharsis as much as anything else) but in a perverse way I don’t
want to let you have it. One of your all-time satisfactions is watching me cry. Not because you
want to see me unhappy, but because you understand how unwilling I am to do it – and rightly
interpret it as a powerful form of intimacy that I’ll let you share an emotion I’d withhold from
anyone else.

“I am very mad at you,” is all I reply. “Just so you know.”

“Yes,” you say calmly. “I assumed that would be the case. I suppose you have every right to be.”

“Your assumption is correct.”

“Which is why I let it dictate my actions.” You pause again and I finally open my eyes to see you
taking a slow sip from your own glass. “As the expression goes, it is easier to ask for forgiveness
than to seek permission.”

This, of course, immediately confirms what I’d already suspected; namely that you were
determined to meet her and, knowing I’d never let you, finally thought ‘fuck it’ and did it anyway.
It’s pretty much identical to your decision to kill Aronne, although acknowledging the pragmatism
of your strategy doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. Briefly I narrow my eyes at you then
lean over to pour more wine in a distinctly chilly silence.

“You seem very confident I’m going to forgive you,” is all I say.

“Forgiveness is too great, and difficult, for one person.” God, you sound so incredibly calm. It’s
infuriating; just once I wish you could admit how much you’ve fucked up. “It takes two: the
betrayer and the betrayed.”

As you finish speaking you stretch your arm along the back of the sofa to gently stroke my neck
with the tip of two fingers. Your touch is incredibly casual – careless, almost, like you don’t fully
realise you’re doing it – and this in itself provides a sense of closeness that’s surprisingly intense.
You never used to touch me in this easy, informal sort of way in the past. Your every move is
normally so calculated, so precisely planned for a specific effect, that any gesture to the contrary is
a sign you’re letting your guard down to relinquish control – and it always makes me feel
impossibly moved whenever it happens. Even so, there’s no way I’m ready to let you off the hook
that easily, so instead of responding just let my breath rush out in an irritated sigh before taking
another gulp of wine (and which I’m intending to be cold and dismissive, but unfortunately manage
to miscalculate by combining the two until I nearly end up choking on it).

“You’re seriously going to quote Bedelia at me?” I ask once I’m able to breathe again. You raise
your eyebrows in polite incomprehension: why yes, tiny fiancée, of course I am – obviously. “And
how exactly am I supposed to have betrayed you this time?”

“I agree,” you reply. “The source of the quote is regrettable. I suppose it was seeing you tonight in
such a singular context; it appears to have made me ruminate about the past. But did I ever tell you
her follow-up statement?”

“No,” I say sulkily.

“She informed me that betrayal and forgiveness are best seen as something akin to falling in love.”
You wait a few moments then give me a long, slow glance from over the top of your wine glass.
“She was, of course, referring to you when she said it.”

“So what was your answer?” I ask, curious despite myself.

“That you can’t control with respect to whom you fall in love.”

“Yeah,” I say with a hint of an eyeroll. “Tell me about it.”

This immediately makes you smile, even though I can tell you’re trying not to. In fact, such
restraint is still fairly out of character: it shows you understand how angry I am with you and (for
once in your deranged life) are prepared to go to an unusual amount of trouble to be considerate of
it. In this respect your hand briefly retreated from my neck after I snapped at you, although I can
already feel it starting to wind its way back again.

“Betrayal is likewise too strong a term,” you now reply. “You have not betrayed, but you have
concealed. It is a crime of omission rather than commission.” I frown at you as a request to clarify
and you add: “Why didn’t you tell me she was the same woman from my drawing?”

“Oh yeah, let me see about that,” I say irritably. “Could it possibly have been to stop you pulling
the exact sort of stunt you did tonight?”

Your expression doesn’t alter by a single muscle, but I can still immediately sense how offended
you are by this. You hate it when I’m sarcastic with you. You think it’s disrespectful (a close
cousin of rudeness) although seeing how it’s the absolute minimum of what you deserve I can’t
exactly bring myself to care too much about it. Of course, this is also the point where most people
would have the decency to show at least some level of guilt or self-consciousness; some people
(God forbid) would actually apologise. But this is you, which means all you do to stare back at me
then reply very calmly: “But you might as well have done…considering that I did it anyway.”

My eyebrows promptly ascend into my hair with an incredulous ‘are you kidding me’ gesture, but
you simply gaze back without speaking, smiling serenely the entire time like the cat that got the
canary (each canary…all the canaries). It’s not like you’re even doing it on purpose to be
provoking; you’ll accept that I’m angry with you, and do your best to honour that, but at the same
time you still don’t really believe you’ve done anything wrong. For a moment I feel I could
actually laugh at how audacious you are. Seriously, it’s like you’ve got zero fucks to give about
anything. No…no, I shouldn’t laugh, should I? I definitely shouldn’t do that. It would be
encouraging you, and encouragement is the absolute last thing you need. In the end I just scrub my
hand across my face to conceal the fact I’m struggling not to smile.

“You scared the life out of her,” is all I eventually say. “I hope you’re happy.”

“She’ll recover.” You pause to run your eyes over me again then take another thoughtful sip of
wine. “Besides, I think you underestimate her. She reminds me a little of you in that way: that
particular quality of courage. Of being afraid yet persisting regardless.”
“Oh come on,” I say with poorly-concealed impatience. “It’s hardly the same.”

“I didn’t claim it was.” This time you leave a longer pause, your finger gently dipping a little lower
beneath my collar. “I would imagine the source of her fear is very different from yours. But it’s as I
told you a few nights ago, Will: fearlessness might be a gift of nature and temperament, yet true
courage is not the absence of fear but the dedication to overcome it. It’s an attribute the two of you
appear to have in common.”

“Don’t try and placate me,” I snap. “You know you shouldn’t have done it.”

“No,” you say lightly. “I suppose I probably shouldn’t. But she means a lot to you, which makes it
inevitable that she must mean a lot to me.” You catch my eye for a few moments then give an
elegant little shrug “It was impossible for me to not want to meet her at least once.”

A rather shitty spiteful part of me wants to contradict you on this, but in the end I force myself not
to and just give a small shrug instead. Like it or not, I know it’s unfair to deny your reasoning; I
admitted as much to myself that I’d pretty much set you up to want to see her.

“I wondered if you were going to tell her the truth about us,” I finally reply. “I was waiting for you
to do it.”

“And would you have been prepared to accept me if I had?”

“Yes,” I say, low and sincere. “You know I would.”

You smile slightly then run your finger along my neck again. “Indeed,” you reply. “Mylimasis.
Which is exactly why I did not.”

You don’t add anything else, but as the silence starts to stretch out I’m aware of a strange sense of
guilt as I realise how once again it seems I’ve managed to give you the worst possible motives. I’d
assumed your silence about our relationship was the result of some manipulative scheme or plan,
but what you’re really saying is that if you’d exposed me in front of her then you couldn’t have
allowed her to leave alive. In fact, now I think about it, it’s a similar rationale to what you did with
Jack. ‘I never intended for us to be seen together today,’ you said. ‘For that to happen it will need
to be a situation where he can’t act upon the information.’ Revealing us as a couple would make
her a witness you’d feel you had to kill to protect me – knowing, of course, exactly how horrified I
would have been if you did. It means the whole performance tonight was simply an attempt to
satisfy your curiosity about her in a way that would guarantee her safety – not for her sake, but for
mine – and while the deception wasn’t an outcome you personally wanted, you were prepared to
do it anyway because you saw my preferences as being more important than your own. In this
respect there’s no doubt you must have wanted to tell her, and I know in the past you definitely
would have done. It’s so easy to imagine, too: the calm destructiveness of it, and your fascination
with the resulting distress and confusion. Right now it feels a bit much to thank you for not
behaving like a total bastard, but I still reach round to stroke my own fingers over yours to show
you that I understand and don’t take it for granted. It’s a huge concession on your part and I’m
genuinely able to appreciate that.

“So how often do you follow me then?” I now ask in an attempt to change the subject from Clarice.
“Don’t try to pretend tonight was a one off.”

This time your only response is to smirk to yourself, but while it might be annoying I’m not
particularly surprised by it. If anything, it was a fairly pointless question to ask; you relish your
ability to be enigmatic so fiercely that this kind of information is the sort of thing you’re never
likely to admit to. In fact, I suspect it’s fairly often and that you’ve been doing it for a while. Price
thought he saw you, didn’t he? So did Jack. It wouldn’t really shock me to discover that you’ve
been leaving the hotel when I have every single time.

“Let me guess,” I add, doing my best not to roll my eyes at you. “Hiding in plain sight?”

This makes you smile again. “Precisely,” you say. “I was very close by when you exited the café;
enough to hear her announce her hotel. After that it was simple to know which route you would
take.”

“And then lie in wait for us,” I say wryly. “Preparing for the ambush.”

Your smile immediately starts to broaden. “How dramatic you are, beloved.”

“Yeah, right.” I smile too then take another sip of wine. “I’m dramatic?”

“But what choice did I have?” you reply in an exaggeratedly innocent voice. “You left me with no
alternatives.”

“Oh yes, sorry about that,” I say. “I forgot all this was my fault.”

“But it also allowed me to overhear your conversation. I was curious to know how the two of you
interacted while alone and I was not disappointed.” You pause again then let your finger wander
away from the back of neck to brush against my cheek instead. “It’s good to know that Robert is a
source of such happiness.”

“Hmm, I suppose he’s not too bad,” I say. “At least he doesn’t hang around in alleyways like a
creeper.”

“Indeed,” you reply with another smile. “And it appears Agent Starling approves of him too. I
confess, my opinion of her rose considerably once I heard that. I like how attentive she is to you. It
shows that she appreciates your true value.”

This time it’s my turn to pause, my lower lip catching between my teeth at the awareness of a sharp
twinge of feeling I’m still not sure I’m entirely ready to express. I take another deep gulp of wine
instead and you watch me for a few moments before reaching round to stroke my cheek again.

“You remind me of the adage that humans created language to better conceal their emotions,” you
say. “You would have done better to continue speaking, my love. Your expression just then told
me everything I needed to know.”

I sigh slightly then turn my head enough to catch your eye. At first you just keep watching in
silence, your sharp features unusually softened with sympathy, and when you finally do reply
there’s a gentleness in your voice which wasn’t there before.

“I can see how conflicted you are,” you say, your eyes continuing to skim across my face. “You
don’t wish to hide the truth about yourself, yet at the same time you’d prefer her not to know. It’s
all right,” you add as I open my mouth to reply. “I’m not offended by that. I believe you wouldn’t
have renounced me if I’d try to claim you in front of her – but at the same time I could tell how
relieved you were that I did not.”

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I was.”

“I know, mano meilė. And seeing you together helped me understand why her approval feels so
important. Because she nurtures that need in you, doesn’t she?” There’s another pause as you
slowly run your eyes across my face again. “The need to do good.”
“Yes,” I repeat, equally quietly. I probably sound despondent, but the truth is that I have a certain
sense of calmness now; not only because you can you see this so readily without me needing to
explain it, but also because you seem so willing to accept it without any of the resentment which
only a few months ago I think you would have shown. Your scrutiny can be difficult to live with at
times – that constant sense of never being able to keep anything to myself – but there’s no doubt it
has its advantages too. Even in the old of days despair and destruction there was always something
liberating in being with someone who understands me so completely as you do.

“Good and evil,” you say now as your fingers resume their gentle stroking on my neck. “You called
me evil once, didn’t you Will? Your implication was that I’d forced you to re-evaluate your belief
in the concept. Yet you returned the favour without even knowing it, because you persuaded me to
believe that there is also such a thing as goodness.”

I briefly glance up to look at you and you wait a few moments before adding in an even gentler
voice: “You, beloved. You always had such a quality of virtue about you: to be so tormented by
your work yet still force yourself to do it anyway. Because, just like her, you wish to protect the
innocent.” I let out a low sigh, unexpectedly moved by this, and you continue the stroking in tender
silence before finally adding: “Do you remember the Blake painting, Will? The Great Red
Dragon?”

I turn to glance at you again, curious as to where you’re going with this. “Yes,” I say. “Of course.”

“Everyone focuses on the Dragon,” you reply in a thoughtful voice. “They always forget that there
is a woman there too. Even in the name of the piece: The Great Red Dragon and the Woman
Clothed with the Sun. Yet there they are, the two of them in mirror image: outstretched and
imploring. It’s an interesting opposition, isn’t it? The implication that good and evil are a duality
rather than independent forces. Like the dark and light sides of the moon…”

As you finish speaking you pause again to take sip of wine, which means I’m now forced to sit
there in impatient silence until you finally choose to continue. In fact, the temptation to start
bombarding you with questions is strong – and has been for a while – but I can tell you’re in one of
your more reflective moods and will inevitably reveal more if allowed to talk uninterrupted. It’s the
same as how your casual touches give you away. You’re much less guarded with your speech than
you ever were in the past, and it’s always worth seeing what you might end up disclosing when left
by yourself to explore your thoughts out loud.

“I made that mistake with you, didn’t I?” you add finally as you return your glass on the table. “I
believed you could be categorised and was forced to learn that you defied such simple binaries.
Your difficulty, of course, is that you were raised in a system which forbid you to express it, and in
this respect the art metaphor still serves us. Consider, for example, the woman clothed in the sun.
For much of history, women were depicted in artworks in only one of three ways: as terrorised,
sanctified, or as iniquitously sinful…”

“Because they were painted by other people,” I say pointedly. I’ve really been doing my best to
stay quiet, but I can already tell what point you’re planning to make and can’t quite contain myself
any longer. “They didn’t have the freedom to depict themselves.”

“Exactly,” you reply in your usual calm way. “There were no other choices available. But it’s been
the same with you, hasn’t it? Victim, hero, or villain…yet your whole is far more than the sum of
your parts.”

Unspoken, of course, yet very much present, is the way that you’ve been more guilty than anyone
of forcing me to conform with a certain ideal. If there’s a manipulative artist in my life it’s
undoubtedly you – only you clearly have no intention of calling yourself out for it, and for once I
find I don’t really want to either. Seriously though, sometimes you’re just so gleefully oblivious as
to what a massive hypocrite you are. In the end I just roll my eyes at you.

“Sanctified or sinful,” I repeat with the hint of a smile. “Says the person who called me a whore.”

“Says me,” you reply with a smile of your own. “But I never implied you should only be that. You
don’t need to be constrained, beloved. Not by yourself, not by society, and not – as much as I
dislike admitting it – by me.”

This time my only response to sit there in startled silence, struck all over again by how nimbly
you’ve managed to subvert my expectations. For you to acknowledge this much is a huge
concession – possibly one of the biggest you’ve made so far – and eventually I just reach out to
take hold of your hand as a wordless form of acknowledgement of it. Not that it really matters,
because I don’t think I have the energy to be angry with you anymore. We need each other: we
shouldn’t fight. Immediately you put your other hand over mine to return the pressure, your thumb
running tenderly across my knuckles in a way I never fail to find soothing.

“I guess congratulations are in order for turning the situation round,” I say. It’s supposed to be
sarcastic but manages to turn out more affectionate than anything else. “You’re the one who’s
screwed up, but I’m the one who’s getting lectured. Remind me again why I should listen to any of
this?”

“Because I am older and wiser.”

“Well, you’re half right.”

“And I am considerably less conflicted,” you add with another smile. “I am not riven by the same
doubts and contradictions you are.”

“Or the same sense of stress,” I reply, this time much more sharply. “Because right now you seem
determined to make things as hard as you possibly can.”

“That is not my intention.”

“I know – but it’s still the effect. Your good intentions do very little to buffer that.”

Immediately your head tilts to the side; one of several therapist-like gestures which even now
you’ll sometimes slip into without fully seeming to realise it. “Do they not?” you ask. “But would
you be in a better position if my intentions were bad?”

“Oh, don’t be so obtuse,” I say, fond even as I’m irritated. “I’m not in the mood. You can slice that
sentence up as much as you like but it’s not going to alter the meaning. I’m telling you that I hate
the way you won’t confide in me. It makes me feel powerless; like we’re not part of a team.”

“We are a team,” you say in a gentle voice. “Only you can’t compete with me on equal terms
because we are not the same. You have limits and I have none.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” I say wryly. “Where you’re concerned I always brought the proverbial
knife to a gun fight.”

“And now you are being flippant.” You smile again, reaching up to give my hair an affectionate
tug before seeming to change your mind halfway through and winding the curl round your finger
instead. “Which I find encouraging, because it suggests you know as well as I do that that is not
remotely true. And likewise, when I say we do not compete on equal terms it doesn’t imply that
you yourself are not my equal. On the contrary. I consider you my equal to an extent which is
vaguely alarming – only consider how much simpler my life would have been if you were not.
Across the course of our acquaintance you have managed to contain and outmanoeuvre me in a
way no one else has ever come close to.”

“Yeah,” I say. “For all the good it’s done me.” I laugh slightly then reach up to scrub my hand
across my face. “God, I’m just repeating all the same old talking points aren’t I? We’ve had this
conversation so many times.”

“We have, indeed,” you reply in the same fond voice. “And shall no doubt repeat it many more.
It’s inevitable, beloved. We are both unusually complex, which means our ability to adapt to one
another is a work in progress. We have similar goals but our ideas of how to best achieve them are
very different.”

As you finish speaking you fall quiet again, waiting a few moments in cautious silence before
slowly letting your hand drift down towards my shoulder. The way you do it is slightly hesitant
and the obvious concern you have that I’m about to shrug you off is somehow incredibly touching;
you’re normally so assured, it’s rare to see you doubtful about anything. And if I’m honest, it also
feels rather strange to have this much power over you, because right now you’ve just made yourself
incredibly vulnerable to being hurt. You’re so sensitive to me rejecting you that all I’d have to do is
pull away; I could shove you off, tell you I don’t want you to touch me…it would genuinely
wound and enrage you, and it’s like you’re giving me the ability to do it while showing that you
trust me not to – even though you know I could. Admittedly I also get a sense that you’re playing it
up on purpose, but it doesn’t feel manipulative as opposed to affectionate; the sort of playful thing
that couples do. But either way you get the result you wanted as I eventually admit defeat then
shuffle far enough up the sofa until I can push against you and rest my head against yours. You
sigh contentedly before pulling me even closer, your other hand stroking softly against my knee.

“I have another confession to make,” you say once I’m finally settled.

“Oh, is that time again?” My voice is muffled from where I’m pressed against your hair; I
reposition myself than have another go. “It only seems like a few days since the last one.”

“That’s because you compel me to reveal my thoughts you – regardless, it would seem, of whether
I want to or not. It’s a rather devastating power you have, my love. I hope you decide to use it
mercifully.”

“No promises,” I say smugly.

“Understood,” you reply, beginning to skim your lips across my temple. “Well, on this occasion
my confession is provoked by your previous remark about feeling powerless. And what I want to
admit is that I consider your response to these situations to be a sign of your resilience. The event
with the sedatives. Aronne. Clarice. You find my behaviour extremely provoking yet carry on
despite it with remarkable resolve and calmness.” There’s another pause as you move your arm
round to gently stroke my cheek again. “Do you really think I would be capable of doing the
same?”

This disclosure is a relatively modest one, but I’m still very struck by it anyway – not only because
it’s so simply and starkly true, but because it’s so surprising to hear you admit it. After all, it goes
without saying that if I was the one constantly plotting things behind your back then you’d lose
your shit. You did lose your shit; the most serious argument we’ve had since living here was my
whole misadventure with Matteo, and even that didn’t have anywhere near the level of
deceitfulness or self-interest as the things you’ve done. Although I suppose it’s the same old
dynamic we’ve always had, isn’t it? Your actions are so extreme it often distracts from their
underlying motive, yet so much of what you do is essentially a form of acting out in order to force
me to notice you. Strip away the dazzling enigmatic violence and it's like you’re a hyperactive,
homicidal toddler demanding constant attention, whereas I’m the grimly stoical parent who’s
perpetually at the end of their rope but keeps on loving you anyway regardless of how shitty you
are. Oh God…what the hell am I even talking about. I’ve had too much wine, haven’t I? I should
probably go to bed before I call you a Murder Baby and everything goes downhill from there.

“Yes, I set the boundaries don’t I?” I say eventually in what’s supposed to be a censored version of
this. As I’m speaking I lean over to give a small dig in the side of the ribs. “Boundaries which you
then completely ignore.”

You immediately start to smile before catching hold of my hand so you can run your fingers along
the back of it. “I don’t ignore them,” you say. “I simply operate within them in a way that
displeases you.”

My initial instinct is to call bullshit on this, although if I’m honest I’m not sure I really have the
energy for it. Besides, I suppose it’s not entirely untrue…and it wasn’t that long ago that you didn’t
have any boundaries at all. Oh God, we’re really gazing at each other now, aren’t we? Our lips are
so close. Only centimetres between them; I can feel the warmth of your breath against my face.
And a part of me wants to kiss you so badly right now – at one point even closing my eyes in
anticipation – but while it’s obvious how much you want the same I know I’m still not ready for it.
In the end I just sigh to myself rather mournfully then slump over you in silence so I can rest my
head on your knee. You promptly start to stroke my hair, very light and gentle like you’re trying to
smooth the stress away. It’s ironic how this ritual is still happening, albeit to a much lesser extent;
you acting as the source of comfort for the conflict you originally caused.

“This conversation isn’t over,” I say sleepily. “Tomorrow I’m going to give you the hell you
deserve. But right now, I’m done. I’m so tired.” I pause then let out a yawn of such extravagance I
nearly dislocate my jaw. “And so drunk.”

“I’m not surprised,” you say fondly. “You’ve had nearly the whole bottle on an empty stomach. I
don’t suppose you’ve eaten since this morning?”

“I have, actually. I had some…what do you call them?”

“I don’t know. What does one call them?”

“The donut things.”

“Bomboloni?”

“Yeah, them. At the café you were stalking me from.” Then I hesitate and fall totally silent, aware
of how my forehead is starting to crease into a sudden, worried frown. Until now I’d forgotten
about Hunter – and it admittedly seems so trivial compared to everything that happened afterwards
– yet somehow the recollection of it is still enough to sting. “I got recognised,” I add. “A guy there
knew who I was.”

“Ah. I imagine you were not especially happy about that.”

“Not especially, no.”

“And what do you wish to do about it?”

“Nothing,” I say sharply. “God. Don’t you dare.”

You make an amused sound then smooth your thumb along the edge of my cheekbone. “I was not
proposing a permanent solution; only that it troubled you enough to mention it, and now I wish to
hear your impressions.”

“My impression is that I want to leave,” I say with an irritation that this time I make no attempt to
hide. “Which, if you recall, I’ve been repeating for quite a while. I want to move someplace else.”

This time your sole response is to slowly stroke my cheek again. “Soon,” you say.

Of course, this non-answer simply takes us full circle to the same conversation we’ve been having
since Jack first turned up, but it’s not like I really expected anything different. The whole thing is a
game of dare and I already know I’ll be the one who blinks first. After all, it’s true I could just
leave on my own and force you to follow, but somehow the knowledge I’d lost my nerve when it
mattered most would never fully satisfy me – something you’re already aware of and clearly intend
to exploit as much as you possibly can. But that’s ultimately what I chose, isn’t it? I didn’t choose
safety, predictability, or to follow the rules. I chose you.

Fretfully I now screw my eyes closed, torn by the usual contradiction of whether I’d most like to
kiss you or punch you. God, it would be so easy to resent you right now for how reckless you’re
being, yet each time I get close I find myself comparing that figure in the alleyway to how you are
now and can’t quite bring myself to do it. After all, you’re still trying aren’t you? Your behaviour
might be off-the-charts unacceptable, but by your own standards you’re being borderline saintly.
Briefly I now find myself thinking of your previous statement: We have similar goals but our ideas
of how to best achieve them are very different. I guess that’s what compromise is, isn’t it?
Accepting your desire to stay and raise hell is part of accepting that you have the same right to be
happy with the final goal as I have. Fuck only knows how we’re supposed to manage it. But at the
very least, I still feel like I have to try. I chose you, after all…what other choice do I have?

“I beg your pardon?” I hear you ask.

“What?”

“You are muttering to yourself.”

“That’s because I’m drunk,” I say. “We’ve established this.”

“You also look rather annoyed,” you add in the same affectionate way. “Incensed. Dare I say it…”
I knit my eyebrows together as an indication that you should not, in fact, dare. “…Shrewish.”

“You are such garbage,” I reply with excessive dignity. “If you stand on the curb too long then
some men in a truck are going to turn up and put you in the landfill.”

“Indeed,” you say. “Your advice is noted.”

“You’re also a colossal pain in the ass,” I add. “So don’t even think about pulling another stunt like
you did tonight.”

This time – exactly as predicted – you don’t actually respond. Instead your fingers continue
threading through my hair and I don’t even have to see you to know the intensely thoughtful
expression that’s beginning to flit across your face. “I’m afraid that is something I can’t
guarantee,” you eventually reply. “At least not in the way you might wish me to. I know you
understand that my love, even if you aren’t entirely satisfied with it. However, what I can
guarantee is that I will abide by the same principles which have been guiding me for some time
now. Which is that I shall never do anything that could harm you – and will likewise do everything
in my power to keep you safe.”
 Considering that it’s coming from you I suppose this pledge might be fairly meaningless; yet
somehow because it is coming from you it also means everything. It’s just like how you’ve
changed so much over the past year yet in many ways have fundamentally stayed the same. But if I
want you then that means I have to accept all of you. I can’t just pick and choose the easiest parts,
can I? It has to be the whole – good and bad together. Not that ‘easy’ is even a concept that comes
naturally to you because you’re incredibly difficult in nearly every possible way. You’re a difficult
person to know. To understand. Difficult to love…and yet how deeply I want to, regardless.

The whole is more than the sum of its parts, I think hazily, dredging my mind back to what you
said before. I suppose it’s the same for you really, isn’t it? You need to accept my desire to do the
right thing, just as I need to accept your delight in doing wrong. But in the end you do have to
accept it, just like I do, because ultimately that’s what we’ve chosen. And it's what we’ll continue
to choose, every single time. Because no matter how many cliffs, or how many falls, we sink or
swim together.

Chapter End Notes

Next update ETA: June 19

 Chapter 47
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The next day is unseasonably cold: overcast and shadowy, with a glowering sickly sky and streams
of rain that pummel off the rooftops in various shades of gun-metal grey. It’s ominous weather.
Melancholy…I don’t want to start the day with a sight like this. In fact I shouldn’t even have to
because the curtains would normally be drawn, only it seems we both had more important things
on our mind last night as apparently we didn’t bother. In the end I just close my eyes again so I
don’t have to see it anymore, listening instead with grim determination to the thunder of raindrops
within the darkness of my skull.

This whole time I’ve been completely still but I can already hear you murmuring my name; your
voice low and resonant, soft as a caress, moving closer all the time until your lips finally begin to
skim against the back of my neck. You’re always able to tell when I’ve woken up. I don’t even
need to move or speak to alert you, somehow you just seem to know. I suppose you must be highly
attuned to my breathing rhythms or something, but whatever it is that alerts you never seem to get
it wrong. Your mouth is very gentle against my skin, laying out a series of feathery kisses as your
fingers brush over my ribs before drifting down to rub the crest of my hipbone. It’s incredibly
tender. Worshipful, almost. It’s like after years of waiting you’ve finally got me to sleep in your
arms and even now you can’t quite believe it; as if you to have to touch me just to confirm to
yourself that I’m real. In this respect your intention is also incredibly obvious, but internally I just
feel myself sigh because right now sex is the absolute last thing I want. God, I truly don’t know
how you manage it; how are able to separate things with such ruthless precision? As far as you’re
concerned it’s as if last night never happened: you’ve just reviewed it, processed it, then tucked it
away and moved on. I can’t do that, though. I’m not you. I don’t have your gift of detachment.

By this time your hand has become a bit more insistent, rubbing in deeper circles as you kiss my
jaw then murmur something soft in Lithuanian. There’s no way you’re going to stop on your own,
is there? You think I want it too, which means at some point I’m either going to have to reciprocate
or tell you outright that I don’t. Neither option is especially appealing, and if it was anyone else I
think I might even be tempted to fake it; to just roll over and get on with things as the quickest,
easiest way to keep the peace. Only it’s you, so I can’t, because no matter how convincing I was
there’s no doubt you’d be able to tell. And it would really bother you, because as much as you
enjoy the physical sensation I know that’s not what matters the most. What you want more than
anything is to see me desire you, and I truly believe you’d be more hurt by me pretending than by
not having me at all. Eventually I just catch hold of your hand to prevent it moving any lower then
reach round to gently tangle my fingers into your hair. This is to let you know I’m not rejecting you
out of anger, but while you get the message immediately I still don’t need to see your face to know
how disappointed you are. Oh fuck, I feel guilty now, even though it’s not my fault. The problem is
that whenever I’m in this kind of state my instinct has always been to retreat. On one hand it’s to
protect myself from further hurt, but the other motivation is less about me and more about you. I’m
not particularly proud of this, but it’s a habit that’s been built over many years and is still extremely
difficult to break – namely that one of the most effective ways of punishing you is to deny you
access to me.

The awareness of this is making me feel more unhappy than ever and I finally turn over to give
your forehead a nudge with mine. I really don’t want to apologise. Partly because I haven’t done
anything wrong, but mostly because you have yet there’s no way you’re going to either. Even so,
your disregard for normal boundaries appears to be another thing I don’t have any talent for,
because it’s still only a few seconds before I find myself letting out a mumbled ‘sorry’ anyway.

You quickly lean down to kiss my forehead then run your finger down my cheek. “For what?” you
ask.

“I don’t want to,” I say. I sound almost ludicrously pitiful by now, which is annoying and
something I genuinely wasn’t planning on. “I’m not in the mood.”

“That is not something you need to apologise for.”

“I know,” I say – and then promptly run out of words, because I know that I don’t yet somehow
still believe I need to. I think I’m empathising with your sense of rejection too much and it’s
making me feel bad by proxy. After all, your behaviour last night might have been terrible but
getting mad at you now feels about as useful as getting mad at a blind person for being unable to
see me. I know you weren’t doing it on purpose; there was no destructive intent. Maybe there
would have been in the past, but not anymore – now you do it simply because it’s an unalterable
part of who you are. You do it because you can’t not. It’s ironic really, isn’t it? You’re by far the
most complex person I’ve ever met, yet in many instances your reasoning is surprisingly
straightforward: you want something you’re told you can’t have, yet because you lack any normal
sense of restraint you’ll simply go ahead and snatch at it anyway. It’s taken you over a year to
finally start factoring my own reactions into any of this, although God knows how many more
years it’ll take before you can learn to fully respond to them.

None of this is doing anything to improve my mood, and after stroking your hair for a few more
silent moments I decide it might be better to just drag my sorry ass out of bed and try re-starting the
day on a less pessimistic note. Speculating on your motives might be interesting as an intellectual
exercise – if I was profiling you, for example – but this is my life now and it’s not something I
want to carve apart in the same way. Although even this strategy ultimately ends up failing,
because after having a shower all I find myself doing is leaning against the counter and staring
blankly into the distance while nursing a cup of coffee that I can’t be bothered to drink. It’s the sort
of numb oblivion I always resort to when stressed – and which is something you’re likewise
extremely well aware of, because I now see you appear in the corner of my eye to begin watching
me from the other side of the room. I hesitate, then throw you a quick glance. You’re wearing an
expression I remember from several years ago (thoughtfully intense, eyes narrowed and with your
head at a slight angle) and I know it’s because the whole spectacle fascinates you. You’ve always
enjoyed seeing me unhappy. Although perhaps that’s not entirely fair, because enjoyment isn’t
really the right word. Appreciation would probably be a better one. It’s like an admiration of the
aesthetic qualities of emotion – almost artistic, in a way – and I know there’s no doubt you’d draw
me right now if you thought you could get away with it. Who knows, maybe you will? Maybe I’ll
find it later, flicking through one of your sketchbooks to suddenly discover myself with the blank
face and anguished, staring eyes. There is such a bleak beauty in your sadness, I remember you
once saying. Which is exactly how it should be, because beauty in distress is always more
picturesque than any other kind.

I now throw you another glance and this time you return the gaze as your expression immediately
starts to soften. “Come here,” you say.

There’s nothing commanding about the way you ask this; quite the opposite, in fact, as the
affection in your voice is obvious. The problem is that I’m so sick of everything right now I can’t
really summon the energy to play along. Instead I just narrow my own eyes at you then pause to
take a sip of the coffee.

“I’ll tell you what,” I snap. “Why don’t you come here?”
Admittedly, I’m not really expecting you to agree to this; not at all. You’re almost incapable of
responding to direct requests (let alone an outright order) and my tone was infinitely sharper than
yours was. But to my surprise you don’t show any signs of resentment and instead walk over
almost straight away so you can park yourself next to me by the counter. Not that this is an
accurate description, of course, because I’m the one who parks: you just elegantly manoeuvre
yourself into position with a graceful angling of limbs and your spine always entirely straight. At
times it’s less like leaning against furniture than it is performance art. I smile slightly despite
myself then take another sip of coffee.

“You are displeased,” you say.

This immediately makes me smile again. I can’t help it, it’s just so typical of you. Anyone else
would be ‘you look pissed off’ or ‘what’s bugging you?’ whereas you always have to be so
absurdly, endearingly formal.

“That’s true,” I say now. “My ability to be pleased is low.”

“And I assume that I am the cause?”

“Not exactly,” I reply in a kinder voice. “It’s not you, as such. It’s more like the situation.”

“I understand,” you say, although I know that you don’t. Not really: you don’t have the empathy
for it. But at the very least you’re still trying, and that in itself isn’t nothing. Another thing you are
is unexpectedly silent, and I now pause again to take a covert glance at you from beneath my
eyelashes. I wonder what you’re thinking as I stand here ignoring you? Whether you’re impatient,
offended…possibly even amused? I don’t know, it’s hard to say for sure; with you it could be
anything. I suppose you never really imagined yourself in this type of dynamic, did you? You’ve
always been so ruthlessly free. You’re the Byronic anti-hero, mad, bad, and dangerous to know: the
hyperintelligent outcast who strolls around humanity, and is in love with it, and fascinated by it, but
isn’t truly part of it. There’s never been anyone to simply tell you ‘No’, has there? Someone who
not only expects you to examine your behaviour but demands it of you.

“Well, perhaps I can do something to improve your satisfaction levels,” you finally add. “Because I
have bought you a gift.”

“Oh, right,” I reply. “Thanks. That was nice of you.”

I sound a bit toneless, although it’s not intentional. It’s mainly because I’m tired, but also because
I’m numb. Numbness is easier at the moment: it’s like all the emotion has leaked out of me and left
behind this bland, anaesthetizing sense of nothingness. I suppose my blankness will be troubling
you, won’t it? You’ll already have understood it as a sign of how much I’m starting to struggle.
Even seeing me actively furious would have been preferable, whether the type of rage that’s white-
hot and ruthless or the icily restrained and lethal kind that’s closer to your own. And that, in turn, is
not only because you like to savour my emotions, but because you see me keeping them to myself
as a form of denial. You want to be offered your expected share, drinking them down in sensuous
sips like one of your vintage wines. Not being able to have them means you can’t have me – and
that’s always been something you find unacceptable.

It's at this point I realise I’ve begun staring mindlessly into the distance again and that you’re
looking at me with an expression that’s part concern and part…what, exactly? Resentment? I’m
still not really sure; I’ve never been able to read you the way I can other people. I reach up to
remove my glasses then realise I’ve already taken them off so scrub my hand across my face
instead. You continue staring and I eventually sigh a little louder then lean over to give your arm a
nudge.
“Sorry,” I add. “I’ve just got a headache. Is it in here, or…”

“It’s right here,” you say.

I glance down and realise that you have, indeed, already placed a box on the counter: long, slim,
and rather splendidly adorned in glossy crimson paper that probably cost around €8 a sheet. God,
how the hell did I not see that before? I really have been out of it, haven’t I; I didn’t even notice it
was there. In fact I generally don’t like receiving presents, but there’s always something about
unwrapping them which activates a gleeful, child-like part of me who savours the anticipation of
discovering what’s inside. I suppose it’s because I was never given that many gifts when I was
young, but even though it’s not something I’ve ever discussed you seem to have realised it anyway
as anything you give me always comes carefully wrapped. I now catch your eye to smile at you
before concentrating on easing the box out of its shiny skin. Admittedly there’s a nagging sense at
the back of my mind as to whether it’ll be something sex-related (a platinum prostate massager?
anal beads hand-made from unobtanium?) although surely you wouldn’t? Not even you. Not right
now. In this respect, it’s rather ironic to remember how agonised I was that my last sex toy gift
would turn out to be an engagement ring, simply because my feelings have changed so radically
since then. Not that it really matters in this case as it’s obvious the box is far too large for that.

After a few more seconds of coaxing, I now finally succeed in removing the paper then opening up
the lid. The box is full of wood shavings, and I carefully push them aside with a fingertip before
immediately starting to laugh. “Oh wow,” I say. “I don’t believe it. This is so neat…where on earth
did you find it?”

“I’m glad you approve.” You sound pleased now; happy that I’m happy. “And in answer to your
question, I had it commissioned.”

I open my mouth, about to make my usual scandalised observation about the cost before realising
how tactless it would sound and forcing myself to bite it back. “You shouldn’t have,” I say. “But
I’m really glad that you did.”

You immediately start to smile, raising your hand to stroke along my cheekbone before trailing
down to tuck a few stray strands of hair behind my ear. “I think you might be blushing,” you say.

I let out another laugh then duck my head slightly. “Yeah…” I reply, “I think I might be too.”

You make a soft noise of amusement and I smile at you again before leaning down to inspect the
gift more closely: an exquisite, perfectly proportioned replica of Canova’s Theseus and the
Minotaur statue. A commission means you had it made especially and it’s incredibly humbling to
imagine an artist somewhere sitting down to carve it. Each fold of fabric, each curve of muscle…
every single detail reproduced in peerless, painstaking miniature, and all done on my behalf. As a
gift it’s sensuous, beautiful, absurdly extravagant, and intensely suggestive – and therefore
completely and wonderfully you.

“Thanks so much,” I repeat. “This is one of the nicest things anyone’s ever given me.” I catch your
eye for a few seconds then give you another nudge. “Even though I’m now utterly mortified:
which I suppose was partly the point.”

As I’m speaking I return the statue to its box again, protectively arranging the wood shavings
around it to keep it safe, and you quickly take advantage of my changed position to curl yourself up
against me. I immediately flinch without meaning to; it’s obvious you’re remembering what we
were doing the last time the statue was mentioned because I can already feel the thick line of your
erection jabbing into my thigh. Oh God, I think fretfully. Please just stop. In fact the inability to
reciprocate is also creating a fresh wave of remorse – and which in itself is deeply frustrating,
because I know none of this is really my fault. To distract us both I attempt to turn round but
you’ve got me pressed up against the counter now and there isn’t any way to move with actively
pushing you off.

“I wish I had known you in your Theseus and the Minotaur days,” you murmur, straight into my
ear. “The scenario you laid out was extraordinarily pleasing. The curls, the huge eyes and slim
body…it would have been like making love to a very beautiful girl.”

“Okay that’s great,” I say. “Or maybe you’d like to patronise me some more – just in case that
wasn’t quite enough?”

My tone is deliberately playful but while I’m expecting you to smile you merely look thoughtful
instead. “You think being likened to a woman is an insult?” you ask.

“Of course not,” I say, struggling not to sound too impatient. “You know I don’t think that.”

This time you just give one of your soft, rustling sighs before reaching up to cradle the side of my
face with your palm. “I apologise,” you say. “I know you hold women in very high regard. It
appears I am wary of offending you today, and it is making me evaluate my words very carefully.”

Immediately I can feel my own expression soften. It’s rare for you to make an admission like this
and I know it’s not an easy thing for you to do. “That’s okay,” I say. “You’re forgiven. Just call me
a shrew or a mongoose and then we’re good.”

You smile again. “Noted.”

“And seriously,” I add, leaning over to touch the box. “Thank you for this. I love it. It means a lot
that you went to so much trouble to get it for me.”

“You gave me something far more valuable.” You lean closer as you’re speaking, briefly pressing
your face against my hair. “You gave me yourself.”

“I’ll need to find somewhere special to put it,” I say earnestly. “When we have our own house, I
mean. Somewhere I can see it every day.” I pause then frown to myself, trying to conjure
somewhere suitable. “Maybe in my study?”

“I thought you were going to say in the bedroom,” you reply with another smile. “But you clearly
have more elevated aims in mind. On the other hand, I am intrigued by the idea of a study. It’s not
something you’ve ever mentioned before.”

“No,” I say. “I guess I haven’t.”

For a few moments I now find myself falling silent again, once more trying to imagine the way
things might be. In my head it’s a small rickety room crammed with books, the window
overlooking some Italian vineyard with the scent of cypress in the air. Your own study (neater,
cleaner) would be on the floor above and we’d meet in the kitchen every afternoon to prepare lunch
together before eating it on the terrace while the dogs rolled around in the sun. Only this time they
wouldn’t just be my dogs, would they? They’d be ours. You’d come up with pretentious names for
them and pretend to find them an irritant while doting on them in private; brushing the burrs out
their fur with one of your ivory combs, then planning dainty little meals for them which you’d
prepare by hand…

“Will?” I hear you saying.

I blink a few times then look at you. “Sorry,” I reply. “I was miles away.” I was, too: miles and
miles. In Umbria or Abruzzo – anywhere but here. “Yeah, a study would be good,” I add rather
wistfully. “I’ve been thinking for a while I’d like to write a book; or at least journal papers to begin
with.”

This makes you smile again. “I think that is an excellent plan. Tell me what other things think
you’d like to do?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” I say thoughtfully. “Learn another language, perhaps? Learn to play an
instrument...” Inadvertently I find myself trailing off again. Of course these are areas you’re
already extremely proficient in: privileged, middle-class pursuits, a world away from my own
itinerant childhood of diesel fumes, food stamps, and clothes bought too big so I’d grow into them.
“Either way,” I add in the same wistful voice, “it’ll be so much easier to plan once we’re settled
somewhere.”

“I agree,” you reply. “It will.”

A part of me is hoping you might use this offered segue as a chance to discuss the practicalities of
leaving, but needless to say you don’t. Not that I really expected it – and I already know there’s no
point trying to force you. It’s possible the disappointment shows in my expression though, because
you immediately look more serious before leaning a little further backwards like you’re seeking the
best possible view of my face.

“Mylimasis,” you say gently. “Where have you gone? I want you to come back to me.”

I sigh slightly then catch your eye again. “Is it that obvious?”

“It is. You have been extremely distant all morning; the fact you are trying so hard to hide it
merely makes it more apparent.”

This makes me sigh again, even though I’d already figured as much – and am not remotely
surprised you’ve picked up on it. You crave my emotions so badly, don’t you? To you they’re
something precious. Compelling in their chaos and engaging in their volatility – shards of glass,
chips of bone, clicking together like pearls – and all the more so from how tirelessly I fight to keep
them concealed. And in turn, the depths in which they’re buried not only makes the experience of
them more gratifying to you, it stokes your desire to seize every opportunity you can to trick them
into emerging from their dark hiding place and revealing themselves. The problem, of course, is
that being open with you about my emotions still feels vaguely risky. There’s a certain sense of
vulnerability in it, as if giving you too much of a glimpse into my head is the equivalent of handing
you raw ammunition to stage a later attack. Not that this is a good excuse though; at least not
anymore. If the past few months have taught me anything it’s that sharing these beliefs and
sensations with you is the only real way to master them.

“I’m not angry,” I say now. “Not exactly.”

You raise an eyebrow. “But?”

“But,” I say firmly, “last night bothered me. A lot. Look, I understand why you wanted to do it –
and I always knew I’d have to accept your particular way of doing things – but I still resent the way
it made me feel. Do you understand? And then my instinct when I feel threatened is to retreat.” I
pause very slightly and catch my lip between my teeth. “Even with you.”

As soon as I say that I can see your face flicker. It’s subtle but it’s definitely there, and the sight of
it makes it easy to guess just how profoundly this disclosure has wounded you. Instinctively I reach
out to put my hand on your arm. A part of me wants to ask you what the hell did you expect, but
there’s no doubt it would achieve nothing except make the situation worse. Besides, I don’t even
really want to. The look on your face just then has shaken me – especially knowing I’m the cause –
because even though it would be almost unnoticeable on anyone else, the fact that it’s you makes it
seem the equivalent of visible, dramatic distress.

“I need more time,” I say in a gentler voice. “That’s all. I love you. I still trust you. But I can’t
move on what you did with Clarice until I’ve had a chance to process it.”

This time there’s another, longer pause. I wonder if you’re angry? It’s certainly a possibility: with
you, rejection and loss harden into rage with almost terrifying ease. Even so, it never occurs to me
to pull away from you – and when you finally do reply, I immediately get my answer from how
unusually quiet and pensive your tone is.

“I understand,” you say. “You are disappointed in me. I find myself extremely discouraged by
that.”

“Not exactly.” I feel a bit unsettled now; I’m not used to seeing you like this and can’t quite decide
how to deal with it. Eventually I just give a rueful smile in an attempt to lighten the mood then
nudge your foot with mine. “I guess it didn’t come out right.”

“I suspect it came out exactly as intended.”

“No, not really,” I say. “In fact, it definitely didn’t. I think I must be channelling my old principal;
he used to tell me the same thing and it always drove me nuts. I’m not angry with you William,
he’d say, I’m just disappointed.”

“Did he?” you ask. “How extraordinarily rude.”

“I suppose so, yeah.”

“It’s fortunate for him that we were not acquainted in those days,” you say. “I would have killed
him for daring to speak to you that way.”

“You probably would have killed me too. I was a rude little shit back then.”

You smile at this then reach out to give my hair a quick ruffle before I can stop you. “As opposed
to now,” you say, “where your manners are impeccable.”

“As opposed to now. I know my lack of rudeness is what you like best about me.”

“Maybe not the very best,” you say. “Although it’s certainly a contender.”

As you’re speaking you to start smile again, pulling me up against you then wrapping both arms
around my waist so you can bury your face in my hair. For a few moments I grip onto you just as
tightly, doing my best to focus on the sense of closeness. All the same, I’m still the one who breaks
away first.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly. “But I need to go. Jack’s expecting me: I wouldn’t give him a
statement last night and if I go missing now he’ll send out half the police in the city.” You give a
slow nod, suddenly looking rather resigned, and I hesitate slightly then put my hand on your arm
again. “Please don’t follow me,” I add. “Not this time. I want to know that you’re here and to know
that you’re safe.”

“I suppose Jack is very concerned for you welfare,” is all you reply. There’s a definite edge to your
voice; it’s clear you’re not pleased about this, but at the same time are reluctant to provoke me with
another argument by stating it outright. In fact, this sort of dynamic has become pretty much
inevitable whenever Jack gets mentioned, but while the previous image of the love triangle
promptly comes to mind I know it’s not the right time to call you out on it. Even so, it’s still hard to
ignore my sudden swell of frustration. Your refusal to accept any consequences for your actions is
always what leads to scenes like this.

“Yes,” I now say with a hint of sharpness. “Considering what happened he doesn’t really have a
choice.”

“What else did he tell you last night?”

“Not much.” I’m trying to keep the impatience out my voice although I’m not sure how successful
it is. “I left as soon as I could so there was hardly any time. I think he was mostly just relieved. He
was glad I was okay.”

“And now he wishes to speak with you again.” You fall silent for a few moments, a small frown
furrowing between your eyebrows as if you’re envisaging the scene in your head. “Are you going
to confide in him, Will? Would you allow him to comfort you if he offered it?”

It’s true you’ve grown more open in the last few months, yet this kind of naked insecurity is still
extraordinarily out of character and it’s impossible not to be touched by it. Of course, it’s also a
prime opportunity for punishing you – and in the past I know I would probably have taken it – but
now I simply take hold of your hand instead then give it a gentle press. It’s so striking to see you
allowing yourself to be vulnerable and I can only imagine the amount of effort it’s taking to give
me permission to see it.

“Maybe a little,” I say, because my policy is always to tell you the truth, even if it’s something you
won’t want to hear. “Right now I feel as if I need it. But it won’t be like talking to you – not even
close. No one reassures me the way that you can.”

Briefly you catch my eye and I already know what you’re thinking: but at the moment you don’t
want me to. And it makes me feel sad, because while this is such a minor conflict compared to
what’s happened in the past, the depths of trust and intimacy between us have recently grown so
powerful that it gives even the smallest ripple of discontent a far greater degree of significance. Oh
God, the whole thing is awful – I don’t think either of us is fully equipped to manage a situation
like this. Both of us feel things so deeply where the other is concerned, yet neither have ever
developed a truly healthy strategy to explain or express it.

As if reading my mind, you now suddenly dart forward to curl your palm around the back of my
neck. The grip is strong – bordering on painful – and I start to frown as a silent warning sign that if
you don’t let go I’ll have to make you. To your credit you seem to realise what you’re doing and
immediately relax the hold, gently sliding round your thumb instead to give my throat a stroke of
apology.

“Your expression just then was very familiar,” you say. “The confused sense of hurt. The
resentment. I remember it many times from many years ago – and the result was always the same.”

I glance up again to catch your eye. “Oh yeah?” I ask. “So what was the result?” Of course, I
already know what mine was (and to be fair, can probably guess yours) but I’m still curious to hear
it in your own words.

“That you were preparing to pull away,” you reply with a simplicity I find oddly moving. “I’ll
always remember how you used to look at me: the way you’d stand and sigh then run your fingers
through your hair. Or the light in your eyes when you’d reward me with a smile and how it felt to
see you do it.” For a few moments you pause again, briefly looking deep in thought. “Even in that
very first meeting of ours,” you add in a quieter voice. “Do you remember it too; the way you said
your name? There came a time I wanted to utter your name like something sacred whenever you
were away from me because my only consolation in your absence was the memory of when you
were there. I’d often picture you in the years we spent apart, Will. With your wife. With her son.”
You pause once more; the same frown, faint as gossamer, gathering between your eyebrows as you
gaze silently into the distance. “In every image you always looked so happy that I wasn’t with
you.”

By now you sound incredibly soulful and I can’t help feeling faintly shocked at how this is far
more disclosure than I ever expected you to show. Reflexively I reach up my own hand again to
cover yours, incapable of seeing you bereft in any way without attempting to offer some comfort.
“I’m not away from you,” I say gently. “Not anymore. I’m right here.”

“But you are not,” you reply without missing a beat. “You have gone somewhere I am unable to
fully follow you. Not that that’s surprising, I suppose. After all, I could never truly predict you,
could I Will? So often you were able to move beyond my influence and ultimately my need for you
grew likewise. Just another sign of your uniqueness: that even a single look from you could instil a
sense of unhappiness and longing in me which I have no capacity to control.” You pause for a third
time then give another of the low sighs, your fingers continuing the rhythmic stroking through my
hair. “In my entire life I never desired anything as much as I desired you,” you say, and this time
the strain of sadness in your voice is unmistakable. “I’ll always remember the satisfaction of
knowing I had won your trust: something so young, wild, and wary as you were back then. And so
ruthless, Will. Such a capacity for cruelty in a single look.” I stare back you without speaking and
you sigh a little more deeply then stroke your eyes across my face. “You were a master of them: a
true artist. Across the years I grew accustomed to those many small torments – yet I would
infinitely rather be wounded by them than to not have had you at all.”

I can already hear my heart beginning to pound in my ears, because by now it’s grown almost
impossible to ignore how eerily similar your posture is to the way it looked when you stabbed me.
God, it really is though: your expression, your voice tone, everything…I wonder if you’re thinking
the same? In fact you almost certainly are, because while I might remember is so vividly I know
you still do too. It was so bleak, wasn’t it? A suggestive counterpart to what would otherwise be a
classic farewell pose: your hand against my face as we gazed fixedly into each other’s eyes, trapped
in the grimly tortured anguish of a romanticism we thought we’d never be able to have that was
shot through with rage, craving, and an unnervingly unbridled passion as we stared at each other’s
faces and breathed in one another’s air. We could have been stood in a parking lot, or perhaps the
gate of an airline: you with a suitcase in hand, preparing to escape back to Europe as originally
planned. Journeys end in lovers meeting. Because in all that time I never tried to fight back, did I?
No attempt to run. I just stood there, immobile and deadened with a pale face and wide haunted
eyes, knowing that the incredible power of our connection – and what it had revealed to me about
myself – had wrapped its hands around the desire to escape and slowly choked it to death. One
breath after another, tender and excruciating, yet keeping eye contact the entire time as the last
drops of life stuttered then seeped away. Because where would I have run to without you? What
would I have done without the other half of myself? It’s so different right now, yet somehow it’s
still the same: that no matter what you do I won’t give up on you, simply because I can’t.

“We should talk more when I get back,” I say, my voice deliberately soft and affectionate. “I want
to.” I lean further forward myself then give your forehead a gentle nudge with mine. “Maybe I just
should have just punched you last night, huh? It seems I might need to get it out of my system.”

Behind me I can feel your hand skimming up and down my spine, very slow and contemplative
like you’re smoothing out fabric. “Your responses last night were what they needed to be,” you
reply. “A reluctance to display substantial anger felt authentic; therefore, you should trust it.”

By your own standards you still sound so sad, even though that’s not what I was aiming for. I don’t
want you to be sad, I want you to be reflective. God, I really wish you would. Just once. Things
would be so much easier if you were ever willing to turn all that stunning perception you have
towards yourself.

“Then maybe I need to think of something else to display.” I pause again then give you another
nudge. “I’d like you to help me work out what that is.”

For a few moments I feel you tighten your grip on my shoulders. “Always.”

“I just have one condition,” I add, this time more firmly. “Which is that I want you to do the same.
We need to work together to solve this.”

A part of me wants to add Because this is all your fault, but ultimately I don’t. It’s not even that
hard to resist the temptation, because where you’re concerned issues of guilt and innocence are
never so straightforward. You do have a moral code, after all: it’s just not like anyone else’s. In this
respect you haven’t acknowledged my last statement, although this isn’t especially surprising
because you’re not really interested in solving things. You like to break them instead then build
them back again in your preferred image – mainly because you believe you can make something
more beautiful from the pieces. You gave the game away pretty early on with that one, didn’t you?
I want to deconstruct you, you told me in one of our very first meetings…only what you didn’t
mention is that to deconstruct something, it first has to be taken apart. That it needs to be destroyed
as a condition of its re-assembly.

Well tough, I think with a sudden surge of fierceness. Tough shit. You’re not destroying this; I
won’t let you. God, I’ve never been good at giving you boundaries, have I? Partly because you’re
almost impossible to control, but also because the lines you tempt me to cross are the ones I always
want to breach the most. And it’s a main part of the problem here, because I still don’t think
you’ve fully grasped that this time I don’t want the same drama and chaos that you do. I can just
about accept your desire for Jack to know about us, but I don’t want him or Clarice to be hurt. I
don’t want a showdown of blood and spectacle. I want the comfortable kind of life we had before
all this started – and it’s long past time that I sit you down and force you to understand that.

“You’re impossible,” I now say, half to myself. “You and your God complex.”

You look rather surprised by this (to be fair, I can’t exactly blame you) but I’m not in the right
mood to explain. What I’m really referring to is how convinced you are of your inalienable
rightness in everything – and how, because I have a unique ability to get inside your mind, you
believe it’s always only a matter of time before I’ll start to see things the same way you do. I still
think that’s one reason you were so angry at my betrayal. You already knew ahead of time I could
do it, but thought I’d change my mind anyway because the alternative outcome was what you
wanted. And to be fair you were proven right (albeit many years after my Original Sin) but that
doesn’t mean the pattern has to be a permanent one. I suppose it sums up my task for this evening,
really: I need to make you realise that. I need to call your bluff. Who knows, perhaps you might
even be expecting it? You already know I’m capable, you said so yourself: I could never entirely
predict you…

It’s not long ago I would have dreaded this sort of conversation, but now I find myself anticipating
it with a sense of resignation that’s tense while also strangely peaceful. It’s like receiving another
gift, only this time one I’m less sure how to open: the permission to see you as you really are. The
human side. The side that can experience vulnerability. The man rather than the monster. You
won’t like it, and in the moment I probably won’t either, but your stunt with Clarice has proven
 more than ever how much it needs to be done. It won’t be the same as last time though: no distress
and despair, no raised voices or slamming each other into walls. It’ll be quiet and loving with wine
and candles, then afterwards we can go to bed because – quite frankly – we need to have sex. It’s
such an important way for us to bond and feel close to each other, and we’ve already gone without
it for much longer than usual.

“I’m going to cook for us when I get back,” I blurt out.

You raise a single eyebrow in response. “Are you really?” you reply. “Haven’t I already been
punished enough?”

You’re smiling as you say it, so I smile too then pretend to swipe your shoulder. You promptly
swipe me back and this time I just laugh then tug you forwards so I can put my arms round you.
You give another of your quiet sighs then press the side of your face against my hair.

“Ti amo tanto” I hear you murmur. “Mi manchi già.”

I know you’re saying you miss me already, although it’s easy to guess that you’re not just referring
to the meeting with Jack. What you really mean is how you feel you’ve lost me since last night –
and just how badly you want me to come back to you again. I suppose the refusal to say it in
English is a last veneer at protecting yourself, although it’s still nowhere near the level of denial or
defensiveness it would have been only a few months ago. Besides, this is one of those occasions
where you knew I’d understand you…you know I’d understand without you needing to speak at
all. Instinctively I tighten my grip on your shoulders then brush my lips against yours.

“I love you, Hannibal” I say in a quiet voice. Because I do, and always will, and because in the
midst of all this madness it’s the only thing which matters anymore and the one thing that can still
be clung to. As if proving the point my phone promptly starts ringing in the background – the
customised ringtone reserved exclusively for Jack – but this time I ignore it and continue holding
on. I love you, I think fiercely. I love you so much. I want to keep what we’ve made together. And I
won’t let you destroy it.

Chapter End Notes

Lol, I’ve just read an interview with Bryan Fuller where he flat-out admits he regrets
not including a Hannigram kiss in the S3 finale and that “if I had to do it again, I might
suggest a kiss to see how it played.” Omg, Bryan you had ONE job xD On the other
hand, everyone raise a glass to Mads: “there was a lingering [take] where Mads’ lips
parted, hovering over Will’s mouth in a way that went on…for a while.” Bravo, sir.
Bravo. AN EFFORT WAS MADE.

Next update ETA: July 03

 Chapter 48
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Jack’s office has acquired some new mementos since the last time I saw it. A few weeks ago, it
was nothing but an admin room – requisitioned from some random secretary with a hastily hand-
written Dtr. Crawford sign pasted on the door – but now it feels like it’s actually his. Proof of his
occupancy is everywhere now: the American flag wilting in the heat behind his desk, President
Obama beaming from a bronze photo frame (Jack, stood next to him, beaming even harder) and the
FBI logo printed onto multiple sheets of glossy paper then displayed in virtually every possible line
of sight. Squint hard enough and there’s even a few more personal touches to be noticed too; a
fierce-looking snake plant stabbing its leaves against the window, a couple of postcards of Oriole
Park, and even a brand-new chair (shiny caramel leather, to match his one from home). Overt
displays of patriotism have never really been his thing so I’m surprised by the presence of the flag,
although I suppose it might just be a grab at familiarity – the same as me with my own American
souvenirs. Otherwise, my main impression is that whole thing feels vaguely ominous, because it
suggests the office is no longer a temporary resting place as opposed to part of a larger plan to stay
in Florence for the long-term. It’s not like any of it really matters though (or is even all that
interesting) yet I still find myself studying it anyway: namely because it gives me a reason not to
listen to Jack and his endless stream of questions about you. God, it’s like he’s genuinely hungry
for them; almost insatiable. Every word, every gesture, every facial expression…it’s as if he wants
to mentally place himself in the alleyway for a chance to confront you too, even if the showdown’s
already over by now and can only ever happen in his head.

Just as I’m thinking this Jack leans back in his chair, lurking away with all the gloomy
magnificence of Lincoln sat on his monument, then proceeds to emit a series of elaborate sighs and
scowls as Clarice explains yet again how you didn’t do anything to threaten us (sigh), stayed for
less than five minutes (scowl) and strongly implied you’d like to contact me again in the future.
The last statement prompts a combination of sighs and scowls that are so intense they look
physically painful, so I sigh too to keep him company then follow it up with a melancholy shrug
for good measure. Jack promptly shrugs as well, as if engaged in a wordless competition over
which of us can be the most jaded and world-weary, but this time I just numbly stare back at him as
I’m gripped with yet another urge to simply walk away and leave him shrugging and scowling to
an audience of one. In fact, I’ve barely said a single thing the entire time I’ve been here; I’m
completely checked out by this point, and it’s obvious that Clarice and Jack both know it.
Fortunately, it’s also safe to say that they’ll be attributing this to stress rather than any more sinister
motives. It’ll be easy enough to believe, I suppose, because I certainly fit the part: I caught a
glimpse of myself in the men’s room earlier and I look like utter shit. It’s as if my concern and
frustration about you have been etched all over my face.

“He wasn’t anything like I imagined,” Clarice finally adds. He, in this instance, of course means
you and I now start listening with renewed interest to see what she’s going to reveal. People
imagine you in so many different ways, don’t they? A big composite of separate identities, none of
them ever entirely capturing the whole. In fact, she also sounds slightly reluctant, and I can’t help
feeling she’s only saying it at all because she’s exhausted her other observations and is dredging
round for something new to satisfy Jack’s ferocious curiosity. “He was more…kind, I guess,” she
adds after another pause. “Restrained? I don’t know.” She hesitates then glances towards me as if
hoping I’ll help her out. “I can’t quite think of the right word to describe it.”

“You wouldn’t be the first person to think that,” says Jack with unusual harshness. “And it’s a total
façade.” He scowls at us both then pauses himself – just long enough to let his breath thunder out
of his body in a long, angry rumble. “Superficial charm is the classic hallmark of a psychopath. He
could be polite to you one minute then be ripping you apart with his bare hands the next.”

Clarice flinches slightly and says “Yes, sir.” She sounds very calm, although I can’t help
suspecting she’s been stung by his tone. Not that I’d blame her: by this point I’m so used to it I
barely even notice anymore, but there’s no denying that getting on Jack’s bad side as a trainee can
be a genuine ordeal. “I suppose it was just surprising. Reading books is one thing; it’s another to
see it in real life.”

Jack shifts back and forwards in his chair. I can already tell he feels guilty for snapping at her but
of course, being Jack, still doubles-down on it anyway. “Then I hope you’ll use this as a learning
experience,” he replies. “Never, ever forget what he is.”

“I know exactly what you mean, Clarice,” I say loudly; partly because I’m sick of all this, but also
because by now I feel like Jack is just being a dick for the sake of it. “And for what it’s worth, you
played it perfectly. The fact you were courteous with him is why he was so considerate back to
you.”

Jack emits an irritable grunting noise and I suddenly feel bad for Clarice, placed in the unenviable
position of trying to keep us both happy like a kid stuck between warring parents. Possibly Jack
thinks the same because he now makes a curt swooping gesture at her with his hand as an
indication she can leave. Clarice politely dips her head in response then begins to gather up her
briefcase. I can’t help sensing she’s relieved at an excuse to get out of here; I know I would be if I
was her.

Jack waits until she’s got to her feet then finally leans back in his chair again. “By the way
Starling,” he adds. “I meant what I said.” His tone is notably kinder now than it was before; I knew
he felt guilty for snapping at her. “You did excellent work. Last night was impressive – truly.
You’re a credit to the Bureau.”

I immediately start to nod, which means Jack and I are now united again; divorced parents cheering
from the side-lines as their offspring scores a homerun (admittedly, I’m also having a private
cringe at such a worthless reward as being called ‘a credit to the Bureau’, although at least Clarice
seems happy enough). As she closes the door behind her Jacks lets out another rumbling sigh then
narrows his eyes slightly as a sign he’s giving me his full attention. I make a grunting noise in
acknowledgement, so Jack obligingly responds with a huff of his own – and which immediately
makes me wonder if we’re destined to just sit here grunting and snorting at each other like a couple
of cavemen for the remainder of the meeting. Then I lean back myself and shuffle irritably at the
discomfort of the visitor’s chair (another tradition that’s imported from America, and which I’ve
always been convinced he keeps that way on purpose to discourage actual visitors). The clock on
his desk seems exaggeratedly heavy on every other beat – tick-tock, tick-tock – and the relentless
drone in the otherwise silent room is already setting my teeth on edge.

“So…” says Jack eventually. I raise my eyebrows; a part of me wants to demand ‘so what?’ and
have to force myself not to. “How are you doing?”

I shrug slightly. “I’ve been better.”

“I can imagine. Last night must have felt very…intense.”

Briefly I catch his eye then lean a little further backwards, steepling my fingers beneath my chin as
I go in a thoughtful, rather pensive gesture I know I’ve picked up from you. “Yes,” I reply. “That
would be one way of putting it.”
Jack nods in response, reflectively leaning forward in his own chair. “From what Starling told me
he could barely take his eyes off you,” he says. “It’s obvious the old fascination hasn’t died down.”

“I suppose not,” I say lightly. “No.”

“Do you think he misses you?”

“In a way.” I pause again. Shrug. “I think he misses having someone who understands him.”

“And what about you?” asks Jack. “Do you miss him.”

This time I wait a few seconds before giving him a long stare from over my fingers. “He tried to
kill me Jack,” I say. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s not as simple as that.”

I immediately bark out a laugh. It’s incredibly dry and humourless; from the corner of my eye I can
see him flinch. Possibly I seem slightly unhinged, but renouncing you over and over is starting to
upset me and this brittle, angry façade is the only way I can think of to hide it. “Are you trying to
warn me, Jack?” I finally ask. “You’re worried he’s going to try and win me over again?”

For a couple of beats Jack just stares at me in silence. I wonder if he’s remembering that
conversation we once had; the haunted expression on my face or the way I couldn’t totally meet
his eye? I’m sure he is. How could he not? He’s probably got my voice in his head: Because he
was my friend…because I wanted to run away with him. “It seems he’s already trying,” is all he
finally replies.

“He never stopped,” I say crisply. “So what else is new?”

Jack exhales rather heavily then to my surprise actually leans across the desk to plant his hand on
my arm. “There was always something extraordinary between the two of you,” he says. “I get that,
Will; and I get why you needed it. I know I didn’t always do the best job of supporting you.”

I open my mouth to reply then catch his eye and promptly find myself closing it again. Of course,
this is the sort of statement that’s impossible to answer without being either rude or disingenuous,
but I suppose it’s not like it really needs one. After all, he already knows that he didn’t.

“People with exceptional talents,” says Jack after another pause. “They’re not always very easy to
understand.” He glances at me again, this time slightly beseeching; it’s as if he wants my
absolution, even though it seems a bit late for that now. I’m not in a position to offer forgiveness to
anyone, am I? Not to him, and not to myself. “That’s why I wanted to link you in with Hannibal,”
adds Jack once it’s obvious I’m not planning to reply. “I thought he was best placed to help you. I
had an image that you’d spend a few weeks running rings round each other then eventually settle
down to find some sort of common ground.”

But we did, I think bleakly. That was the problem. A problem with a life-altering solution, of
course…but still one that needed years of pain and misery to get there. In the end I just shrug like
I’m inviting him to continue, despite the fact I really don’t want him to.

“You ever hear the proverb about the two wolves?” asks Jack abruptly.

I throw another glance at him then blink a few times. “No,” I say. “What are you…”

“It’s about an old man talking to his grandson,” adds Jack before I’ve had a chance to continue.
“He’s explaining the internal conflicts we all have and how it’s like a battle between two wolves:
one evil and one good. The kid asks which wolf wins, and the grandfathers tell him: ‘the one you
feed the most.’”

For a few moments I just stare at him, thinking rather hysterically that if most people have two
regular wolves then you have two wolves with Samurai swords (and rabies). “What’s your point,
Jack?” I ask.

“Several points,” says Jack in an unusually weary way. “I guess I’m trying to apologise for
everything that happened with Hannibal. For not seeing it. For not stopping it. He was whispering
in your ear for years, trying to feed the wolf, and you had no one to help you fight back. You
should have had me in your corner…and you didn’t. You had to stand your ground by yourself.”

There’s another pause; I glance at him again then raise an eyebrow. “And?”

Jack gives a rather crooked smile. “You’re exhausting to talk to Will, do you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

“Well, can you just pretend to not be smart for a few minutes and let me get this out? I’m working
my way up to it. The thing is…” He catches my eye once more then lets out a sigh that’s even
longer and wearier than any of the other ones. “The thing is,” says Jack, “is that I understand why
you felt you needed him. Despite everything he did to you. I understand why an attachment like
that mattered. And I’m sorry I forced you into a situation where you had no other options available
than to take it.”

This time my only response is to stare at him in numb silence, battling with a powerful surge of
emotion as I try and fail to find the right words to respond. God though, what could I possibly say?
Irascible, good-hearted Jack, who’s only ever wanted me to be at peace with myself and reach my
full potential. Who always gets it wrong, despite striving so hard to get it right, and who’s about to
have his heart utterly broken when he discovers what’s really going on. And then I think of you,
the other of the two wolves: of the expression on your face this morning, and of the growing
distance between us that somehow I still need to find a way how to breach.

“Hey,” says Jack, his voice unusually gentle. “You okay?”

I clear my throat then blink a few times. How long have I been sitting here staring at nothing? I’m
not even sure. “No,” is all I reply. “Not really.”

Jack gives another sigh then gets up from his desk so he can walk round behind me to lock the
office door. I watch his progress in silence, confused as to what the hell he’s doing, until it finally
dawns on me that he thinks I might be about to cry and is trying to give me the space to do it in
private. As he comes back again he puts his hand on my shoulder, earnest and clumsy like a well-
meaning bear. Normally I can’t stand anyone touching me except you (and certainly couldn’t have
imagined Jack doing it) but in the end I find there’s something surprisingly soothing about the
contact. It’s so sincere and sympathetic; fatherly, almost. Just this genuine attempt at comfort from
Jack, doing what he can with his gruff demeanour and kindly hands.

“Coffee?” I hear him ask.

“No.”

“How about something stronger? The Commissario Capo gave me a bottle of Strega last week.
Can’t stand the stuff myself, but you’re welcome to some if you want it.”

I smile slightly. “No,” I say. “Thanks, though.”

“You need a minute?”

“Maybe longer than one. No, it’s okay,” I add as starts to turn round. “I didn’t mean you should
leave. I’m not going to throw you out your own office.”

“You can if you want,” says Jack. “I mean, look at it: it’s not as if I like being here.” He’s still got
his hand on my back, gently patting between my shoulder blades, yet despite the intimacy it
doesn’t feel anywhere near as awkward as it probably should. Having said that, I know it’s only a
matter of time before it does – and Jack appears to realise this himself, as he now wisely removes it
before retreating round to the safety of his own side of the desk again.

“You want to talk?” he asks once he’s settled into his chair.

As soon as he asks that I immediately find my thoughts racing back to you. Of your face, your
expression; of your sadness this morning and the sound of your voice. ‘I want you to come back to
me’. Oh God, this is awful; I’m not sure how much more I can take. Don’t you dare cry, I tell
myself sternly. If you cry in front of Jack I will kill you – and I know he’s got a gun in his drawer,
so don’t even think about fucking with me.

“Not about Hannibal,” I say. “No.”

“Understood,” replies Jack. “I can’t say I blame you. But if you change your mind…well, you
know where I am.”

He sounds very sincere (and no doubt is) but I still can’t help feeling he’s relieved by this outcome.
After all, he doesn’t really want to talk about you: at least not in these terms. He doesn’t want to
dwell any longer on his own sense of guilt and regret – the lost opportunities for what might have
been – but more than anything else, he doesn’t want to humanise you. Acknowledging how much
you meant to me means acknowledging that there’s more to you than the staring eyes and serpent’s
smile of your Wanted Poster; and it goes without saying that this avoidance suits me just fine. In
the end I just jerk my head towards the collection of clippings and photos on the opposite wall – Il
Macellaio’s latest handiwork, displayed in all its blood-soaked gore and glory – in what’s little
more than a final, urgent attempt to change the subject.

“It’s been a while since the last killing,” I say. “You must be expecting another one?”

“Maybe in another week or so if he sticks to the same pattern – which let’s face it he probably
won’t.” Jack pauses then grimaces slightly. “Probably resents Hannibal upstaging him…”

“Anything you want me to look over?” I say quickly. “I think it’s fair to say I’ve taken my eye off
the ball with this one.”

Jack shrugs. “No one would blame you, Will; it’s not like you haven’t had more important things
on your mind. And besides, there’s no new leads from last time. The trail’s gone cold again. It’s
the same double-bind it always is: unless he kills someone else, there’s no more evidence.”

“And so we wait,” I say tonelessly.

“We wait.” There’s another pause as Jack begins to thrum his fingers against the desktop; a restless
habit he’s had for a while that always indicates he’s deep in thought. “It’s an odd case,” he finally
adds. “It’s like you said: there’s something really off about him.”

“There’s always something off about them.”

“But this one is so unpredictable,” protests Jack. “Don’t you think so? It’s the way his MO keeps
shifting.”

“I know,” I reply, trying not to sound too impatient. “But I’ve never cared about that as much as
you have. For me it’s not the how but the why. Because there’s always a why, Jack. Even Hannibal
had one.” I pause for a few moments myself, briefly staring into the distance with the type of
thousand-yard stare I haven’t really fallen into since America. “To make beauty out of ugliness…”

Jack’s eyebrows descend with obvious disapproval. “You sound a bit admiring.”

“Maybe I am,” I say lightly. “At least it was interesting. No traceable motive…it’s what made him
so hard to see. Whatever the deal is with Il Macellaio, it won’t be anything like that.”

“No,” replies Jack with obvious wryness. “I’d have to agree with you there. So what do you think
Il Macellaio’s deal is?”

“That the disparity of the victims is the most interesting thing about him.”

Jack frowns slightly then leans a little further forward across the desk. “Go on.”

“Well…” I say, beginning to lean forward too, “they mostly have a type, don’t they? Their ideal
victim. College students, sex workers…” Briefly I find myself thinking of Francis Dolarhyde and
give a small, involuntary shudder. “Families. Only Il Macellaio doesn’t: the victims have no
topical similarities at all, and that’s what you’d normally expect to see. The only real shared feature
is that they all lived in Florence, and two of them had prior convictions…”

“We looked into that,” interrupts Jack. “One was ex-Mafia, one was busted for trafficking, and
both did prison time because of it. There was nothing to tie any of that to Il Macellaio.”

“No, I know, but I still think it’s enough of a coincidence to warrant more attention. The criminal
history was obvious for the two you mentioned, but dig into the backgrounds of the others and you
might find something – even if they hadn’t been charged.”

“They were targeted for previous crimes?” says Jack sceptically. “What, you think Il Macellaio is
some sort of grudge killer?”

“Possibly ex law-enforcement,” I add, half to myself. “Although the murders are probably too
sloppy for that. More likely it would be some form of misplaced grandiosity; possibly a religious
fixation.” For a few moments I find myself thinking of Hunter’s Jack Cage novels: the ideal of the
heroic maverick who cleans up the streets. “Or maybe someone who’s seen ‘Taxi Driver’ a few too
many times.”

“It’s not funny, Will.”

“I’m not laughing. I’m saying he could be some kind of narcissistic loner who’s decided he could
use a run of violence to give some meaning to his life. Either way, we’ve been focussing
exclusively on the murderer – and it might be the actual murders hold more clues than we
realised.”

“Serial killers get lucky like that,” says Jack gloomily. “Victims chosen for convenience without a
personal link. It means the emphasis always circles back to them.” He gives a rather wry smile
then pushes his chair back from the desk. “Not bad for an afternoon’s work, Will. I should have
had you on the case full-time, shouldn’t I?”

“You tried, remember? I didn’t want to. Besides, everything I’ve just described could be wrong.
It’s only an impression – it’s not really based on anything.”
“Well, it’s a solid impression,” says Jack in a kindly way.

He sounds so earnest, and it makes me realise how this is something I’ve always appreciated about
him; the way he never shows signs of envy or resentment if I find a solution before he can.
Someone like Aronne would begrudge me the smallest sliver of success or intelligence, but Jack
actively enjoys it – all he cares about is getting the job done. The only other person who’s really
valued me that way is you, and as I stare back I’m aware of another fierce wave of affection for
him. Only this time it’s followed by an equally fierce wave of sympathy because, just like Clarice,
he’s been so utterly – profoundly, tragically – deceived.

As I continue to stare Jack now returns my gaze, smiling and fond like the benevolent uncle you
always used to mock him as. He’s glad we had this talk together, isn’t he? He thinks it’s cleared the
air; made some small attempt to atone for the many sins of the past. But all it’s really done is
remind me of that strange displacement I experienced last night: of that anguished sense of the two
selves, one old and one new. One good and one bad…Two souls, alas, are dwelling in my breast,
And one is striving to forsake its brother. Because he thinks he’s talking to the old self – and if I
could, I know I’d be so glad to just give it to him. I’d get up now and quietly tiptoe away, leaving
it alone behind me to talk with Jack in peace. This is the self who’d have carried on working into
the night to help him catch Il Macellaio; it would have been devoted and tireless, gritting its teeth
through the pain, and afterwards it might even have gone for a meal with Clarice to introduce her to
Robert. Although really, who knows for sure what it would have done? It’s not me anymore: I
can’t entirely say. And besides, while it might be an appealing fantasy I know deep down that it
would never have worked, because I tried to live that kind of live before. I tried and failed because
you were still there the whole time, always feeding the wolf. I suppose it was inevitable, really.
Everything always comes back to you.

Oh God, it’s so strange how history repeats itself. Or no, maybe not repeat. In this case the past
hasn’t duplicated so much as it’s made an eerily similar impression: a group of investigators,
noting that my arrival in Florence coincided with a crime scene and then, once again, a broken
heart. Your choice of a church to display it in always felt perversely apt, didn’t it? Of course,
people usually go to church to seek God, but I was never there for that. I was there to seek you
instead; a figure who was equally obscure and omniscient, yet still shared the same infernal urge to
elaborate mortal sins and suffering. But then there it was in front of us: the reminder that you were
still only human after all, displaying your broken heart for everyone to see. A valentine written on
a broken man. A piece of bloody origami, flayed and contorted into perfect alignment…mangled
death in the midst of sacred life. Back then it was your own heart that was broken but now you
want to break Jack’s instead. Clarice. Price and Zeller…one break after another. And it’s almost
enough to break mine that I know I no longer have it in me to try and stop you.

*****

By the time I finally leave the station it’s already getting dark. It’s not even all that late yet, but I
suppose the seasons are changing now which means the days are getting shorter too. The first flush
of summer is over: very soon the Fall will start, and it makes me start to wonder what that might be
like here. As with so much else, it’s easy to guess the answer will be some variation of ‘more
picturesque than at home’, but it’s nice to realise that this is going to be just one of many firsts that
I’ll get to experience with you. The first autumn in a foreign country and then, after that, the first
winter. You’ll prefer this, I think; you never much liked the rougher climate of America.
Admittedly you didn’t have the same chapped lips or watery noses as the rest of us, but you never
seemed truly adapted to the cold. For a few moments I find myself remembering the sight of you in
a vast Russian-style hat (a spectacle which would have looked outright ludicrous on anyone else,
and which even you only just managed to pull off) and promptly start smiling – the first genuine
one I’ve managed to muster since leaving you this morning.
The thought of you is also a helpful reminder that I said I’d cook for us when I get back, and I now
have a quick eyeroll at myself for not planning anything sooner as to what it’s going to be.
Normally I suppose I’d have just plundered your recipe collection for something obscure and
elaborate, but given the purpose of tonight it feels symbolically important to prepare something
that’s guided by my own preference instead of automatically aligning with yours. What though? I
can’t just feed you burgers and fries…even in service of Making A Point I’ve still got some
standards left. For a few moments I stand there in the shadows, thoughtfully chewing my thumbnail
as I try to devise something suitable. I guess Italian would be the obvious choice, although perhaps
it’s also too obvious – not to mention the fact that the type of meal I’m capable of preparing would
be so disastrously below your own standards I know I’d feel embarrassed to serve it. The ideal
compromise seems to be something you’re not too familiar with that won’t also take 12 hours to
make, and after a bit more frowning and thumb-chewing I eventually hit on a Cajun themed meal
as a possible solution. Admittedly I can’t imagine you being blown away by it, but it certainly ticks
the first two boxes, as well as having an intimate, personalised link with my childhood that I know
you’ll immediately appreciate. Fried fish, perhaps, with corn rice salad and beer instead of wine
(drunk the native way straight out the bottle with wedges of lime in the top). And of course you’ll
look faintly appalled at the suggestion – then spend the entire time wincing whenever I slice the
fish wrong – but will delightedly eat it all anyway, for no other reason than because I was the one
who made it for you.

At the image of it I can already feel myself starting to grow more cheerful. I’ve left it too late to go
to Mercato Centrale – your insisted venue for anything food-related – but one of the larger
supermarkets will still be open, and I now take out my phone to start an inventory of all the
ingredients I’ll need (mustard, paprika, and cayenne pepper, with sole instead of cod as a
compromise to your superior tastebuds...) God, how long have I been stood here now planning it?
I’ve never gone to this much trouble for anyone else – not even Molly – but I determinately push
the guilty twinge aside and retrieve my phone again so I can fire off a quick text to let you know
I’ll be late. I tell you I love you and am looking forward to seeing you soon, then am about to add
something sarcastic about Jack before hovering for a few seconds and hitting ‘send’ without typing
anything further. Mocking him feels like a betrayal of that scene in his office – of his concerned
face and kind hands – even though it’s a consideration that’s ultimately meaningless, seeing how
I’m still poised to do so much worse. Because I am, aren’t I? I’m about to break his heart.
Nevertheless, I’m still glad I didn’t write it. Instead I just return my phone to my pocket, turning
round in preparation to leave, only to find myself stalling for a second time as one by one every
single hair on my neck stands on end at a deeply unnerving disruption in the darkness…the
unmistakable sound of someone breathing.

To be fair, it’s not like it’s especially loud – barely even audible above the hum of traffic in the
distance – but it’s definitely there where it shouldn’t be, and I spin round sharply on my heels at the
sudden, panicked awareness that I’m not alone. At first I can’t see anything beyond a sifting blend
of shadows, but then there’s a soft crunch of shoes against gravel as the shadows solidify and
slowly turn into the two Italian detectives who’ve been hovering round me so persistently ever
since the death of Aronne. I throw a fierce scowl at them, acutely resentful of being startled, and
the tallest one takes a quick step forward in response. His glasses, reflecting off the streetlight,
make him look as if he has two burning holes instead of eyes.

“Signor Graham,” he says. “Buona sera. A moment of your time.”

The way this is phrased obviously implies an order, not a request, but I still stride forward anyway
in a bullish attempt to shove past him. Without missing a beat, the second one steps forward too
then grimaces at me before clamping his hand down firmly on my arm. Internally I find myself
wincing; despite his spindly appearance he’s clearly much stronger than he looks.
“It will be quicker if you speak now,” adds the first one. “We know you have been avoiding us,
signore. But you cannot avoid us forever.”

“What are you talking about?” I snap. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

This time their only reply is to smirk in unison, at which point I’m forced to concede that they’re so
stupid and arrogant they genuinely believe my recent absence has been in anyway related to them.
In happier circumstances it might even but funny, but right now it’s very far from that. Instead it’s
incredibly frustrating, and for a few moments it requires every shred of self-control I possess not to
simply spin round and yell at them to both go and fuck themselves. The problem – as much as I
dislike admitting it – is that it’s also deeply unnerving too, because I know very well that stupidity
and arrogance are a dangerous combination; sometimes lethally so. I’d far rather deal with cruel
intelligence because intelligence can at least be reasoned with. Stupidity, on the other hand, is
nearly always stubborn and brutal.

“It’s late,” is all I say. “You’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow.”

The second one shakes his head, slow and deliberate like I’m the one who’s too idiotic to
understand what they’re asking. “No, not tomorrow,” he replies. “Now.”

I make an impatient sound between my teeth, but when I attempt to pull away again he clamps his
hand down even harder to stop me. He actually smiles as he does it; I can see the wet gleam of
teeth in the darkness. Brute strength aside it probably wouldn’t be that hard to fight him off, but the
obvious glee at the confrontation makes me feel that this is exactly what they want me to do. After
all, assaulting a police officer is a felony crime in Italy: a single punch could land me five years in
prison.

“We are hoping you can help us,” the first detective now says once it’s clear I’m not intending to
struggle. “It is about the death of Signor Alessandri.”

By some miracle my expression doesn’t alter by a single flicker yet for the first time I’m aware of a
genuine chill of fear. “What about him?” I snap.

“His secretary came by the office today,” replies the detective, his voice so soft and low that it’s
eerily close to a hiss. “Signorina Espositio. A nice lady. Very helpful. She has already been
interviewed as you know; she was only here to sign some documents. But as she was leaving, she
says something very interesting to me. She points at the cover of our last Police Bulletin. And she
tells me, I’m sure I know that man.” He pauses again then drags his eyes across my face. “ He
came to my office several times. Sì, sì, I’m sure it is him.”

“She’s mistaken,” I say coldly.

“Yes, that is what I thought too,” replies the detective, who now looks like he’s actively enjoying
himself. “There was no record of anyone else on the files; all the tenants were accounted for. I put
this to Signora Espositio and she tells me Oh that man, he always paid in cash. He had some
private arrangement with Signor Alessandri.” There’s another pause. Another slow drag of eyes.
“Like I said, signore. She recognised you.”

“And like I said.” My voice sounds grindingly mechanical; deliberately siphoned of all emotion to
conceal the dread that’s starting to well up underneath. “She’s mistaken.”

The detective gives me a thin smile, lips stretched across his gums in a way that looks faintly
reptilian. “Yes, I’m sure you are right, signore,” he replies. “I’m sure it is just a misunderstanding.
And that is why I am sure you will have no objection to coming back inside with us now so we can
take a DNA sample. It will be very quick and easy to eliminate you, yes?” He pauses again then
gives me another slow stare from beneath his eyelashes. “If you have nothing to hide.”

“Is this some sort of joke?” I snap. “Absolutely not.”

This time they just stand there without speaking – gazing at me with all the wordless contempt
they’ve spent the last few weeks perfecting – and somehow the silence manages to be even more
disturbing that the previous barrage of accusations did. The thing is, I don’t think even they really
believe it. If there was a genuine lead for Matteo’s murder then they’d have taken it to Jack or
Clarice by now; possibly even their own police chief if they didn’t trust nepotism not to intervene
on my behalf with the latter. They’re simply infected with the same resentful dislike of me as
Aronne was – and no doubt are now gleefully congratulating themselves for stumbling onto an
ideal opportunity to humiliate me for a few hours as punishment for it. Oh God, I got it so wrong,
didn’t I? So, so wrong. I was certain their hostility was linked to Aronne’s murder, and now it turns
out that not only is this not the case it’s not even really linked to Matteo’s. It’s little more than a
spiteful grudge that’s spent months searching for an outlet, and if you hadn’t got to Aronne first
then he’d almost certainly have been out here too. Who knows, they might even have been plotting
something similar together while he was still alive? It seems more than plausible, and the fact that
the fucking ‘Hero of the FBI’ cover was the prompt for it all feels like the final bit of perverse,
poetic irony.

“You are refusing?” asks the detective after a few more seconds have limped past.

“Correct,” I say crisply. “I’m refusing.”

“Then it seems we have a difficulty,” he replies. “Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I snarl back. “I guess it does.” As I’m speaking I reach into my pocket to take out my
phone, refusing to break eye contact the entire time. As strategies go this admittedly isn’t my
preference and given the choice I’d far rather deal with things alone. But desperate times call for
desperate measures; and seeing how I don’t have a choice there’s no question a quick resolution
would be worth every fragment of lost pride in the meantime. Ultimately they’ve got no real basis
for any of this – and I think deep-down they know it too – which means there’s still a decent
chance the Voice of Authority is exactly what’s needed to remind them. My lingering fear is that it
might be a bit too late by now but Jack, thank God, picks up almost immediately.

“Can you come down,” I say before he’s even had a chance to respond. “I’ve got a situation…No,
not Hannibal…Just get here as soon as you can. I’m half a block from the back of the station.”

I suppose I should probably explain what’s happening, but I already know the detectives will insist
on a recital when he gets here and somehow I can’t face listening to the whole thing for a third
time. So in the end I just hang up and stand there in stony-faced silence, vibrating with a potent mix
of anger and adrenaline until Jack finally emerges from the building a few minutes later and comes
striding over towards us. Sure enough, the detectives quickly launch into the same outline they’ve
already told me; this time garnished with more dramatic pauses and weighty stares for Jack’s
benefit, presumably because now they know they’ve got to make it appear as plausible as possible.
I guess they hope they’re coming over to him as fairly compelling…and which makes it no small
consolation that Jack’s expression throughout the whole thing confirms he thinks it’s the biggest
bit of bullshit he’s ever heard in his life.

“So that is the situation,” concludes the first detective when he’s finally drawn to a close. “Either
Signor Graham comes with us voluntarily…” He pauses then slowly swivels his head to glance at
me again. “Or we arrest him and take a sample by force.”
The sheer relish with which he says ‘force’ immediately confirms what I’d already suspected:
namely that this whole thing is a part of a sadistic game to put me in my place in revenge for
upstaging them. Admittedly it’s on a far bigger scale, yet it still makes my thoughts stray back to
Aronne again and the time he tried to march me into Jack’s office with him: aggressively hostile,
deliberately demeaning, and all for no greater crime than being found in the parking lot after hours.
It’s so easy to imagine how much he’d have been enjoying himself if he’d been here, and yet again
shows how painfully wrong I was in assuming their motivations. I thought all that staring came
from a place of suspicion when it was nothing more than envy and aversion all along. A part of me
could almost feel sorry for myself: that it was easier to believe I was suspected of a crime than to
admit yet another group of people found me so inherently strange and unlikeable they’d go out
their way to persecute me because of it.

“And where the hell’s your probable cause?” Jack is now demanding. “Will’s a decorated agent
with nearly 10 years’ law enforcement service.” He pauses then gifts them with one of his more
contemptuous glares. “You’re going to need a damn sight more than a tiny black and white photo
and a witness statement that’s three months out of date.”

“This is not the FBI, signore.” The detective’s tone is distinctly more courteous when speaking to
Jack, but his resolve still seems unshakable; internally I can feel the first flare of hope already
starting to fail. “You observe your own procedures, yes? Leave us to follow ours.”

Jack emits an angry snorting noise then glares at them both for a second time before putting his
hand on my shoulder to discreetly draw me aside. “They’re right Will,” he says in an undertone.
He’s notably changed his accent – a sort of flat, Boston drawl – and it takes me a second to realise
that he’s doing it on purpose to make it harder for them to translate. “Maybe just do what they’re
asking, huh? I know it’s preposterous, okay: I know it is. But it might just be the quickest way we
can get this sorted out.” I open my mouth to object and he makes a soothing sound between his
teeth in what’s presumably a request to hear him out. “I’ll call their commissioner first thing
tomorrow,” he adds. “They won’t get away with this. We can put in a formal complaint.”

“No way am I agreeing,” I snap, secretly rather touched by the ‘we’. “I don’t trust either of them.
How do I know they wouldn’t swap the samples?”

“Oh c’mon,” says Jack with a hint of impatience. “Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know,” I hiss back. “Why make such a baseless accusation in the first place?” Considering
our earlier conversation I know what I’m about to say is a cheap shot, but things are getting urgent
now and I no longer have time to play nice. “Let’s face it,” I add pointedly, “it would hardly be the
first time I’ve been charged for a crime I didn’t commit.”

For a few seconds Jack narrows his eyes. Dammit Will, the look is saying. Why’d you have to be
such a pain in the ass? I can tell he’s frustrated that I’m making things difficult, and I can’t even
really say I blame him. From his perspective it’s easy to imagine how I must sound: neurotic and
paranoid, stubbornly refusing a solution that’s relatively straightforward and could get me
exonerated on the spot. Fortunately, he’s also used to my stubbornness – and to be fair, neurotic
paranoia – and on this occasion is going to do what I need most from him by simply accepting
defeat and rolling with it. Frustrated or not, he’s still on my side. Surreptitiously he now gives my
shoulder an encouraging pat then turns back round again, drawing himself up to his full height
before launching into full FBI Director mode.

“This is an absolute travesty,” roars Jack in a voice so loud and booming it almost seems ready to
leap out his mouth and punch both detectives in the face. “You’ve got no motive and no evidence:
no grounds for demanding a sample. And if he won’t give you one voluntarily you’ve got no right
to detain him. The pair of you have got exactly one minute to get out of here – otherwise I’m
calling your commissioner.”

The whole time he’s speaking the focus finally shifts off me and I now use this as a chance to
study the detectives’ reactions more closely. The second one, I think, is close to cracking. Possibly
it was the threat of the commissioner that did it, but either way it’s obvious he feels the whole thing
has gone too far and would be happy to just take the offered escape route and go home. He’d
probably use it for a few months’ worth of anecdotes to bitch about how arrogant and corrupt the
Americans are (and how the sooner we all fuck off back home the better; no doubt followed by a
few choice observations about how the Italians were busy inventing the legal system while we
were all sitting on our asses in England eating straw and hanging each other for witchcraft). But he
doesn’t truly care about it, and I know if it were up to him I’d probably be off the hook. Only it’s
not just up to him – and a glance at the first detective is enough to crush any strands of hope
remaining, because this one isn’t backing down. This one resents Jack for the same reasons he does
me; and even if he privately accepts he’s overplayed his hand, a single look at him is enough to
confirm that he’d infinitely rather double-down on the error and accept the consequences than ever
admit he was wrong.

Almost like he’s read my mind the detective now glances at me then slowly raises his hand
towards Jack with a curious blend of contempt and politeness. “Then we shall have to settle it
inside,” he says sharply. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Before he’s even finished he’s already reaching down into his pocket to retrieve what by this point
is close to unthinkable: an actual pair of handcuffs, gleaming soft and sinister in the moonlight. My
heart gives a terrible, sickening lurch at the sight of them and Jack sucks in his breath with an
angry huff then forces his way between us as a kind of human shield.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing,” he snarls. “You can’t just arrest him!”

“Mi scusi, signore,” says the detective with the hint of a sneer. “But that is exactly what we can do.
You have no authority here.” He pauses then smiles again rather mockingly. “No jurisdiction, as
you Americans say.”

So this is it then, I think with a sudden numb resignation. It’s going to happen; there’s no stopping
it now. In a way it’s quite striking that I’ve neither moved nor spoken for this entire time; instead,
I’ve just been silently stood here, fixed in place with a blank face and an eerie calmness which in
reality I don’t remotely feel. Of course, the additional irony is that even now I might still have
managed to pull it off. I was so incredibly careful; it’s possible that none of the samples they took
are mine. But I also know there’s no way I can afford to take that chance, which means the only
option left for me is to fight my way out of here. It won’t be easy to subdue them both, but with the
benefit of a surprise attack I’m reasonably sure I can manage it. On the other hand, what I can’t yet
admit to myself is that when I say two I really mean three; because while Jack’s intervention is
inevitable, I know I’m still not ready to acknowledge the reality of having to attack him too. Except
that I need to, don’t I? I have to. I must; I understand that now. What other choice do I have?

As of yet I still haven’t moved. Still haven’t spoken. But in my head I’m already aware that I’m
saying goodbye. I’m telling Jack that I’m sorry, that I didn’t want it to end like this; even that I
love him, in my own stunted irascible way. Because it really is going to happen now, isn’t it? It’s
impossible to avoid any longer. My old self – the person he still believes me to be – is finally
destined to die in front of him, choked to death with my own hands by revealing the truth of the
type of person I’ve become. It will break his heart. It’s almost enough to break mine. And even
that’s still the best-case scenario, given the alternative is getting overpowered then dragged back
inside…all the way towards a life in prison. What if I fail? I find myself thinking. What if they take
 me away from you? What if, what if, what if…? In fact, it’s that more than anything; it’s all about
you. Because at the forefront of my mind, acutely painful and prescient, is the awareness of how
I’ll have to do it alone. The irony is almost unbearable, because I know I did this to myself; that
you’ve been following me for so long, and now the one time I asked you not to has also turned out
to be the one time that I needed you the most.

Chapter End Notes

Next update ETA: July 17

 Chapter 49
Chapter Notes

Hey guys, just to let you know that there’re some brief descriptions of violence in this
chapter. It’s very tame by Fannibal standards, but if you’re not in the mood for
anything like then please take care of yourselves and be prepared to skip a few
paragraphs xox

See the end of the chapter for more notes

All around us the sounds of the city are still carrying on as normal. The cars continue to hum in the
distance; there’s a throb of music from a restaurant a few blocks away. The detectives and Jack are
both still talking – talking about me – yet in a strange way I’m not aware of any of it, because all I
can really focus on anymore is the rapid, staccato pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. It’s an eerie
sort of voltage which thrums and pulses, and as I listen to the roar of blood I hear inevitability
because I know by now that there’s no more help for it; there’s nothing else left. I wonder if this is
the way euphoria’s supposed to feel? It certainly seems like it might be close to it: a rapturous,
skittering anticipation which crackles and throbs, yet all the time is still seasoned with a darkly
undeniable undertone of dread. God how is that possible though, it doesn’t even make sense…
surely it should just be one or the other? Already I’ve been scanning the sidewalk for anything I
could use as a weapon, but of course there’s nothing and I didn’t really expect there to be. I guess
that means it needs to be done by hand, then? Skin against skin. Strangely intimate yet brutally
blunt force: erasing the restrictions of physical distance or mental detachment while still keeping
control even in the ecstasy of losing it. Righteous, rebellious, redolent with Becoming…and all
done with my own bare hands. I know how much you’d appreciate that if you were here. Because
you would, wouldn’t you? You’d enjoy it so much. It’s always been a concept that appeals to you.

By this point my breath has sped up so much I feel slightly dizzy with it. The three of them have
just been stood here arguing together the entire time, but it’s only now that I deliberately turn my
back on them to begin walking away down the street. I know it’s useless, of course; I know they’ll
try to stop me. The only real purpose is to draw them further from the station, and while I’d
already made a start on it before Jack arrived this newest attempt at least manages to add a bit more
distance. Admittedly it’s not that much in total, not more than about 10 yards. Even so, there’s a
winding alleyway close by which looks fairly secluded and should still suffice for what I’ve got in
mind. Nothing but a bike leaning against the wall, some darkened windows…surely it’ll be
enough? Not that any of these mental bargains really matter of course, because it’ll have to be
enough: I need to make sure that it is. In this respect, my attention’s grown so focussed on what’s
waiting in store that when the first detective runs after me to roughly grab my shoulder it barely
even registers as something I need to respond to. Instead I only glance up at him; blinking mildly
with surprise as if I can’t believe he’d be so rude, then just standing by in passive silence to watch
the way his lips curl back to show an angry, glistening expanse of teeth and gums.

“You dare to walk away from us?” he snarls as he fumbles round for the handcuffs. God, he’s
really pissed off now isn’t he? He thinks my calmness is an attempt at mocking him. Quickly I
twist my shoulder back until he loses his balance enough to drop them, and he spits out a quick
curse in Italian then jerks his head towards the second detective to indicate he should pick them up.
“You think you are above the law? You do, don’t you?” he adds as if goading me to admit it. “Dio
ti maledica. You Americans – you have no respect. You have shown us no respect since you
arrived.”

“Take your hands off him now,” hisses Jack. “And put those cuffs away while you’re at it. We can
go back inside without turning it into a goddamn circus.”

“They want to turn it into a circus,” I say tonelessly. “That’s the whole point of this.”

Jack throws me an uneasy glance. I suppose my lack of emotion is concerning him, much the same
way it does you. He thinks it’s a sign I’m not coping, even though in this case the exact opposite is
true and my indifference means that I’m actually coping too well: slowly ramping everything down
as I start to detach myself in preparation for the inescapable grimness of the task ahead. The first
detective, on the other hand, interprets it a little differently because he now curls his mouth into a
sort of sneer before tightening his grip on my shoulder then delivering a vicious slap right across
my face. He’s probably been yearning to do it ever since he first met me, but while my fingers
twitch with the urge to hit him back it ends up being surprisingly easy to resist the temptation. The
urgency of the situation means I can’t afford to miscalculate by a single second and experience tells
me that it’s still too early to escalate. I need more room to manoeuvre; a clearer exit to run. Besides,
letting him think I’m too scared to retaliate should help catch him even more off-guard when I
eventually do. Instead I just stand there in the same blank muteness as before, cheek tingling
slightly in the cool night air and the taste of blood like copper in my mouth.

For a few moments Jack looks shocked into genuine silence before abruptly snapping back to life
again with an anger so intense I half expect to see it flaming off him in sparks. As I watch he grabs
the detective’s own shoulder then yanks him away from me before roughly spinning him back
round across the cobblestones. It’s clear he wants to help me, and of course he has – only not quite
in the way that he thinks. What’s he’s really done is to clear me some of the space I need, and by
this point a few more yards are all that’s necessary before it’ll finally be enough to act.

“Try that again,” I now hear Jack saying. “Try that one more time and I’ll make you sorrier than
you’ve ever been in your life.”

His voice is very low and ominous and somehow the lack of volume has a far greater impact than
any of his previous shouting did. In this respect it also seems the reality of a fight with an FBI
Director might have fully hit home, because the second detective now makes a nervous scraping
noise deep in his throat before putting a hand on his colleague’s arm to mutter something in Italian.
It’s too fast and quiet to fully translate, although the fact ‘errore’ and ‘spinti troppo oltre’ still filter
through makes it easy to deduce he’s expressing his doubts about how the whole thing’s gone too
far. Not that it really matters, though. Not his fear. Not his regret. None of it matters at all, because
by now it’s grown painfully obvious that the first detective has precisely zero intention of ever
allowing me to leave. It’s become a point of pride for him to see things through to the bitter end,
and if anyone had asked me I could have told them that myself. I understand pride – how fiercely
implacable and relentless it can be – simply from having to struggle with it so many times in
dealing with you. Although admittedly in this detective’s case it has its origin in something far
cruder and coarser, because while your pride comes from an innate sense of superiority his is the
exact opposite. His is merely a mask for inadequacy and self-doubt – and which is why I know
with such utter certainty that he’s never going to consider backing down. Even a complaint to his
commissioner won’t deter him, because the commissioner will only tell him that he’s wrong. Jack
on the other hand, and I suppose me as well, make him feel dumb. And that, clearly, is something
that’s completely unbearable.

As if proving my point, the first detective now angrily shakes his colleague’s hand away before
spinning round to face Jack again. “You are interfering, signore,” he says. His voice is almost
vibrating with anger. It’s obvious how desperate he is to speak to Jack with the same contempt he
does me – and how much he hates the fact he doesn’t quite dare. “This is not your business.”

“It’s my investigation,” replies Jack in the same ominous growl. “My team member. Remind me
again how it’s not my business?”

“Indeed, it might be better to delay?” pipes up the second detective. “Signor Graham could meet
with us for an interview tomorrow? Perhaps with his attorney present…”

Jack gives a satisfied nod and the first detective glares again before letting all his breath rush out
with an angry hiss. “Silenzio,” he snaps. “We do not delay: no waiting until tomorrow. We do it
now.”

Yes we do, I think in numb agreement. We do it right now. My position still isn’t ideal, but
probably no position ever would be and at least it meets my minimum requirements of distance
from the station and freedom to move without constraint. Slowly and subtlety I now begin to reach
into my pocket to take out my phone. As weapons go it’s very far from ideal, although I’m still
hoping it might prove effective when slammed into someone’s temple at an angle and with force.
Fists and feet will have to do the rest, and now the moment’s come I find I’m surprisingly calm.
Nothing but a grim, determined sense of fatalism that this is what needs to happen and the sooner it
gets over with the better.

“He is going to be arrested,” the first detective is now saying, repeating it over like it’s an article of
faith. “Capisci? And anymore interference, Signor Crawford, then we arrest you too.”

A single bead of sweat is starting to trickle down the back of my neck. The anticipation is like a
knife twisting into my lungs, slow and excruciating yet still powerful enough to feel like a living
thing; like a fifth person in the street. Keep it together, I think urgently. Keep it together; you’ll
never walk out of here if you don’t. Jack has just stepped in front of me again, solid and dependable
as a sort of human shield, but unlike last time I force myself not to catch his eye. The moment has
come to detach myself now, because I already know that I have to objectify him. I have to turn him
into something that can be discarded…it’s impossible to act how I need to without it.

By this point my grip on the phone has grown so hard it’s almost painful as I slowly start to draw
my arm up. The first detective is closest, so I’ll start with him; take out the second one when he
lunges forward…and then. Oh fuck, what then? What do I do with Jack? For a few seconds my
eyes flit down to the sidewalk, briefly overcome with a surge of hopelessness that I’ve been
fighting so hard to supress. Perhaps the unevenness of the cobblestones might be a last-ditch grasp
at redemption: if I time things right it might even be possible to just trip him over onto the ground
without having to really hurt him at all? In fact my sense of absorption has grown so intense that
it’s consumed almost everything else, and it means that at first I barely even register the way the
second detective has gone pale and rigid beside me. It doesn’t matter and so therefore I don’t see it,
just like I hardly hear the way his breath is hitching itself into a strangled gasp. Don’t see – don’t
care, don’t notice – and in the end it’s only when he speaks that it’s finally enough to snare my
attention.

“Dio mio,” I hear him whisper. “Come può essere?”

The words sputter out of his mouth, abrupt and unexpected in the cool night air, and while they’re
not especially loud in themselves the force of emotion behind them makes them seem as stark and
startling as a gunshot. Everyone immediately swings round to stare at him and as I glance at his
face I suddenly feel the first faint stirrings of hope, because this is an expression I’ve seen before. I
recognise it – I know what it means – because it’s the exact same way Clarice looked in the
alleyway the moment you first appeared: that uniquely heady blend of horror, fear, and disbelief.
Oh God, I think wildly. Oh God, it can’t be – it can’t. But then…what if it can? In a way I almost
don’t dare to look, because I so fiercely want it to be you and am not sure I can bear the crushing
weight of disappointment when it’s not. But then at the same time I feel like I don’t want it either,
because I don’t want you to be here at all. I want you away from all this, safe and secure and many
miles from any possible danger. The sense of contradiction is almost physically painful – the
wrenching urge of please/please not – that for a brief moment it robs me of any real ability to
respond and I simply stand there instead, listening to my pulse and counting my breaths, before
finally turning to Jack. Unlike me Jack doesn’t have a choice. He’s facing in the opposite direction;
he has to see what’s there. I know Jack’s expression will tell me the truth, and so…I look at him.
And that’s when I know.

As my own breath catches I pivot round on both heels and it’s at that precise moment you finally
move forward: breaking free from the shadows one ominous step at a time until you’re standing
right in front of us with your face half-illuminated in the moonlight. It gives you a distinctly eerie
appearance that’s chiselled and other-worldly, the silhouettes glancing off each plane of bone to
reveal an expression that’s terrifyingly cold and impersonal. In fact, the only thing that’s truly
animated are your eyes. They have that burningly intense quality which always makes them seem
as if they’re gleaming – and I take a single look at you and don’t even need to hear you speak to
immediately know how incredibly angry you are.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” you say. “I hope you’ll forgive the interruption.”

Just like Jack’s your voice is softly ominous and likewise manages to be far more intimidating than
actual shouting ever could: a perfect distillation of the adage that those with genuine power never
need to raise their voice. Because oh God, you really are angry now aren’t you? You’re fucking
furious. It also seems close to impossible that you’re actually here, yet somehow it doesn’t matter
anymore exactly why you are. In that moment it doesn’t even matter that you’ve ignored my
request yet again by following me when I expressly asked you not to. What matters instead is the
continuing good/bad contradiction: that on one hand I no longer need to deal this alone and instead
we can handle it together as a team, exactly as we ought to. But on the other is that not only do I
now have your safety to consider as well as my own, it’s also clear that the time has come for your
Big Reveal with Jack – and which for your sake I remain willing to accept, but for my own am still
not fully prepared for. In fact in that way it’s intensely reminiscent of what happened with Clarice,
because while there’s no question of rejecting you I know I’m not inclined to instigate things
either. This was always your choice, not mine, and for that reason it’s up to you to take
responsibility for it.

Behind me Jack mutters something sharp beneath his breath and your eyes promptly swivel
towards him as a faint smile starts to flicker round your mouth. “Hello Jack,” you say.

Jack swallows audibly. He’s deeply shocked – possibly even scared – but I already know he’ll do
everything in his power to hide it. God, he wanted to see you so badly, didn’t he? I wonder how he
feels now he’s finally been taken at his word.

“You picked a hell of moment to come back,” Jack finally replies. His voice is something close to
a snarl; almost certainly an attempt to mask the distress and disbelief simmering beneath it at how
once again you’ve managed to gain the upper hand. “You always knew how to make an entrance,
Hannibal. I’ll give you that. You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

Immediately your lips curve into another eerie little smile. “No,” you say. “Apparently not.”

As you’re speaking you take a few more steps forward, prowling very slowly as if moving in for
the kill. The distance isn’t even that much, so it makes it all the more striking at how quickly the
others shrink away at the sight of it. Even Jack shuffles back a few paces (although manages to
recover quicker than the Italians in a defiant attempt to hold his ground), and it’s only then that I
see the suggestive way you’ve got one of your hands thrust inside your pocket. The posture is an
unusually slovenly one for you, although it’s still something I can easily guess the purpose of. You
want to make them think you’ve got a weapon, and your fearsome reputation (combined with the
uncertainty as to exactly what it might be) is clearly going to prove an effective source of crowd
control in the meantime. How long can it reasonably last though? Even for you? Admittedly 2 vs. 3
are much better odds, but it’s impossible to ignore how Jack is one of the only people still alive
who’s physically confronted you and walked away afterwards – and has not only done it once, but
twice. For God’s sake, don’t push things too far, I urge you silently. There’s a police station less
than half a block from here.

“You don’t seem very happy to see me, Jack,” you now add. “A warmer reception would have
been more becoming. After all, I provide you with such a valuable service don’t I? Life is nothing
without obsession; it’s such a joy and a torment. Only think how disappointed you’ll feel when I’m
finally gone.”

For a few moments Jack looks like he’s about to bare his teeth. “I’ll feel alive,” he snaps in the
same low growl. “And one day you will be gone. Make no mistake about that.”

“Yes, indeed,” you say calmly. “But that day could come and go yet your obsession would still
remain. Obsession is the mother of both genius and madness, Jack. Which one are you?”

“And which are you?” Jack hurls back. “I know I could answer, but maybe you won’t. Maybe you
can’t. Or maybe you’re just afraid to.”

“So many maybes,” you reply without missing a beat. “We could hypothesise about it forever,
couldn’t we: what your ending will be, and what will be mine? The thing is, I can already tell you
that the ending is always the same – and that same is that it finally ends. Just. Like. Bella.” You
pause for a few moments before giving another of the sinister smiles. “Tell me Jack, do you think
of her often? Are you thinking of her right now?”

As soon as you say that I find myself catching your eye. It’s stupid, I know – this is maybe the
worst possible moment for it – yet somehow I still can’t help myself. Partly it’s because I feel this
grandstanding is a waste of time, yet deep-down I also know it’s because this is an aspect of you
that I’ve always hated. It’s just the unrelenting cruelty of it; the searing verbal barbs, like delicate
instruments of torture, which always find the tenderest spot to pierce through then delight in the
resulting suffering. They’re like being presented with a length of silk or velveteen: so temptingly
refined and elegant in their flowing graceful folds, and it’s only when someone’s halfway
submerged in it that they realise there are razor blades stitched into the seams. The problem is that
Jack is already destined to suffer enough tonight, and it makes me feel that if any small relief is
available then I want to be able to offer it. Your own eyes promptly begin to narrow and if the
situation weren’t so tense and terrible it would almost be funny. It reminds me of one of the dogs;
the way they’d gaze at me in a silent plea to get the permission they so desperately wanted. Please
change your mind, your look is saying. I really want to act like a huge bastard. I narrow my own
eyes back and you, and although this time your expression doesn’t alter I still know that you’ve got
the message and are going to do what I’ve asked.

“Well, this has all been very enjoyable Jack,” you now say. “But I’m afraid the leisure to reminisce
about the past is a luxury I do not currently have. I came here for a reason….” You pause again,
flexing your shoulders in eerily silent spectation, then slowly drag your gleaming eyes over each of
our faces before finally settling onto mine. “One which would appear to involve all four of you.”

This entire time the two Italians have been glancing nervously from you to Jack then back again.
It’s clear they share Jack’s sense of shock and horror although, unlike him, are being nowhere near
as successful at hiding it. I can hear how laboured their breathing is – the mutually frantic, panting
exhales – and when you turn your own head to look at them it proves too much for the second
detective who gives a noisy, anguished gasp until he finally seems to lose control of himself
completely.

“Figlio di puttana,” he hisses then spits neatly onto the floor right by my feet. “You did this! You
think he’d be here except for you? Maledetto Americano. You come to our beautiful city and bring
your filth with you.”

Before he’s even finished he seizes hold of my shoulders and gives me a shake. It’s not like it’s
especially rough, although the contact alone is more than enough to make your eyes narrow into
little gleaming slits of fury before taking another sharp step forward. The way you move is
intensely predatory, darting out like a snake or a mantis, and it’s fast. God, so fast. In fact, I
actually hear it before I see it – the dull crack of snapping bone – before his body is crumpling
down to the ground, as lifeless and broken as a marionette with severed strings. Jack drags in his
breath with a horrified gasp then stares numbly at the sidewalk at what just seconds ago was a
living, breathing being. His neck is so badly fractured that even though he’s lying on his chest I can
still see his eyes, gleaming like pebbles in the darkness with his mouth pouting in a little ‘oh’ of
grief and surprise at how he never saw you coming.

For a few agonised seconds no one either moves or speaks until the first detective lets out a
gurgling moan of distress. “Ricardo,” he whispers, then drops onto his knees, fumbling round like
he thinks he can possibly be of use; as if the second detective – Ricardo – isn’t clearly, violently,
shockingly dead. Just as quickly you pounce down yourself, coiling your arm around his neck then
hauling him backwards against your chest as your other hand clamps across his mouth to stifle the
resulting wail. You make it look so effortless – almost cat-like, with litheness and silently agile
stealth – and I now move forward too to stare at you both, intensely aware of the eerie rupture
inside myself in which one half is flayed from shock while the other burns with anticipation. It’s
profound, almost unnerving: just this fierce exhilaration that burns even brighter than any dread I
might have felt previously. I’m not even focussing on Jack anymore. All I can think about is you.

“Patience, signore,” you say softly as the detective begins to thrash within your grip. “I can
guarantee that your circumstances will not improve by struggling.”

Next to me Jack looks ashen. It’s easy to guess what he’s thinking; that now you’ve got a hostage
the situation has grown a whole lot more complicated and any small advantage he might previously
have had has just been lost. For a few seconds your eyes meet his and it’s clear you’re thinking the
same. Your smile is still serene yet there’s a distinctly mocking twist to it. Oh dear Jack, the look
is saying. What are you going to do to stop me now?

“Let him go,” urges Jack, at which point I could almost feel sorry for him. After all, he already
knows you’re not going to. He’s saying it simply because he feels he has to say something; because
he has no idea what else to say. It’s a sign of desperation, and immediately confirms how out of
practice he is in how to deal with you. The Jack of several years ago would never make an error
like this, but in the panic of the moment he’s reverted to what he knows best, like slipping into the
comfort of a familiar suit of clothes. Right now, he’s the voice of the FBI. The voice of authority.
Of Fidelity, Bravery and Integrity in an Italian alleyway, speaking to you as if this is a normal
situation and you’re a normal suspect who will respond to normal commands. As if showing you
his desperation isn’t the worst possible thing he could do.

“That’s a tempting suggestion Jack,” you now reply. “But I’m afraid I shall have to decline it. No,
don’t look so disappointed, I promise I’ll return him to you soon – possibly even in the same
condition in which I found him. I’m only here to clarify a few things then I shall leave you in
peace.” As you’re speaking the detective’s body gives a sudden, violent flail and you make a
soothing sound between your teeth then jerk your elbow a little tighter around his neck until he’s
forced to go still again. “The thing is,” you add in the same soft voice, “I could not help but
overhear your conversation. Reprise me, signore. What exactly were you describing to Mr
Crawford?”

You briefly loosen your hold on the detective’s neck, who draws in a shuddering lungful of air and
then gulps a few times before descending into a hacking series of coughs. “About Il Macellaio,” he
eventually says. His voice is hoarse and stifled from the pressure on his throat; even listening to
him sounds painful. “Signor Graham…he is a suspect in one of the murders.” The urgency beneath
the scratchy voice is unmistakable and it takes me a few seconds to realise it’s because he thinks
you hate me so much that he’ll somehow be appeasing you by telling you what you’ll want to hear.
“He must…he must…give us a satisfactory account of why a witness recognised him.”

“Must he?” you reply with excessive politeness. “Well then Jack, perhaps now you can understand
why I’m here.” Jack raises his eyebrows, and you glance at him again as your faint smile grows
ever-so-slightly broader. “You know I’ve never been especially happy to see others take credit for
my work. This would be the second occasion that Will has attempted to do so.”

For the very first time Jack’s rigid veneer of control seems like it might be finally about to crack.
“You?” he stammers out. “You’re saying you’re Il Macellaio?”

As soon as he asks that you immediately start to smile again. The general effect is chilling, and is
something you’ve always managed to excel at; that uncanny ability to completely contradict your
emotional responses with whatever situation you find yourself in. Pleasure in response to fear or
tension is especially disturbing, and right now the sense of how much you’re enjoying all this is as
obvious as it’s profoundly unnerving.

“Consider it an entrée,” you now add. “Something to whet the appetite before the main event. I
must say Jack, your enterprising Agent Starling did very well in that respect: Will’s tutelage
appears to be paying off. I confess, I went to considerable trouble to simulate a copycat. It was
somewhat disappointing to have her discover the ploy so soon.”

“It was you,” repeats Jack with numb incomprehension. “What is this Hannibal, some kind of
goddamn roleplay? You adapt the style of a different killer just to cover your tracks?”

Even asking this is another sign Jack’s rustiness is showing, because I already know you won’t
answer directly – and needless to say you don’t. After all, you hate disclosing too much about your
motivations so even in an invented scenario like this one it’s obvious you’d refuse to give too much
away. It’s taken you years to even consider starting to do it with me; there’s no way you’re going to
extend Jack the same privilege.

“It would have been remiss of me,” you say instead in a thoughtful voice. “Very remiss…to not
provide something for Will to tear his beautiful mind into tatters over.”

Jack defensively puts his hand on my arm. He looks concerned by this: surprised, even, although
of course he really shouldn’t be. He’s already discussed the concept of endings with you this
evening, which means he should understand by now how inevitable it was that you and I would
always find ours together. At some point our stories merged and became the same narrative –
surely he must know this, even if he still struggles to admit it? Because of course you couldn’t
move on without me. Even in this fantasy, alternate reality version you’re spinning to him you’d
never have let me go.
“Only Il Macellaio is very dull, Jack,” I now hear you saying. “It’s time to move onto the next
stage of the game. And so you see, signore,” You pause then give your elbow a delicate twist
around the detective’s neck. “I cannot allow you to remove a piece from the board prematurely.”

Almost trance-like I find myself glancing down to check my watch. It’s impossible, inconceivable,
that a mere five minutes have passed since you first arrived here. Instead it feels like hours – like a
lifetime – because none of this matches my internal script for how things were supposed to go. By
now I should have been joining you in exposing us to Jack, but you’ve given absolutely no hint of
wanting this and instead just incriminated yourself to ensure the suspicion moves off me. Even
now I can’t quite say for sure why you’ve chosen the actions you have. Why you haven’t told him
the truth. Why you haven’t tried to kill him. I could never entirely predict you, you once said, yet
now more than ever is a reminder of how strongly the statement still runs in the opposite direction.

Always in search of an ending, I think rather wildly. In fact, I remember you announcing
something similar last month, not long after you killed Aronne. ‘You are the author of this
particular narrative,’ you told me. ‘I am giving the pen to you.’ I suppose it can still be true that
Jack doesn’t know his own ending yet, just like I don’t know yours and mine, but what I do know
is that our lives together are a joint narrative – and always have been. Since the day we first met we
were always a fresh page begging to be written on, weren’t we? A beautiful blank slate. It’s been
an ongoing struggle to control the pen before finally learning to share it, but it’s also been an
exercise in reconstruction where a beginning exists, and a conclusion is waiting, and in between are
all the fragments of all the stories. It's something which we craft together and it’s partly why I’m
still so silent, by now oddly content to let you dictate the way this particular scenario plays out.
This is your moment, after all; it’s what you’ve been waiting months for. If you want to set the
scene and hope I’ll follow your cues, then I will. I trust you, I tell you silently. I’m not going to
fight you on this. Whatever you do I’ll support you, whether it’s to tell the truth or to lie.

Right on cue the detective now let out another strangled gasp as Jack quickly holds out both hands
palm-upwards; an appeasing, slightly submissive gesture that I can easily guess how much he
despises having to make. “Okay,” he says. “Will’s not getting arrested. But look, just…just let this
guy go. He’s only doing his job. He thought the evidence was there, so he acted on it. Just let him
go.”

As I watch you start to smile again. “By all means,” you say.

Before you’ve even finished speaking you uncurl your arm from the detective’s neck then grab
hold of his shoulders instead to give him a vicious shove. He shoots forward like an arrow from a
bow to plunge straight into Jack’s abdomen, who gasps in pain then buckles to his knees as all the
breath rushes right out of his lungs. Without missing a beat, you dive forward yourself then neatly
seize his head in both hands before wrenching it round at a sharp angle to slam it straight against
the wall. It’s violent – shocking – and as he crumples onto the sidewalk I give a pained gasp of my
own; yet even from where I’m standing, I can still see the rise and fall of his chest. He’s only
unconscious, not dead. You haven’t killed him. And it’s in this moment I finally understand how
the outcome I’ve been agonising over for months has finally happened and that somehow you’ve
changed your mind. Because you have, haven’t you? God knows what you might be planning in
the future, but right now it’s clear you’ve ignored your own preference and spared him on purpose
– for no other reason than you knew it was what I wanted, despite the fact I never found the right
determination to admit it. That was what I was supposed to do tonight over the meal I never got to
prepare. I was supposed to sit you down and make you listen to reason. I was supposed to try and
talk you out of it. But it turns out you knew anyway, without me having to tell you, simply because
you know me.
There are so many questions I want to ask you right now. So many things I want to say. Yet none
of them are possible, and all of them will have to wait, because there’s currently a very large
problem waiting to be dealt with in the form of the Italian detective – just like Jack still very much
alive and now crouching like a cornered rat as he glares towards you with panicked, furious eyes.
This is my cue to act, I can already tell: you’re tossing the pen right back to me. And in a way it
feels like a sort of crossroads, because there’s such a clear set of directions for where things could
possibly go. I suppose the most obvious would be to replicate what I did with Clarice – certainly
the safest and most sensible option – which would be to warn him you’re too dangerous to pursue
then find a way to keep him occupied until you’ve had time to make your escape. I could tend to
Jack then go inside afterwards to give a statement, pretending I’m as shocked and traumatised as
everyone else is while we wait for the retinue of ambulances and squad cars to arrive. Yeah, there’s
no doubt I could…most likely I probably should. A part of me undoubtedly wants to. Except in the
end, I don’t do any of that. I simply pounce straight at him instead.

The detective gives a startled yell of surprise, and this time I don’t even need to look at you to
know that you’re smiling. For a few seconds he hunches down, feral and vicious with bared teeth,
before finally seeming to accept he can’t fight his way past me to the safety of the station and
abruptly twisting out of reach instead. His movement as he sprints down the alleyway is so
disjointed and slithering in the flickering streetlight that he looks like a giant insect and he’s much,
much faster than I expected. Although I suppose he has to be, doesn’t he: he’s running for his life.
The difference though is that I’m running for you, and it provides a maddened surge of speed
which makes it relatively easy to catch up with him within as little as 50 yards before seizing hold
of his arm. He lets out a low, bestial grunt that’s more like an animal than a human being and
when he finally turns round I can immediately see his look of disbelief. He’s like Jack earlier; that
sense of being taken at his word. And I don’t even blame him for it, because how could he
possibly have known: the fact he’s been scheming so hard to take me down, when all along I really
was the source of threat he’d been hoping he could frame me as? You said so yourself didn’t you,
that first time you came to that station. What would they say if they knew exactly what it was they’d
taken into their midst? you asked me. Bringing a predator straight into the fold…the proverbial
wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Roughly I now wrap my hand around his throat then push him up against the wall. In the darkness I
can still see the oily sheen of sweat on his forehead. Can smell his fear and outrage: how hot and
rank it is.

“You,” he hisses.

“Yes,” I reply, very low and intense. “Me.”

From behind us comes a sudden pad of footsteps, very slow and measured with an eerie echoing
quality that seems to amplify each time they move across the stone. They start off quietly at first,
only gradually growing louder and clearer, and there’s no doubt something about their relentless
pace which manages to be infinitely more sinister than running. When you draw to a halt beside me
you’re almost entirely in shadow, leaving nothing but a gleam of eyes in the depths of your face
and the sweep of your long dark coat.

“Me too,” you say.

At the sound of your voice the detective’s face visibly spasms: a layer of jerking muscle which
leaps and convulses as if beetles are crawling beneath his skin. His manner has the same snarling
ferocity of a rabid animal, yet while in theory it makes him more reckless and lethal it does nothing
to deter me from moving even closer to him to tighten my grip. Then for a few wild seconds all I
can think of is how much you must be wincing at having to resort to such informal grammar, even
though I’m so happy you have because it confirms you’re right here next to me – exactly where
you should be. The fact you haven’t been running also means you’re the only one of us who’s not
out of breath and it gives your presence an additional smouldering layer of menace and authority. I
lean into you slightly without even thinking about it and immediately feel the warmth of your palm
against my back.

The detective repeats the same grunting sound as before: an urgent blend of fear and raw, reeking
aggression. His eyes are darting frantically back and forwards, seeking an escape route that’s never
going to appear, until he finally manages to wrench out my grip before stooping down to retrieve a
discarded wine bottle and smashing it to shards against the wall. The edge of the glass gives an
ugly glint in the moonlight, rough and jagged as a set of broken teeth, and for a few moments
there’s just a sinister inertia on both sides as he stands in front of me like a blasted slab of stone
while his eyes pierce the shadows and his tongue glistens through the gaping hole of his mouth. I
can already sense he’s going to try and attack you with it, and the knowledge makes my sense of
rage and revulsion so strong that the air almost seems to be choked with them. It’s as if they’re
starting to colour my vision, like a veil of red gauze draped across my face…yet still neither of us
speak or move. Then he finally takes a step forward, raising the bottle as he does so, and it’s this
gesture that finally jolts something inside me and makes me come rushing back to myself. I was
only gone a few seconds, yet it feels like a lifetime before something shifts and the world is no
longer monochrome and slow, but fast-paced, pulsating, and saturated in colour: shades of scarlet
shot through with silver and crimson.

“Bastardo,” I hear him hiss. “Basta così. Vai all’inferno!”

As he’s speaking he darts forward to swipe at you in a series of loping strides – and at the sight of
it I can feel myself lose control completely. It doesn’t matter that you’re more than capable of
defending yourself, or that he’s limited in the extent of the damage he can do. None of that matters
at all, and instinctively I just force you out the way before lunging towards him myself. How dare
he? I find myself thinking. He’s not fit to look at you, let alone touch you. The edge of the bottle
catches the light again, and for a few frenzied moments it’s all crawling shadows and flashes of
silver as he lets out a roar then tries to grapple with me until there’s a sudden explosion of pain in
my ribs as the world goes white, then red. My chest feels like it’s caught fire, but it still never
occurs to me to scream, or stop, or do anything except duck away from the crazily swinging glass
before diving right back in again. The skill of his combat training is very apparent and it’s obvious
he’s expecting me to let go; already I can see the look of fear and surprise that’s starting to flicker
over his face when it finally dawns on him that I won’t. I suppose he doesn’t know, does he? He
doesn’t understand what he’s dealing with: the way I’ve been forced to learn how to fight through
pain and shock and blood.

As I swing round again the detective grunts then grinds his teeth, faltering for a few seconds before
attempting to smash his fist into my damaged ribs. It’s a decidedly underhand move of course – the
type of thing that would have no place in an honourable fight – but I don’t waste time resenting it
when I know that any real notion of honour was left behind at the gates of the station. In this
respect he’s still rasping and snarling at me, yet it’s so hard to listen anymore to the rambling
stream of words. Words like ‘tradimento’ and ‘mancanza di rispetto’…there might even be an
‘ingiustizia’ in there somewhere too. Betrayal. Disrespect. Injustice…noble weighty words that
belong in a courtroom or the pages of some moralising novel, yet lose all their meaning in a scene
like this where justice and nobility no longer have any value. No one here is noble; we don’t
subscribe to conventional ideas of morality. Not me, not him: certainly not you. God, I’m just so
sick of him now. I’m sick of the whole thing. On cue the glass comes slicing through the air again,
whistling past my ear with a shrill high-toned wail like something crying, so I hiss with anger as
I’m forced to lose precious seconds ducking to avoid it. By now you’re almost invisible amongst
the shadows, but I still feel your presence anyway and know you’re observing everything that’s
taking place. You won’t intervene unless asked to though, because you understand that I want this
one for myself. And I do; the first one was yours but this second one’s mine, and each time we
both did it on behalf of the other.

My chest is already throbbing fiercely from the stab wound, yet I’ve completely forgotten it in the
thrill of the hunt as I focus on an anger that’s so burning and powerful it obliterates everything
else. Besides, there’s no time anymore for weakness or injury because I’m currently in the centre of
my very own killing ground: a personal amphitheatre for a fight to the death. Instead, I deliver a
sharp punch to his abdomen then quickly kick his feet out from under him until he collapses to the
floor and I can pounce down to straddle him with my full weight on his chest. Behind me I feel you
shift slightly and once more I don’t need to see your face to know the satisfaction that’s written all
over it – just as I don’t need a translation of what it means when your fingers brush across the back
of my neck. Go on, the touch says. Do it: it’s what you’ve been waiting for.

Underneath me his face is bleached pale in the moonlight and I know my own must look the same.
Like two solitary ghosts confronting one another amid the shadows…like two lost souls. In my
ears my heart has started to pulse even louder with anticipation and it’s a weird, unnatural rhythm
that’s dramatically different to how it pounded so fearfully earlier in the evening before you
arrived. Then I release a long breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding, gazing down at what’s
now become prey with a face that’s cold and set and an expression that’s unreadable. I’m nearly
trance-like in my calmness and it’s a profoundly odd sensation: as if I’ve taken a step sideways out
of time and am hovering overhead, watching myself and waiting. On one level I know what I’m
doing is wrong. This is a police officer and a good man…at least in comparison to you or me. I
know there’s still time to change my mind; still time to avoid the risk of consequences for what I’m
about to do. But ultimately none of that is even enough to make me pause as I take hold of his head
in hands which are totally steady then slowly draw it forwards before slamming it back down into
the stone. It makes a slickly nauseating sound that’s straight from an abattoir as I do it again, then
again, until his skull finally splinters open and his life gushes out across the cobblestones and
drenches them in scarlet. There’s a certain brutal elegance to it, isn’t there? I’ve always thought so.
How swiftly, simply, and beautifully a human body can be breached and broken apart.

In the end I’ve no idea how long the whole thing lasts for, although whatever it was it seems that it
must be over by now: all of it done in the blink of an eye while blazing with every possible
sensation. Blood, breath, bone, skin…an orgy of destruction that commemorates the death of the
old even as it consummates the start of something new. At the very least I suppose it’s been over
long enough for me to stand up and speak to you, only somehow I find that I’m still not ready to do
it. I hid the injury so well you don’t even know I’ve been hurt yet, but I know you’ll realise as soon
as you see me and I feel like I want to wait a little longer until you find out. Just a few more
seconds would be enough: just enough time to let my eyes fall closed as I bathe in the newfound
sense of peace. I feel so profoundly at ease now: serene, almost, even though I know it’s wrong to
be so – to feel so calm after what I’ve done. I can see the blood on my clothes and hands (dark and
thick, curiously shiny) and I can feel it too; how warm and wet it is and the way it pours and
surges. And what it’s all making me think of is that night on the cliff, because even though it’s
entirely different there’s still a strange similarity there too.

Then, just like now, it was also quiet once the sound of the fight had died. So hushed and reverent,
wasn’t it? Nothing to hear at all except the pounding of the ocean or the way my breath was
seeping up my chest before sinking back in again. Just us, alone in the moonlit in the midst of
carnage and distortedly deformed delights – a beautifully broken tragedy – yet aware of a haunting
sense of contentment in spite of it that burnt like purification. It was exactly like you said to me all
those weeks ago: how passion means pain; attaining ecstasy and revelation through the power of
suffering. But then of course there’s also such powerful differences too. Back then I was haunted
by the sense I’d never be able to be free of you; that I could hurl you over the cliffside and know
 I’d still have to go down too. I remember how the realisation had a certain brutal clarity to it,
because I also understood that I was including that darkly murderous part of myself in the equation
as much as I was you: that both of you were entwined so deeply into my soul that it was impossible
to cast out one without the other. The glow of the fireplace was visible in the gloom like an eerie
will-o’-the-wisp, and I remember seeing it and thinking I could burn you both alive and I’d still
have to stand over the ashes to breathe in the fumes. Because of course I would: it was both love
and loathing in our mutually mismatched morality. I remember the beauty and horror of it – and
how in that moment I’d been so truly overwhelmed at how I was possibly the only person capable
of ridding the world of the Chesapeake Ripper while being equally crushed by the knowledge that I
couldn’t bring myself to do it unless I went with you. It hurt so much knowing that. I remember the
vague awareness of a tear starting to run down my face, like a last streak of purity amidst all the
blood.

Back then the wind had sliced at my skin like another knife and the moon had been like a pale,
pitiless face that watched my progress in quiet, sterile oblivion. I remember that too. The way it
seemed to roll in the sky with the roar of the ocean in the background. The ragged clouds. The
scattering of drowned stars. They looked the same that night as they always had, but I remember
staring at them with a sudden fatal certainty that I’d never see them the same way again. Only it
wasn’t the stars that would change but me, because I knew by that point that even I survived then
the person who came back afterwards could never be the same as the one who arrived. And I
wasn’t was I? But then…neither were you.

Just like that night on the cliff the sky is also full of stars; and now, just like then, nothing seems
quite so engrossing as they are. Luminous sky-dwelling spheres which are constant and
unchanging, yet in that moment on the cliff felt like I was seeing them for the very first time. It
was as if a veil had been lifted so the world’s outlines and colours could steal out the shadows and
refashion themselves into something fresh and new, starting first with us. With you and me. And of
course I knew you could see them too, just as you can see them now, because some of our stars are
the same…just as they always have been. Without even thinking about it I now murmur your name
then get to my feet and move forwards, reaching out with both arms until I’m being enveloped and
held close; a single sharp cheekbone stroking against my hair like the comfort of cherishing hands.
There’s blood everywhere now. I don’t know what’s mine and what’s his, but it’s not like it really
matters. It all looks black in the moonlight.

“It’s beautiful,” I say – and I know you understand.

Chapter End Notes

Next update ETA: July 31

 Chapter 50
Chapter Notes

Lol, oh dear, not having a beta reader really caught up with me last chapter :-p Many
thanks to everyone who pointed out that Jack’s condition was ambiguous – and for
anyone who read prior to the edit, he was meant to have been left unconscious at the
end of the scene xox

See the end of the chapter for more notes

This reflective interlude is quiet and still, and so slow it seems as if it’s lasted for hours. To be
honest, it really should have done – it should have lasted for days – and the fact it hasn’t is enough
to make me hate the pitiless tramping of time for how it’s snatching the seconds away from us and
refusing to give us what we need. But then this is clearly the way that it has to be, and in the end
I’ve barely even managed to get to my feet before things start picking up speed again – exactly as
expected. Naturally you notice the stab wound the moment I pull away from you (also as expected)
and, equally predictably, are hardly overwhelmed with joy about it. Admittedly you’re always
exceptionally calm in a crisis, so the display of this unhappiness is limited to a series of silent
gestures and looks. Even so, it’s easy to guess without being told just quite how concerned you are.

“Although I’m not going to the ER,” I say firmly. “So don’t even think about suggesting it.”

You wave your hand impatiently at this, then instead of replying simply drop down to your knees
on the cobblestones so you can use the flashlight on your phone to inspect the damage more
closely. Your fingers are very light as the flit along my ribcage, which somehow feels surprising;
it’s like even now I can still forget how gentle you can be. Your free hand is holding onto mine, the
thumb roving tenderly across the knuckles, although you eventually let go again to retrieve the
remains of the bottle and use it to off slice a piece of your shirt as a way to stem the sticky ooze of
blood.

“Keep pressure on it,” you say as you stand back up. “As much as you can, for at least 10
minutes.” You frown slightly, resting your palm on my forehead for a few seconds before sliding
down to my throat to take my pulse. “Are you nauseous?”

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Light-headed? Any difficulties breathing?”

I shake my head each time and you finally take a step backwards so you can brandish your
cheekbones at me (accessorised with one of your more piercing stares). “I can suture it myself,”
you add in a brisk, doctorly voice. “But if any of those former symptoms emerge then you must tell
me immediately.”

“Yep.” My voice sounds so casual and the awareness of it is starting to make me feel guilty; it’s
like I’m letting you down somehow by not taking things as seriously as you are. “Yes,” I add,
attempting to sound more solemn. “Of course.”

“Immediately, Will. Do you understand?”

Before you’ve even finished speaking I reach out to put my hand on your arm. In this respect the
contrast feels rather striking, and not entirely familiar; that I’m the one who’s injured, yet the one
who’s most in need of reassurance is you.

“It’s okay,” I say soothingly. “I’m fine. I’ve been stabbed before, remember?” I mean, of course
you do remember – not least because the worst of these assorted stabbings was inflicted by you –
although this hardly feels like the right moment to start pointing it out. “In the head,” I add. “This
is nothing”

You give me the tiniest hint of an eyeroll, then for a few moments simply stand there in silence
with my face cradled in your palm before finally taking hold of my hand so you can pull me
towards the end of the alleyway. From there a rather furtive march begins that’s clearly designed to
avoid any witnesses (diving from one alleyway straight into another, traipsing through a maze of
empty winding streets) until we’ve eventually reached the Loggia del Mercato Nuovo and you can
dip another scrap of shirt into the fountain to wash the smears of blood from my face and hands.
There’s no real need for it, of course: I could just as easily take care of things myself (and in fact,
would usually insist on doing so) but right now I’m strangely content to just stand there without
objecting. It’s kind of awkward, I suppose, but it’s not like I mind. After a lifetime of grimly
grinding self-reliance it actually feels rather something profound to be cared for this attentively and
that, coupled with your clear desire to do it, makes me happy to ignore my usual protests and
patiently let you take over.

Once you’ve finished you smooth my damp hair off my forehead then take hold of my hand again;
this time to lead me back into the shadows to order a cab before unfastening your coat and gently
tugging me in front of you to wrap me up in while your arms encircle me from behind. I know that
I’d normally find it embarrassing to be pulled against your chest like this, yet as with the scene at
the fountain it somehow feels too natural and comfortable to waste time getting self-conscious over.
Instead, I just remove my own hands from my pockets then grip onto the coat to hold it in place as
your fingers lightly stroke across mine.

“I look so stupid,” I say happily.

“Yes, I’m afraid you do,” you reply. “Like you’re in a papoose.”

“No, I look like one of those monkeys that get carried around on their parents’ chests. Technically
that makes you the big monkey. You look almost as stupid as I do.”

“No doubt. I suppose I shall somehow just have to find a way to bear it.”

“Alternatively, you look like you’ve got two heads,” I add thoughtfully. “Knowing my luck it’ll
end up on a blog somewhere: ‘Bizarre Two-Headed Figure Spotted by the Fontana del
Porcellino.’”

“Well, any passers-by might think that,” you say. “Of course, they may also assume that it is
simply two people who are sharing a coat – although I’m sure you are right, and that the two-
headed man theory would be the most convincing. No doubt we present a moving and tragic
spectacle to all compassionate minds.”

“Well, we do.”
“Indeed.”

“An anatomical curiosity,” I say with morbid relish.

“Very much the museum piece.”

“Oh yes. I wonder what our admission charge would be?”

“Something substantial, I’m sure, for such a structural marvel.” There’s a rustling sound as you
arrange the coat more snugly around my shoulders, quickly followed by the brush of your lips
against my hair. “Or even a metaphysical concept: two minds and one heart. Either way, it will not
be for long. The cab should arrive any moment now.”

“We’ll be lucky if they let me in,” I add in a more serious voice. “Look at me: I look wrecked. And
I’m soaking wet.”

“They will let you in,” you say firmly.

You nuzzle my hair again as a sign you consider the matter closed, then tighten your grip a little
further (taking care to avoid the damaged ribs) until the cab finally draws up to the sidewalk a few
minutes later and the driver leans out the window to beckon us over. I can hear you explaining that
I’ve had too much to drink (done in deliberately bad Italian with a surprisingly good English
accent) before waving fistfuls of Euros to distract to him while you bundle me into the backseat so
I can stretch myself across it with my head on your knee. After that you make bright, inane small
talk with him in a way I know you’ll find excruciating: the restaurant we’ve supposedly gone to,
the opera we watched straight afterwards, then purposely referring to vini instead of vino so you
can laugh good-naturedly each time he corrects you. The entire time your fingers are gently
stroking through my hair and I’m aware of you telling him I’m your husband in a way that makes
me feel contained and contented in a way that’s difficult to express.

Once we’re back in the hotel I manage to snap back to life again and stubbornly insist on taking the
stairs to avoid any close encounters in the elevator (despite the fact it’s a bad idea on multiple
levels and every goddamned step ends up tugging on my damaged muscles in a way that’s
downright excruciating). I grit my teeth to stop myself wincing too noticeably but of course you
still notice it anyway, and in the end just pick me up to carry me for the last two flights until I’m
finally lying on the table and you’re swivelling the overhead light around to shine directly on my
ribcage. Unlike last time the first aid kit is fully stocked, so at least there’s enough anaesthesia to
get the job done with minimal discomfort. In fact, the worst part is when you need to dig around in
it to remove any debris, but the wound itself is small enough to only require four stitches. Your
manner throughout the whole thing is unusually cautious and gentle, and I know it’s because the
sight of me in pain is always enough to disturb you. Admittedly you don’t really do guilt or regret –
at least not in the way most people would understand them – but there’s no doubt a situation like
this is one of the few things that’s guaranteed to push you closest to it.

“It’s all right,” you murmur at me each time I suck in my breath. “It’s all right, my love. Mylimasis.
You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

I make a humming noise to confirm that I do know this, then try my absolute best to lie still until
you’ve finally put the needle away and are strapping a neat wad of dressing across the row of
stitches. You tenderly stroke my hair with your free hand as you’re doing it, the faintest hint of
frown lines etched around your eyes and mouth.

“Had I known about this I would have assisted you,” you say, almost more to yourself than to me.
“Only that assistance never seemed to be necessary. You were magnificent tonight. So fierce and
agile.”

“That was the point.” I wince again as I start the arduous process of swinging my feet off the table
and you immediately spin round then catch hold of my shoulder to help me. “He was a cop,
remember? That means highly trained. There’s a good chance he could have stabbed you as well –
and there’s no way I could have stitched you back up.”

This time you don’t reply, although a single glance at your face is enough to tell me how touched
you are by this. People always treat you as if you’re unassailable, and even after so much time
together I think there’s still a certain novelty for you in being seen as an object of protection and
care. As if proving my point, you now just stand there in silence for a few moments, cradling my
face with your hand then gazing at me rather soulfully while your thumb strokes up and down my
jaw.

“Shower or bath?” is all you eventually say.

I briefly wrinkle my nose as I consider the options then promptly see you start smiling as soon as
you notice it. You always love it when I do this; it’s one of the very few things that’s always
guaranteed to amuse you. In fact, a bath would be much more appealing, only I don’t think I’ve got
the energy for it and the thought of scrambling in and out of the hotel’s claw-footed Victorian
monstrosity is already making my ribs throb in protest. Possibly you’re thinking the same, because
you now nod approvingly at my choice of a shower then begin some brisk preparations for a
waterproof dressing (improvised with plastic wrap and a length of electrical tape pilfered from the
maintenance cupboard) before helping me limp my way towards the bathroom. Once we’re there
you undress me very tenderly, and while it’s yet again the type of thing I’d normally cringe at I
find I’m more than happy to go along with it – at one point even raising up my arms like a child so
you can tug my t-shirt over my head. Afterwards you come into the stall yourself then stand
directly behind me, your chin propped against my hair while your arms rest loosely across my hips
to avoid disturbing the bandage. Your presence feels very grounding, and I end up leaning on you
until you’re bearing my entire weight and I can gaze down in silence at the how the water is
sluicing away the remains of the fight. There seems something intensely symbolic about the sight
of the blood swirling over both of our feet, although ultimately I don’t mention it and neither do
you. After all, it’s not like we need to, do we? We both understand without it being explained.

As usual you can sense when I’ve had enough without me needing to tell you, so when I’m finally
ready you help me out again then fetch two of the hotel’s absurdly luxurious robes (grey for me,
navy for yourself) before leading me towards the sofa in what’s a clear encouragement for me to
join you on it. Admittedly the intimacy between us remains fiercely intense, yet now the first
waves of shock and exhilaration are wearing off I’m uncomfortably aware of how some of my
previous walls are already starting to reassemble themselves. In this respect it’s obvious you’re
hoping I’ll drape myself over you the same way I did the taxi, only I’m not quite ready for that
anymore so just end up sitting next to you instead as a form of compromise, close enough for our
shoulders to touch. Oh God, there’s so much to ask you about and now the moment’s arrived I’m
not remotely sure where to start. I guess the most sensible thing to do would be to leave it until
tomorrow instead, but perversely, given the option, I know I don’t really want to do that either. It
needs dealing with now, doesn’t it – like it or not. This is one of those situations where waiting will
achieve nothing except coarsen the emotion into something worse than it originally needed to be;
and besides, who knows…perhaps it might not even be that bad? I pause, then cast you a rather
doubtful look from beneath my eyelashes. I think the worst part of all this is that it’s something I
feel I have very little control over. It’s all on you now: the relative goodness or badness depends
pretty much entirely on what you’re going to say next.

As a form of stalling, I now lean over to switch my phone off so that even if Jack wants to contact
me then he can’t. If I’m honest I’ve not done all that much for him tonight, although given
everything else that’s happened I still feel like what I have done could count as due diligence…sort
of. After all, I ignored your withering insistence it was only a minor head wound (I barely even
touched him, Will…and besides, it’s safe to assume he has a very thick skull) then called for an
ambulance to come. I even composed a thoughtful text message afterwards wishing him well,
complete with a carefully-worded postscript insisting I was physically fine and would be in touch.
The implication, of course, was that mentally I’m very far from being fine – and that ‘being in
touch’ had no clear timeframe – but while unhelpfully sparse on details it still felt like the
necessary minimum to prevent a search party getting unleashed. Of course, the kindest thing of all
would have been to call him and check how he’s doing – only I’m not kind, so I haven’t.

This whole time I’m aware I’ve just been staring blankly at my phone; and while I’m not exactly
sure how long it’s lasted, it’s clearly still been too long for your preference given that next to me I
can feel you starting to shuffle with poorly concealed impatience. Such restlessness is unusual –
and a clear sign of how invested you are in what I’m about to say – and I now sigh to myself very
quietly before pushing any lingering thoughts of Jack to one side in preparation for a conversation
I’m still not fully sure how to have. Oh God please don’t screw this up, I plead with you silently.
Not this time. Please don’t tell me anything I don’t want to hear. Then I replace my phone on the
coffee table – overly wary and cautious, as if rough handling would cause it to break – and catch
your eye just in time for you to give me a smile that’s distinctly sad and pensive.

“I can see you growing more distant with every moment that passes,” you say. “You’re still angry,
aren’t you?”

“No. I’m not angry.” I’m speaking notably slowly now; a side-effect from choosing each last word
with every possible care. “I don’t know what I am. It’s like I said this morning, I guess. When I’m
feeling overwhelmed I retreat.”

This makes you let out a low sigh of your own before leaning across to lightly run your finger
down my cheekbone. “I adore you so much,” you say softly. “I miss you when you’re not here.”

“I know.” God, I’m speaking much too slowly now. I sound as if I’m drunk; anyone would think I
was the one with the head injury rather than Jack. “I’m on my way back,” I add in a firmer voice.
“But a lot’s happened in the last 24 hours, Hannibal. I need to discuss it with you.”

You dip your head to indicate I’ve got your full attention and I catch your eye again, fidgeting
rather unhappily with the edge of the robe as I try to decide what to start with first. I guess I should
just start at the beginning, really: start with what’s easiest. Although of course in this case easiest
also translates into safest, which at least means I’ll end up edging myself into it by focussing on
the issues with the least amount of resentment attached.

“So…” I finally say. “You followed me again.”

“I did, yes.”

I swallow a few times, doing my best not to let too much accusation leak into my voice. “When I
specifically asked you not to?”

“Your request was premised more for my sake than your own,” you say, with the faintest hint of a
shrug. “To keep me safe, or something to that effect. It was not a condition I saw as particularly
necessary.” You pause to cast a quick glance at me; and then, seeing how dissatisfied I am with
this, take hold of my hand to press it between both of yours. “You were also much later than you
said you would be,” you add in a softer voice, “which was the final incentive I needed. But it was
never my aim to draw attention to myself. You were correct when you claimed that I follow you
fairly frequently, but I do not do it to cause you inconvenience. On virtually every occasion you
have never been aware of my presence – and were it not for those detectives’ intercession, then
tonight would have been the same.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Not especially. Although I hope it does make you feel worse.”

I sigh a little louder at this then give the edge of the robe another fretful twist. “It makes me feel
resentful. Like you don’t trust me.”

“I do trust you,” you say, even more gently than before. “My desire to be near you has nothing to
do with that. However, I find myself extremely restless when you’re away from me – and as I
admitted earlier, I begrudge the time you choose to spend with Jack.” You pause to catch my eye
again then smile very slightly. “Besides, I derive an unfeasible amount of satisfaction simply from
watching you. You have always been my favourite object of study.”

This time my sole response is to give a rather vague nod before dropping my eyes down to resume
the uneasy fidgeting with the robe. Fuck, I’ve practically concertina-ed the entire belt by now: I
give another sigh then force myself to let go. In fact, I know there’s a lot more I could say about
this; the problem, given everything else which needs saying, is that it feels like a low priority and
I’m not sure I want to waste any more time on it. Besides, I’d known for a while you’d been
following me – and almost certainly Jack as well – and the one bit of credit I’m still willing to give
you is that you’ve generally had the self-control to be discreet about it. It’s not like it’s even
particularly unexpected; I of all people should know that relentless stalking as a sign of devotion is
exactly the sort of thing you would do.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d changed your mind?” I now ask instead. “About Jack.”

Admittedly a part of me feels like a petty asshole for pressing you on this, not least because I’m the
one who’s ended up getting what they wanted. But then you also never do anything on the spur of
the moment, which makes it hard to ignore the way you must have completely altered course
without bothering to discuss it with me. Even so though, you still did change your mind – and that
in itself isn’t nothing.

“Before you answer,” I add in a warmer voice, “I want you to know that if you’d told him about us
I’d have gone along with it. Without hesitation. I would never have rejected you.”

“Mylimasis,” you reply, so tender and rumbling it almost sounds like a purr. “I know you
wouldn’t.”

“So why didn’t you, then? It’s what you’ve been waiting months for.”

“There are two questions there,” you say thoughtfully. “Why I didn’t tell him, and why I didn’t
inform you of my change of heart in advance. Which do you wish to know first?”

“I don’t mind. Either.”

“Well…” you reply, beginning to run your finger along my wrist again. “I suppose the latter is
more concise so I might as well begin with that. And the reason, to be candid, is because it was
something of a struggle to place your preferences before my own. More to the point, privileging
someone else’s needs is not a struggle I’m particularly used to engaging with. I’m sure you can
understand why.”

This immediately makes me smile. I suppose I shouldn’t really, but I just can’t help myself: it’s
such a rare combination for you to be not only brutally honest but also self-critical, and the
resulting sense of openness is almost impossible not to be touched by.

“Actually, you do put my needs before your own,” I reply now. “I think you do it more often that
you give yourself credit for.”

“Rest assured,” you say, beginning to smile too. “I give myself ample credit for everything.”

“Well, have some extra then. On the house.”

“Noted.” You give another smile then gently stroke my hand for a few moments before your
expression gradually starts to grow more serious again. “As to why I changed my mind,” you add.
“Well, in some respects I did not change it because I do still want him to know. I want it very
much; and I like to think that one day you will want it as strongly as I do.”

“But?”

“But the last few months have proved to me that that time is not now.”

As soon as you’ve finished you promptly fall silent again, only this time I try to force myself not to
break it with any more questions. God, it’s so hard not to though: sometimes it’s like pulling teeth
trying to get a straight answer out of you. Nevertheless, I can tell you’re not doing it on purpose to
be provoking. Instead you’re selecting your thoughts with considerable care, sieving them through
your fingers for delicate inspection before deciding which ones to reveal and which should be
allowed to stay sheltered. It’s still so new to you, isn’t it: this process of honesty. You’ve spent so
much of your life living behind the veil.

In this respect the silence has lasted so long I’m starting to think the subject’s been permanently
closed, but then without any warning you finally snap back to life again and turn your head round
to look at me. “Your ambivalence convinced me the revelation should happen on your own
schedule,” you say quietly. “Yours Will: not just mine. When he finds out I want it to be something
that we have discussed in advance – and which has your full participation.”

Ironically you’ve just told me what I most wanted to hear, yet somehow I still find it’s my turn to
now merely nod at you in silence, sitting there with a faint frown on my face as I do my best to
digest this. It’s been such a lengthy build-up, yet now it’s come down to it I find I’m actually not as
surprised by it as I thought I’d be. After all, it makes complete sense that you’d never force me to
do anything because, to be fair, you never really have. For you a sense of surrender is far more
gratifying, and it makes me realise that when I said you were unpredictable I wasn’t totally correct.
Because you’re not, are you? You surround yourself with beautifully destructive chaos – a human
eye of the storm – yet in many ways you’re also much easier to understand than I gave you credit
for. In fact, what’s much more intriguing is the reasoning behind your decision, and it immediately
makes me think of the conversation we had in the aftermath of the meeting with Clarice. It was
obvious what a deep impression it made on you, and regardless of whether you’ll ever admit it I’m
convinced this was the source of the final push. Seeing you together helped me understand why her
approval feels so important, you said. Because she nurtures that need in you, doesn’t she? The
need to do good. It feels rather poignant to realise it took an encounter with genuine innocence to
force you to acknowledge the small amount still remining in me – only that it was there
nevertheless and, in being so, deserved to be left to live. Clarice was likewise so struck by you too,
wasn’t she? I wonder what she’d say if she ever knew she was the final catalyst which made you
change your mind.

As if you’ve guessed what I’m thinking you now reach over to tighten your grip on my hand. “Do
you remember what I told you last night?” you say. “About the Blake painting?”
For a few moments I just glance up at you, struggling with a sudden surge of emotion that makes it
extremely difficult to respond. “Yes,” I say quietly. “Everyone focuses on the dragon. They forget
there’s a woman there too.”

You nod again in wordless agreement and for a while I don’t react at all beyond returning the
pressure on your hand. At the time your analogy seemed obvious in terms of letting me express all
parts of myself – the woman’s virtue as well as the Dragon’s vice – yet somehow I was never sure
you’d be able to allow yourself to act on it. Cultivating my darker nature was always your ultimate
goal, which made your acknowledgment of how it wasn’t a shared one feel more like an attempt at
humouring me than something you genuinely believed. For a few moments I find myself thinking
back again to last night: of the expression on your face and the tone of your voice. You called me
evil once, didn’t you? you told me. Your implication was that I’d forced you to re-evaluate your
belief in the concept. Yet you returned the favour without even knowing it, because you persuaded
me to believe that there is also such a thing as goodness. As little as a few months ago it would
scarcely have felt possible you could make such a huge admission, yet after your actions tonight I
can see that when you conceded my whole was more than the sum of my parts you really were
telling me the truth.

“I want you to promise me something,” I now hear you saying in the same gentle voice. “Which is
that no matter what happens, you won’t forget what you’ve learned about yourself. Don’t betray
your true nature, Will. Don’t forget how beautiful it was.”

Briefly I let my eyes fall closed, remembering all over again the quiet ecstasy of the hunt and the
intoxicating thrill of the kill; the way your fingers moved across mine, intimate and entangled
amongst the memory of all the blood. “I won’t,” is all I say.

“It’s not a descent into immorality, beloved. It’s the opposite: it’s ascension to a higher place of
being. It’s your Becoming.”

The tenderness of your tone is so obvious – and so utterly lacking in resentment or anger – that for
a few seconds I almost feel like it’s enough to make me cry. I give a half-laugh instead to hide it
then scrub my hand across my face. “You mean like you?” I ask. “I suppose you’ve ascended so
high you’ve started orbiting the earth.”

“Indeed,” you say fondly. “Although at least at such heights one is no longer limited by the laws of
gravity.”

“That figures. Principles, integrity, moral scruples…they’re just for us boring mortals down here
on the ground.”

“I’m afraid I cannot permit that,” you reply with another smile. “Because there is nothing remotely
boring about you. I can, however, accept that you’re still not fully ready to leave your old self
behind you. Although no, perhaps that isn’t entirely fair: you chose your side that night on the cliff.
Nevertheless, your inner conflict remains, and your Becoming is not complete. It’s true you’d have
revealed yourself to Jack if requested – I understand that. But I can also understand how little
satisfaction it would give me to force you. You either decide you wish to do it for yourself, or you
should not do it at all.”

“And what if I never decide I want to?” I say pointedly.

You wait for a few more moments of thoughtful silence before reaching up to run your finger
along the edge of my jaw. “Then that’s the decision you make.”

“Okay.” My voice has dropped again now, unusually low and intense as once more my emotion
threatens to get the better of me. “I appreciate you saying that. I guess, it’s just after everything.
After everything’s that’s happened…it’s hard to believe you truly mean it.”

“I mean it, Will,” you reply in the same gentle way. “Because I’m not prepared to lose you by
pushing you beyond your limits. You must know I’m not entirely oblivious. I realise I’ve wasted
many years – and done you a great amount of harm – by trying to make you conform with my
version of what I believed I wanted you to be. What I want now more than anything is your own
version of yourself. Watching you discover that over the past year has been one of the greatest
satisfactions of my life.” You pause again then give me another of the rather sad smiles. “The
irrepressible Will Graham,” you say. “So fragile, yet also so fierce and resolute. I adore it, Will.
I’m captivated by it. You’re so beautifully broken, but never broken-spirited. All these pieces of
you without ever being truly fragmented: the light shines through your slivers and cracks,
luminous in all your damage. Yet I look at your responses and see that even now your deepest
thoughts and imaginings disturb you. What would it take for you to fully value yourself?”

You, I think with startling clarity, but in the end I simply nod again before retreating into the safety
of the same pensive silence. Oh God, it really should just stop here, shouldn’t it? We’ve already
achieved so much. We should stop talking now and just lean in until our lips touch; gazing into
each other’s eyes, breathing one another’s air, then finally falling into bed in a tangle of limbs so
we can spend all night making love. Not even the blood and stitches would be enough to stop us,
because I know you can be gentle when you need to be. You said you wouldn’t hurt me, and I
believe you. No, please don’t do this, I think rather wildly to myself. Just quit while you’re ahead.
Yet somehow the command remains impossible and deep-down I know that I can’t. Such a simple
thing too, but I just can’t do it. I suppose I never truly could, could I? Where you’re concerned
wilful blindless was never really an option.

Several minutes must surely have passed by now, yet despite how strained the silence is growing
you’ve still just been watching me without making any attempt to break it. The restraint is unusual,
and at the awareness of it I can feel my resolve plummeting even further because it’s making me
suspect – with a sudden, awful certainty – that it’s a sign you already know. Because I think you
do, don’t you? I think you know what I’m going to ask you next. In fact, it’s maybe that more than
anything which confirms I should continue, because there’s still a part of me which even now can’t
believe it could be true. The question seems so outlandish out of context. Laughable, almost.
Although of course the irony is that I want you laugh when I ask it: I want you to smile then ruffle
my hair, demanding how I could ever believe something so dumb. Only you wouldn’t say it was
dumb, would you? You’d describe it as absurd or nonsensical and I’d roll my eyes at you before
leaning in for the kiss that I now feel more than ever isn’t going to happen. But ultimately I can’t
do any of that, because the solemn expression on your face is giving you away – and that’s when I
know the time has finally come to cross that mental line and ask you.

“You were telling the truth before,” I say. This is announced in a voice which I understand is my
own, yet somehow seems as if it’s coming from very far away from me; so quiet and strained that
you actually have to lean in further to hear it. Then once more I find myself falling silent again,
intensely reluctant to say it out loud as I cling to the last few moments of respite before I finally
accept I’ll be forced to. Because this is it now – what you’re about to do next could change
everything – and it’s like I’m being crushed by the brutal inescapability of my desire not to know.
No/know: a battle between the necessity of understanding and the urgent need to remain ignorant
and unaware. It’s as if I’ll be destined to always look back on tonight as a watershed moment. A
line in the sand between two lives; of knowing and not knowing.

And then I take a deep breath. And I do it.

“What you told Jack about being Il Macellaio,” I hear myself saying. “It was true. All along, it
really was you.”

There’s another long, long pause while I just continue to stare at my knee. I can’t quite bring
myself to look at you. “Yes,” you finally reply.

As soon as you say that I let out a long, agonised breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding.
And there it is, I think numbly. I suppose even now I wasn’t sure if I fully believed it. More to the
point, I didn’t want to believe it. Only I don’t have a choice, do I – you’ve taken that away from us.
I have to believe it now, like it or not.

“Because you wanted Jack over here,” I hear someone asking. It’s the same quiet voice as before;
and which of course I know is mine, yet still seems as if it’s coming from somewhere far beyond
me. “To force a confrontation with him. To kill him…and to make me choose a side.”

This time you don’t respond at all, although it’s not like I was really expecting you to: you’ve
always hated stating the obvious, and each point I’ve made so far is too self-explanatory to take the
trouble of confirming. “Everything’s that’s happened to us in the last few months,” I add, and for
the first time I feel like I might be perilously close to breaking. “It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.”

“It is, yes,” you reply. “All of it.”

Briefly I tighten the grip on my knee, chest rising and falling in a kind of pant as I’m overcome
with a sudden urge to hit you that’s so intense it almost takes my breath away. I can’t help it
though, because a part of me really wants to make you feel it: to hurt you the same way you’ve hurt
me. You’d let me do it as well, I know you would – you’d make no attempt to retaliate – and in the
end it’s the image of you sitting there afterwards, so silent and dignified with the blood trickling
down your face, that’s finally enough to snap me out of it and remind me how vital it is to use
nothing stronger than words as weapons. God, it’s such an impossible task though: to find the right
words in the right order. It’s overwhelming. English has an almost infinite selection to offer me,
yet I can’t seem to find a single one.

“I understand why you did it,” I finally manage to say; because this much at least is true and I
actually can. “What your reasons were. But the fact you would lie to me about it for so long: that
you lied to my face, day in and day out. Sneering about how Il Macellaio was so banal and so
ordinary. How he was nothing like you…”

Without any warning I grind to a halt, my words failing me even harder than before as I’m struck
all over again by the sheer enormity of it. Then from beyond the silence I hear someone snarling
“Were you ever going to tell me the truth?” in a voice that’s kinetic with shock and anger; and it
takes a few seconds to realise it’s me who’s saying it and that the harshness of the tone has made
your face flicker with emotion in a rather indecipherable way.

“That question is irrelevant,” is all you reply. “I knew you’d discover it for yourself first.” I glance
up at you in disbelief, almost twitching with anger at the audacity of it, and in response you quickly
dip your head down in what seems to be a rare display of remorse. “But if not, then yes,” you add.
“Of course I would have told you.”

“You know, I was always aware how you’d go missing at night,” I reply, this time almost half to
myself. “I was aware of it for a while. But God, you really went to some trouble to cover your
tracks, didn’t you? The times you disappeared never matched up to the murders being discovered:
not one single time. And the style of them. Jack really wasn’t wrong when he said you were role-
playing.”

“Indeed,” you say crisply. “And yet you still knew regardless.”
Your tone makes it obvious how much you dislike Jack being credited with any kind of insight,
and the fact you still can’t abandon your ego at a time like this is enough to make me let out a bitter
humourless laugh. “I guess you’ve partly got Jack to thank for that too,” I say pointedly. “He was
the one who thought Il Macellaio’s MO was inconsistent.”

For a few moments I now stare mutely down at my hands as I try to imagine it: the way you must
have rifled through your mental case files, devising a profile for the most banal killer you could
possibly find – a soupçon of Hobbs, a dash of Budge – find before ultimately losing interest
halfway through. Even for the sake of the deception it’s like you couldn’t stay engaged with
something so fundamentally ugly and pointless. “He also noticed how the killings stopped once
you reappeared,” I add. “Although I suppose they’d have to, wouldn’t they? You were stuck in the
hotel.”

Unbelievably you actually frown at this; it’s like even now the implication of being ‘stuck’
anywhere still manages to offend you. “I kept to our agreement,” is all you reply. “The victims
were always in some way deserving.”

“And what?” I snap. “I’m supposed to be grateful for that?”

“No,” you reply with a calmness I can tell you don’t entirely feel. “Only that their names were
taken from the list which you yourself devised. I assumed that would have alerted you, although
clearly I miscalculated. I suppose too much time had passed for it to be noticed.”

“I suppose so,” I say tonelessly. “But do you really want to know why I didn’t see it sooner? It’s
because I wasn’t looking for it, Hannibal. Because I never thought you’d lie to me over something
so huge. Because, God help me, I trusted you.”

As soon as I say that your face flickers again in a way that leaves no doubt how harshly this
particular blow has landed. I could have actually punched you and you’d scarcely have looked
more shocked and disappointed, but right now I’m so angry it’s impossible to process any of this
beyond the simple fact you were fucking with me the entire time – just the same as you did so
often in the past. Then after that there’s nothing at all but another long stretch of silence, because
by this point it seems as if even your eternal supply of words has expired. God, they really have,
haven’t they; you’re currently as mute as I am. Instead, you’re just sat there, impossibly tall and
imposing in the shadows, and there’s something about how daunting you look that likewise
catapults me straight back into the past and the sense of horror I felt when you first fully revealed
yourself. It’s as if you devour every last piece of space that you’re in, and I remember the way I
watched you back then while feeling as if your mere presence was a reproach for how I’d managed
to see all the predators around me while never noticing the one who was nearest and deadliest until
it was far too late.

The awareness of all this is disturbing, and it’s safe to assume at least some of it must be showing
on my face from the way you now glance up to catch my eye then hold it. Your expression is
unusually tender – as if your eyes are silently urging me to trust you – and even in the midst of the
rage and damage it’s enough to reiterate how I can’t let myself go back there again; that instead I
need to keep the conversation going in the present and somehow find a way to work through this.
Because whatever else you are, you’re not that. Not anymore. The only way you’ll become so is if
I insist on turning you into it – and while the onus is on you to make this right, I still feel a certain
responsibility to respond to the version of you who here’s right now as opposed to battling all the
phantoms of the past.

“You know, I really didn’t think it could be true,” I say eventually. My hands are still gripped
across my knee, yet despite everything I’m proud of how steady I’ve managed to make my voice
sound. “Until you spoke to Jack tonight I’m not sure it would have ever occurred to me. But you
were just so quick to go to Il Macellaio.”

“You empathised with me?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “Maybe. Yeah.”

“I remember you once describing that to me,” you reply softly. “Do you remember it too? Every
crime of yours feels like one I am guilty of.”

This time I simply shrug. I don’t really care what I said to you before; we were different people
back then. Then after that yet another long, limping pause starts up again in which I just stare at the
way my hands are knotting over my knee until I finally grow aware of you saying my name. You
do it in an extremely gentle way (soft syllables, tender on the outbreath) and it’s then that I realise
I’ve been sat in silence so long you’re growing concerned and are trying to coax me back again.
It’s as if you can see that I’m slowly suffocating and are responding to the instinct to offer comfort
and protection. You’d never have done that in the past, but you’re doing it now – and once more I
feel like it’s something I need to try to hold onto.

“I’m remember you telling me you’d miscalculated,” I say now; and my voice is still so low. So
grating and mechanical. “That you underestimated how much you’d resent Jack’s presence. I
assumed you meant when it was announced he was coming, but it wasn’t that at all, was it? You
meant when you lured him over in the first place.”

From the corner of my eye I can see you nod; a single slow dip of the head to indicate
confirmation. “So say it,” I add bitterly. “Say it now. Just for once it your life I want to hear you
admit that you made a mistake.” This time there’s nothing but another silence and I finally lose
patience and force myself to glance up again to look at you. “Jesus, you can’t actually do it,” I
snap. “Can you? Even now, you can’t just accept you got it wrong.”

“I was wrong to deceive you,” you say. “I will admit that very readily.”

“But?”

“But such an extreme error had unexpected effects.” You wait a few moments then reach out rather
tentatively to take hold of my hand. The hesitation makes it obvious you expect me to shake you
off, but while it’s incredibly tempting do it I’m surprised to realise I don’t entirely want to. “Some
time ago we were discussing your Becoming,” you add, “and you asked me what form my own
metamorphosis was going to take. Do you remember? Back then I didn’t provide you with an
answer, but I can do so now.”

“So go on then,” I say impatiently when nothing immediately follows. “What’s your answer?”

Beside me I can already see how stiff and rigid your expression has gone. This level of self-
disclosure is still so foreign, isn’t it: it’s clear how incredibly difficult this is for you. In a way it’s
like the most compassionate thing would be to simply put an end to it and tell you I don’t want to
talk anymore – only I’m not feeling especially compassionate right now, so I don’t. Let you be the
one who’s at the mercy of events for once. After all, you know better than anyone that events have
no mercy in them.

“That for possibly the first time in my life I was prepared to humble myself,” I finally hear you say.
“I relinquished my ego by ceding control and allowing the direction of events to be dictated by
you. That’s what tonight was about, Will. Having invested so much in ensuring a confrontation
with Jack, I was willing to accept that I’d made a mistake. It was my gift for you – and I could
accept you didn’t want it.”

Immediately I find myself glancing up at you, struck in spite of myself by your choice of words
and all the connotations they carry. In fact, for you to concede this much is fairly extraordinary,
and even my festering, ongoing outrage isn’t enough to stop me from acknowledging that. It’s as if
this is your ultimate acceptance of defeat, isn’t it? It’s hard to imagine the reserves of self-control it
must have taken to force yourself to admit it out loud.

“I missed you, Will,” is all you now add. This is announced very softly and sincerely, and given
the context is admittedly not at all what I was expecting you to say. Not that I really know what I
should have expected. Cryptic speeches perhaps, or elaborate metaphors…just nothing so
piercingly simple as being missed.

“You were so distant this morning,” you continue, beginning to gently run your fingers over mine.
“It was like an omen of how you might ultimately slip away – and of how you’d continue to haunt
me in your absence. Because the truth is that I can no longer do without you: I think you
understand that by now. That beautifully tortured mind and ravaged soul. It’s like an open
labyrinth, Will; after one’s been drawn inside you there’s never a way to leave again. You’re
impossible to let go of. I might have tried to entrap you, but even if I’d succeeded you would have
always demanded the highest possible price for your capture.”

There’s another pause. Oh God, so many pauses…it’s as if we could hold an entire conversation in
all the gaps between the words. Then for a few moments I find myself re-remembering your words
from last night and the expression on your face as you were dwelling on the extent of our
differences. You can’t compete with me on equal terms , you told me, because we are not the same.
You have limits and I have none. At the time you were referring to our capacity for violence, yet I
know it’s also true in another way. Because while you still believe there’s a point you might push
me too far and make me leave you, you’ve already admitted several times there’s no circumstances
where you could ever bring yourself to let me go. In the past you would have rather killed me first,
but now you don’t even have that. It’s essentially left you defenceless – and for all your cruelty and
destructiveness, it’s easy to see why you’ve been left feeling so powerless when faced with a
situation you no longer have any real ability to control.

In the end I just hesitate slightly, letting my fingers hover over yours then pressing down for a few
seconds before quickly pulling away again. “Just be open with me,” I say. “That’s it. That’s all I’ve
ever really wanted from you.”

“I know. And I understand that in this scheme with Jack I have broken your trust very badly – just
one of many such breaches.”

“Yes.” The simple distress of it makes my breath catch; if I wasn’t so drained and numb I know
that I’d cry. “You broke it.”

“I just wanted to see what you would do,” you reply, and it’s so close to the type of rationale you’d
have used in the past – wind me up and watch me go – that I physically flinch at the sound of it. “I
know,” you repeat, then briefly reach out with a single fingertip to touch the side of my face.
“Where you’re concerned that has always been my besetting sin. I am very guilty of wanting to
understand you better, and it led me to deceive myself with my own reasoning.”

“You did,” I say bleakly. “More than you maybe even know.”

“I thought luring Jack here would be of benefit to you,” you add. “To both of us.” You pause again
then give another frown; it’s like you’re finally willing to hear yourself and realise how fatally
arrogant and misguided you sound. “Yet I was wrong; utterly wrong. You can believe me when I
say that Will, because it’s why I abandoned the whole scheme. I did something tonight that is
anathema to me, which was to let Jack believe he has a greater claim on you than I do. It brought a
sense of rage and resentment that was close to intolerable, but I did it anyway. I did it gladly and I
did it for you. All because of how wrong I was.”

“I understand that,” I say in the same quiet voice. “It’s a conflict I’ve understood for a while. But
I’m still tired of it. I’m just so tired, Hannibal. Of this: of all of it. How many more of these scenes
do you expect me to have?”

“I don’t know,” you reply – and which is a level of disclosure that’s close to breath-taking because
you’re always so sure about everything. “When I am more proficient in empathy, perhaps? You
know I learn it from studying you. At first I did it because it helped me understand you better, but
I’ve found in the last year that my commission has changed. Now I do it because it enables me…”

For a few moments there’s another pause; a silence so strained and uncharacteristic it’s almost
enough to make me feel sorry for you. Usually I’m the one who’s lost for words. You, on the other
hand, always have an infinite selection to choose from depending on your mood: willing tools for
you to craft something that’s malevolent, or beautiful, or seductively deceptive – but whatever it is,
still something. Your silences, in contrast, tend to be carefully crafted to achieve a desired effect
whereas this one is clearly the opposite. You’re not doing it to get a reaction from me; you’re doing
it because you genuinely don’t know what to say. In fact, I suspect you were going to reply with
something like ‘to be kinder to you’ or ‘to take better care of you’ and have just caught yourself on
the grounds that the sentiment is too tame and simplistic for your taste. Even now, you’re still not
used to conversations where plain truths are the most necessary thing.

As if reading my mind, you eventually glance up yourself to catch my eye. You look so sad; it’s
strange to realise I’m having the almost unprecedented experience of watching you process guilt in
real time. “To love you in the way you deserve,” you say quietly.

“Great cruelty requires great empathy,” I reply, rather more grimly than intended. “It’s been a
recurring theme with us, hasn’t it?”

This promptly makes you retreat into silence again, another frown line running gossamer-thin
between your eyebrows as you attempt to formulate whatever it is you’re intending to share. “Do
you remember the Michelangelo quote?” you eventually ask – and which makes me blink a few
times because this is pretty much the last thing I was expecting you to say. “The one regarding the
creation of his David?”

“Yes,” I say slowly. “I remember. Ho visto l'angelo nel marmo e scolpito fino a quando l'ho
liberato.”

“Correct: I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” You glance at me, hand
hovering over mine again before returning to your knee in a way that shows you want to touch me
but are concerned it would be unwelcome. “It’s a reflection on the virtues of patience and vision.
The sculptor seeks artistry, and beauty, so acquits himself tirelessly on his creation’s behalf. Yet
it’s also natural that the marble suffers through the sculptor’s endeavours – even though each blow
is inflicted from a place of tenderness and creativity.”

Before you’ve even finished I can hear my breath seeping out of me in an angry hiss. “How much
longer do you expect me to tolerate that, Hannibal?” I snap. “That each time you lie to me it’s for
my own good?”

“I don’t expect you to tolerate it. My actions tonight are proof I no longer expect that.”
“Then why do you keep trying to justify what you’ve done?”

“Because one cannot learn from one’s mistakes without first reflecting on them.” You give a low
sigh then run your fingers through your hair; a restless, pensive gesture which, like all the ones
before it, is also extremely out of character. “You saw yourself as so damaged,” you add, and this
time you sound about as close to fretful as I’ve possibly ever heard you. “Like chips and flakes of
marble: fractured beyond repair. You typified the observation that ‘Behind every exquisite thing
that existed, there was something tragic.’ I wanted you to become something more than that, and
it’s a fascination which altered the course of my entire life. The sculptor’s dilemma, you see? It
would be so much easier to simply strike the marble to smithereens, to destroy it; but he does not.
His compassion becomes inconvenient. His life, his liberty, the performance of his philosophy…all
subsumed in his creation’s interests, simply because its potential to flourish and prosper within the
world grows dearer to him than his own.”

“So I’m the piece of marble waiting to Become?” I say, even more fiercely than intended. “God
Hannibal, you’ve been telling yourself the same thing for years: how all of it – all of this – is for
my own good. Why do you find it so hard to admit that you do it for yourself as well? That you do
it because you need it.”

“I know,” you say with rare simplicity. “And it’s a lesson which I’ve finally accepted I must learn.
That you are not my creation, and I cannot keep trying to claim you as such. That the author of this
particular masterpiece is you.”

I sigh rather heavily myself then drag my fingers through my own hair; an exact replica of your
previous gesture which I seem to be mirroring without even realising it. “I believe you think you
mean that,” I say in a slightly softer voice. “But do you understand why I need more time for you to
prove it?”

“I did not deceive you merely for the sake of it,” you reply, and this time the strain of sadness in
your voice is unmistakable. “I had a nobler goal in mind, yet my methods for achieving it remain
profoundly unacceptable to you.” You wait a few more moments then glance up again to catch my
eye. “You know even better than I do how often that pattern has repeated itself.”

“I do,” I say sharply. “Yes.”

“You were always such a work of art to me,” you add. Your tone has dropped now; very low and
smouldering and somehow even sadder than it was before. “So achingly beautiful. The vitality of
youth with the graceful methods of maturity, yet ferocious and audacious with an exquisitely
obscure mind and a dark slender soul. Only you could never perceive it for yourself Will, so I had
to see it for you. I had to be your eyes, then hold up the looking glass for you to watch the
transformation. You became all the great warriors and philosophers of the world to me, and I
wanted to live in a world I’d given up for you with no one else present.”

For a while you’re so silent I assume that you’ve finished, but as I watch you finally raise your
hand again to run your finger very slowly across the edge of my wrist. “Mylimasis,” you say
quietly. “Time and time again I’ve endeavoured to help you, and in every variation it has caused
you harm. You have suffered very greatly because of me.”

Briefly I catch your eye. “Yes,” I reply.

It’s brutally simple, yet there really isn’t anything else to say. How many times have I had to
struggle with it by now; your gruesomely gothic conception of what constitutes a person’s true
potential? And if the past truly is prologue then it’s probably something I’ll be wrestling with for
the rest of my life because it’s not a concept that can be judged by normal standards. Instead, it’s an
invisible thread and a rite of passage. A moral barrier which has me and you on one side and the
rest of the world on the other – a world which can never understand us and which neither of us can
ever fully fit into. It’s why you’ve always tried to carve me into your own world by force, with
actions that seemed so deeply dark and malevolent; a sign of how great cruelty requires empathy.
You admitted as much when you compared me to a living sculpture then conceded your private
conflict as the aspiring architect of my Becoming. And it was a journey that came so close to
destroying us both, yet somehow…here we are anyway. Safe and whole and together, even though
every rational thought and imperative suggests we should be pretty much anywhere else.

“You and your fatal beauty,” you now add in the same quiet voice. “How do you manage it, Will?
Sometimes it scarcely seems possible you can be real, yet your heart still beats and your blood still
flows.” As you’re speaking you gently move your fingers to press them against my throat,
frowning to yourself again as if marvelling over the throb of my pulse. “You have so much life in
you,” you say. “Yet still you manage to haunt my mind and lull my sense of reason to sleep.
Something so enigmatic should only be a figment of imagination, not blood and bone and breath.
Yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” I say, equally quietly. “After everything.”

“After everything, indeed; everything I have done to you. But you would still have accepted me in
front of Jack if I’d asked.” You pause again then let out a low, rustling sigh as your hand slides
further upwards to run along my cheekbone. The touch feels intensely intimate: questing and
exploratory, like you’re reading my features with your fingertips the way a blind person reads
Braille. “You would have destroyed that moral version of yourself in the eyes of the world. Painted
out the woman from the picture to leave only the Dragon. Permanently and without question…
because you knew it was what I wanted.”

For a while now you simple gaze at me again, slowly tracking down from my eyes to my lips
before gradually gliding back up. It’s a more extreme version of your expression after you killed
Aronne, and it likewise reminds me of the same sentiments you expressed back then; very soft and
pensive, more as confession than disclosure. I often dream about you Will, you said. And the most
painful ones are those in which we have returned to our previous lives. Dreams where you’ve
grown just as aloof and unobtainable as you were back then; where I can look at you, but never
touch you, and where you always find a way to deny me access to what I want and need the most. I
would go to very great lengths to prevent that from happening a second time. And of course I knew
back then, just like I know now, that these ‘very great lengths’ refer to yourself – to the very
essence of you – and your ongoing effort to become more human, even as you want me to grow
more inhumane. It's like you’ve finally been forced to confront the failure of your entire strategy:
that exploitation and coercion were never necessary to keep me close to you, because all I ever
really needed was the fledging empathy that was trying to blossom underneath it.

“Yes,” I now repeat, equally quietly. “You know I would. Because I love you.”

There’s another long pause and when I finally look at you again it’s to realise, with a profound
sense of shock, that there are tears in your eyes. Actual tears. Real ones: the type that gleam in the
lamplight then delicately line across your cheekbones in a trail of genuine grief. Yet what I also
understand is how they’re not only for yourself but for me – for both of us – and for a few
moments I simply sit there in stunned silence, almost paralysed in disbelief at bearing witness to a
part of you I’ve never really been allowed to see before. It’s as if you’ve finally removed the aloof,
impenetrable mask to show the frailty of the human being underneath; and as I look at you it feels
like it’s a display of struggle and sacrifice which manages to dwarf anything a single other person
has ever been willing to offer me: that someone so feared as you are, someone who wields such an
unfathomable amount of power, could care for me enough to finally lower their last defences and
 allow themselves to be so vulnerable.

It's also at this point, to my very deep shame, that I’m forced to accept I’m not entirely sure what to
do with it. I’ve never been good at comforting people. The most I can manage is intuit what they’re
feeling with eerie precision, yet I never truly know how to respond to what they’ve shown me.
Only this is you, which means it’s simply not good enough to sit here in confused, unhappy silence.
Oh God, I suppose I should tell you the obvious, shouldn’t I? I should say that it’s going to be fine.
That I’ll try to find a way to forgive you. That we’ve overcome worse conflicts so can surely work
through this one too, just the same as we always have. But in the end I don’t do any of that,
because somehow the gravity of the moment feels like it requires something far more than mere
words.

There’s a fearful whisper at the back of my mind as I lean towards you, because in theory I know
you’re at your most dangerous like this. Your emotional language speaks in stunning levels of
violence and it’s something I’ve suffered for so terribly in the past: that lethal way in which any
hurt or loss becomes a prelude for you to lash out. I suppose I should be more aware of it…
certainly that would be the most sane, sensible option. But theory is one thing, and practice is
another; and somehow the one thing which never does occur to me is to try and turn you away.

“Come here,” I say quietly.

Wordlessly I now guide you towards me, one hand cradling your head in my palm as the other
smooths up and down your spine. You still don’t say anything and neither do I. But in that moment
I think I feel closer to you than I maybe ever have done, simply from the sense that you’re really
allowing me see you – just the same way you’ve always been willing to see me. Because you did,
didn’t you? And in turn, I don’t think I’d ever understood how badly I needed that until it was on
offer. To be really seen, despite there being so much in the early days that I felt I could never
possibly show. In some of my bleakest, loneliest moments I think I could have even believed that
there was no greater way to demonstrate regard than those three small words, surpassing even love
itself. I see you. As if love was just a pale and unconvincing counterfeit of perception; of the
acceptance and awareness that comes from being seen. So even though you’ve done something so
unforgiveable, it means I’m still able to briefly set aside the resentment and anger and instead just
quietly sit there to hold you close, heartbeat to heartbeat, experiencing the full complexity of You.

Outside there’s a thrum of rain from again the window; a faint strain of classical music from the
floor below. By this point I’ve no idea how long we’ve been like this, but it doesn’t matter; I’ll
know stay for as long as it’s needed. Just to stay here, just like this. To feel you in my arms, with
the dampness of your tears against my skin, and simply be with you – with all of you – in that
moment. I keep thinking it’s what your sister might have done. Your mother. Your father, or any of
those other people whose memories have long been lost to time and trauma. To be with you, and to
see you: not as someone who thinks you’re a monster, or an object of fascination and fear. Not as
your antagonist or intellectual rival. But just as someone who loves you.

Chapter End Notes

Next update ETA: Aug 14 TBC

 Chapter 51
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

That night I sleep on the sofa. Normally this is the type of thing I’d only do in extremity – to prove
a point, usually to punish you – but despite everything that’s happened, that’s not the reason for it
this time. It’s not like it was even intended. If anything, it’s really just a case of being too tired to
move yet too sore to be carried, and it means I end up waking around 11am with a crick in my neck
and an unpleasant, sickly sense of confusion as to where I am and what the hell I’m doing there. In
this respect I’d assumed you’d already gone to bed yourself, but a quick glance confirms this is yet
another thing that’s not the case and you’ve instead been dosing in an armchair that’s dragged right
up to the edge of the sofa, close enough to touch. From the rather crumpled, careworn look you
have it’s obvious you’ve been there all night; and which is out of character in itself for someone so
impeccably groomed as you are, yet somehow is still even less so than the fact you’re there at all.
I’ve seen you mount these kinds of vigils in the past of course, but they’ve always had a certain
performative aspect to them; the sense that you’ve done it with a deliberate goal in mind rather
than as a sincere display of feeling. This, on the other hand, appears to be genuine – and while my
anger and wariness aren’t close to being dissolved yet, it’s still hard not to feel touched by the clear
show of tenderness it implies.

As usual I haven’t done all that much to indicate I’m awake, but you still seem to sense it anyway
(also as usual) because as I watch your eyes now snap straight open to look at me. My initial
impression is how severe and unsmiling you are – and it means I don’t even need to hear you speak
to understand how seamlessly your mask has already slipped back into place. You’ve shut down
again, haven’t you? I mean, of course you have: it’s obvious you’re not intending to replicate last
night’s raw honesty in any significant way. Not that I was expecting you would, and it makes me
wonder if you regret it now. How open you were, how much of yourself you revealed? It’s
tempting to speculate, yet somehow I can’t quite bring myself to ask.

For a few moments you continue to stare at me. You still look very solemn, although I can’t help
feeling it’s more a reflection of my own emotion than any genuine bitterness of your own. You’re
trying to practice your empathy, aren’t you? You know the situation is too serious for the usual
applications of shallow charm.

“How are you?” is all you eventually say.

I cough rather roughly then clear my throat a few times. My mouth’s so dry but I don’t want to
command you to start fetching me water, even though I know you would if I asked. “Not great,” I
reply. Without even meaning to I briefly catch your eye; I guess we both know I’m not really
talking about my ribs. “The pain’s still pretty bad.”

As soon as you hear this you lean a little further forward in your chair. “You need more codeine?”
you ask, then give a slight frown when I shake my head. “Are you sure? There’s still plenty left.”

“I’m sure. I prefer not taking opiates.” You promptly raise your eyebrows as a silent request to
clarify. “I almost got addicted after my abdominal surgery,” I add, before trailing off into another
stretch of silence. Oh fuck: it’s clearly going to be one of the conversations where nearly
everything turns into a reproach for your prior behaviour, whether intentional or not. “Not unless I
get desperate,” I add with a trace of awkwardness. “I’ll just take Advil.”

This promptly makes you frown again; it’s obvious you’re not happy about it. “Well tell me if you
change your mind,” you finally reply. “I can titrate the dosage for you. There’s no point with
suffering needlessly.”

“No,” I say, half to myself. “Needless suffering…there’s no real point.” You throw me a quick
glance and I clear my throat again then scrub my hand through my hair. “Look, just ignore me,” I
add. “I need to clear my head. I’m gonna have a shower…and then I’m going out for a while.
There’s something I need to do.”

This time it’s your turn to just blink at me in silence. It’s brief, but it’s definitely there: one of your
very rare indications of confusion. Not that I blame you – to be honest I’ve even surprised myself
with such a sudden announcement. The main problem, I think, is that the last few hours have just
been so unbearably stifling. Suffocating, almost, in their overpowering force of feeling – and it’s
not like it’s even over yet. There are still questions to be asked, lines to be drawn, decisions to be
made…and right now I know I’m not capable of dealing with any of it. I need a breather before
starting Act 2 (a palate cleanser, to use your language of preference) but either way, I need a break.
It’s so intense sometimes when we’re together and I guess it always has been. A twisted, outlawed
wonderland which soars up between us – blazing away on the horizon, far beyond what passes for
the real world – and which is unique and spectacular while at times still being overwhelming to an
extent that’s almost physically painful. It’s got to the point now that I need some time out from
you, and (perhaps even more so) some time away from myself.

With an effort I now get to my feet then press my hand against your shoulder as a form of peace
offering – a way to let you know the separation isn’t as hostile as it looks and is only intended to be
temporary. It’s okay, the touch says. I’m not walking out on you. You quickly press your own hand
over mine in return and then lean back in the chair again, frowning to yourself for a few more
moments before finally letting out a long and rather feline yawn. It’s one of those candidly casual
gestures I almost never see you do and even now there’s still something ridiculously endearing
about it. It makes me want to ruffle your hair or stroke your face, although in the end I don’t do
either of those things. The mood’s not right for that yet, is it? It’s still too soon.

“You’re going out?” you now repeat. “When do you expect to be back?”

It’s clear you’re dying to know where I’m going, although somehow are still managing to suppress
the temptation to ask. Such restraint is unusual; I suppose after everything that’s happened you’re
wary of coming over as too controlling. To be honest it’s a relief. I know if I told you then you
wouldn’t understand, and I don’t really think I’ve got the energy to explain it.

“I’m not sure,” is all I say. “Not long. A few hours, maybe. But while I’m gone I’d like you to do
me a favour.”

This time you don’t make any gestures or movements at all. Even so, I can still feel your eyes
bearing into me, following me as I walk away. “What would you like me to do?”

“Start packing,” I say grimly without turning round. “We’re leaving, Hannibal. We’re getting out
of here – and this time we’re going for good.”

*****

From across the table Mr Haversham reaches out to take a sip of coffee, pausing slightly with the
cup to his lips so he can catch my eye to smile at me. “Look at you,” he says, and he sounds
genuinely delighted about it. “Look at you, William. You look splendid.”

This immediately makes me smile too, even though it’s not quite for the reason he thinks. Splendid.
It’s such a quaint, archaic term. An elderly adjective, in its way – although to be fair it’s also the
sort of thing you’d say yourself, and for all my insinuations to the contrary you’re not exactly old.
Well, you might not be. Your vocabulary, on the other hand, is like something from the 1900s,
even though in your mouth it never sounds dusty or outdated. The words themselves might be junk
shop relics but you always manage to burnish them up and make them beautiful. A lexical museum
piece.

“Such a change,” adds Mr Haversham in an earnest voice. “I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t
seen you myself. You’re like a new person.”

This time I just give a vague nod in response, noting the opinion without ever properly confirming
it. Of course in saying this he’s also much closer to the truth than he realises, but it’s the type of
concept that’s impossible to explain to him even if he could understand it – which he wouldn’t. I
suppose as far as he’s concerned the ‘old person’ is the one who lived upstairs from him and
occasionally fixed his boiler; the one who was numb and broken-down with grief, several decades
younger than him while still managing to be equally aimless and lonely. But then in his eyes the
old version was also a fundamentally normal person with normal problems, and this is the part
where he’s right on the surface yet incredibly wrong in the substance. No one truly knew what was
going on with me back then, did they? No one except you and you weren’t even there.

As if reading my mind Mr Haversham now glances up and gives me a sympathetic glance. “I used
to worry about you, you know,” he says. “I’ve never seen someone so unhappy as you were. It was
as if you’d given up. At times I thought…”

He trails off, suddenly looking anxious, but it’s still easy to tell what he’s thinking. He was about
to say: ‘I thought you were going to kill yourself’ and it’s not like I even blame him. Most people in
his place would’ve assumed the same, although I suppose it’s hardly the right moment to point out
that I’d already tried. I pause then catch his eye for a few moments before taking a slow sip of
coffee. It’s strange to realise that killing you seemed to be the same as killing myself, but that’s the
way it felt at the time.

“But just look at you now,” repeats Mr Haversham. He sounds much happier now, beaming at me
again across the table as if inviting me to enjoy the spectacle of myself as much as he seems to be
doing. “I’m so glad I got to see you looking this well. And what with us being in the same city
again after so long! I said to my daughter-in-law. I told her. ‘Marcie,’ I said, ‘I have to go and see
my friend William…’”

He sounds genuinely pleased about it, which immediately makes me feel bad for not having
something similarly effusive to say about him in return. The problem is that I can’t seem to find a
way of doing it which won’t sound insincere, because (to be brutally honest) he just looks so old.
Old and faded; almost certainly this’ll be the last time I ever see him in person. Then as soon as
I’ve thought this I promptly feel guilty (like I’m sat here drinking cappuccinos with him while
secretly planning his death) only I can’t really help it because it’s true. Oh God, I’m so morbid
aren’t I? No wonder you’re always teasing me about it. You have a gift for the macabre, you once
said, which was basically your way of calling me a miserable emo bastard. You were smiling when
you said it, though. It was obvious you didn’t really mind.

Mr Haversham, cheerfully oblivious to how I’m still workshopping his pending demise, now takes
a dainty bite of biscotti and leans a little further across the table as he resumes his contented ramble
about the Italian vacation: how the hotel is nice but doesn’t have a coffee machine, how his
grandkids would’ve preferred a beach holiday (‘only culture is important for young people, don’t
you think so William?’) and how delighted he is that I got his letter on time to arrange a meeting. I
sit there in silence for the whole thing, nodding and smiling at suitable intervals while neglecting to
tell him that I actually received the letter weeks ago and only failed to respond to it because I
wasn’t sure if I really wanted to see him. Now I’m here though I’m glad that I did. He was always
so kind to me, wasn’t he? He deserves a bit of kindness in response, and it seems equally important
for me that I have a chance to show it. Even you admitted that much: how I should express all
aspects of myself, the good as well as the bad. Having coffee with a well-meaning yet rather boring
old man is the type of thing that’s a duty rather than a pleasure – and is of course the type of thing
which you’d never do yourself. In a way, that’s why it feels important that I do it…although
admittedly this is yet another source of irony, because while I’m still nodding and smiling I’m not
really listening to him and as usual have grown totally focussed on you. Oh God, I really am
though. It’s like you might as well be here in person; sipping on your own expresso, your eyes
slowly gliding from him to me then back again with one of those little enigmatic half-smiles on
your face…

“So, how’s your Uncle Jack?” asks Mr Haversham.

I stare at him blinking rather stupidly; it takes me a few seconds to realise he actually means you.
“Oh, yes, he’s fine,” I say. “We, um, went for dinner recently. He’s doing well.”

“You give him my regards the next time you speak to him,” says Mr Haversham, beaming like a
gameshow host. “Tell him I took his advice about the solanine for my arthritis.”

“Oh right,” I say. “He gave you diet tips?” Now I sound surprised, even though I know there’s no
real reason to be. It’s not like I don’t know you can be benevolent when you’re in the right mood.

“Nightshade vegetables,” replies Mr Haversham with obvious satisfaction. “Worked wonders.”

This promptly makes me smile again. I can’t help it; there’s just something so suitably gothic
about the image of you sitting there in my shitty old apartment giving him earnest tips about eating
nightshades. I bet you called them that as well, didn’t you? There’s no way you’d have been
discussing tomatoes or eggplants while letting a chance to say ‘nightshades’ out loud pass you by.

“Do you remember that time I was sick?” I find myself blurting out. “You lent him your
thermometer.”

My tone sounds very sincere, but before I’ve even finished I can already feel myself growing self-
conscious about it. It’s just such a stupid thing to reminisce over, yet somehow I still can’t resist –
mainly because he’s pretty much the only person in the whole world who I could have these types
of conversations with. It doesn’t matter that it’s about a version of you who’s not even real;
anything seems better than the expanse of nothing I usually get. We just don’t have that kind of
shared history, do we? No one else remembers you fondly. No one else wants to remember you at
all.

“Oh yes William, I surely do,” says Mr Haversham. “It was a good thing your uncle came by to
take care of you. You seemed to pick up quite a bit after he arrived.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I did.”

“There’s nothing like family.” He catches my eye again then gives me a rather sentimental smile.
“And of course, now you have your young lady as well.”

This immediately makes me wonder what he’d do if I leaned across the table to confide that my
young lady and my Uncle Jack just so happen to be one and the same person. It shows something
about the type of life I have that it wouldn’t even be the weirdest sentence I’ve said out loud in the
past few weeks. In the end I just repeat the same vague smile as before then take another sip of
coffee.
“It’s a real shame I’ve missed her,” says Mr Haversham piteously. “I was hoping to give her my
regards in person. I brought her some more of that American candy she likes.”

“Um, yeah, she was sorry to miss you too,” I say. “I’ll tell her you were asking after her. And I
know she’ll love the candy.” I’m smiling again while I say it, even though I know you won’t. I’ll
have to eat it myself, the same as I did last time – although I suppose at least he doesn’t know that.

Mr Haversham smiles back, beginning to fumble around in his vast leather hold-all to retrieve a
package of peanut butter cups. “When does she get back?”

“The job finishes next month.”

“Another month! You must miss her something awful.”

“I do,” I say. Then I’m about to add ‘I can’t sleep when she’s not there’ before coming to my
senses at the last minute and realising that this is way too much information (not to mention
making me sound like some kind of grotesque bearded toddler). Even so, it’s still true; I never
seem able to sleep well without you. “I call her all the time,” I say instead.

“Oh yes,” says Mr Haversham, nodding away. “Those modern thingies. With the video. My
grandchildren use the same.”

I nod back as he’s speaking, trying and failing to respond as I find myself distracted by the image
of how wrenching it would be if you really were in America while I was here. It would be so awful,
wouldn’t it; such an aching sense of loss and emptiness. “I take my laptop to some of our favourite
places,” I add rather dreamily. “Then I call her and tell her I’m counting down the days until she’s
there with me again.”

“Well, if that’s not the nicest thing I’ve heard all day,” says Mr Haversham. He smiles even more
broadly then garnishes it with a sort of cooing noise, soft and rumbling like a pigeon. “It’s good to
be attentive. Devotion is a fine thing: a very fine thing. She’s a lucky young lady.”

This time I don’t answer straight away. It’s strange – and I’m not even fully sure why – but
somehow his words, as kind as they are, have managed to strike a nerve. It’s actually enough to
reduce me to a sudden, pensive silence: a faint frown beginning to gather round my eyebrows at the
awareness of how reality has managed to come crashing back around me in such a dramatic and
thoroughly unwelcome way. Perhaps it’s just the dissonance of it? In fact it almost certainly is.
Talking about you like this is similar to telling Clarice about Robert – a form of distraction and a
grab at the ordinary – but right now is essentially little more than putting a band aid across an
enormous gaping wound that you made yourself. Already I can feel the frown beginning to deepen,
resentful at how the harmless fantasy – the what ifs and do you remember whens? – has managed
to fall apart so soon.

“I hope so,” is all I finally say. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, I am,” replies Mr Haversham stoutly. “And so should you, William. Nothing wrong with
beating your own drum.”

“I guess,” I say. “Only I’ve never been very good at that.” Unlike you, of course, who makes your
own drum (then beats it). I give a small, forlorn smile into my coffee cup and replace it on the table
again. “I just try and do my best, I suppose,” I add. “Sometimes I get it right and sometimes I
don’t.”

“But I reckon that’s true for all of us, son,” says Mr Haversham. “Relationships are always a bit of
right and wrong, aren’t they? Mrs Haversham and I only had a few years together before she
passed. My Margaret. I called her my Peggy Sue; after the song, you know? Sometimes we’d argue
like cat and dog, but they were the happiest years of my whole life.”

He pauses again, suddenly looking rather misty-eyed, and I promptly find myself thinking back to
the photo he always had in his living room: the pretty face in the filigree frame, frozen in time and
eternally young. By now he’s staring down at the table again, clearly lost in his memories, and it
means he misses the way I’ve that begun to gaze at him, engaged and sympathetic in a way I
haven’t really been since I first arrived.

“You never remarried, did you?” I ask.

“I didn’t, no.” He finally glances up at me again, blinking artlessly at the simplicity of the
question. “There was no one for me but my Margaret. She was my soulmate. A soulmate is
someone who makes you come to life. I could never have replaced her. I wouldn’t have tried.”

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I understand.”

“I know you do William. You’re a good lad.”

He sounds so sincere, and a part of me almost wants to correct him and insist that I’m not.
Although even if I did I suppose it would be another thing that’s not true, because while I might not
be good I’m not completely bad either. But then of course neither are you – and isn’t that the entire
problem?

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so William,” adds Mr Haversham. “But you seem a bit
downcast. It wasn’t anything I said, was it?”

“No,” I reply after a slight pause. “Of course not. Nothing like that.”

“Maybe you’re a little lovesick. Is that it? You must be missing your young lady while she’s
away.”

I give a rather wry smile then pick up my spoon, idly swirling a pattern onto the tabletop with the
scattered grains of sugar. “You know, I often find myself thinking about what you told me when
we last met,” I say. “About having a time machine.” Immediately he starts to nod again, clearly
pleased that I remember it. “You were talking about if your future self could go back in time and
give a bit of comfort, a bit of reassurance, to your sad self in the present.”

“Oh yes, it’d be a good thing, wouldn’t it William? A grand thing to be able to do that.”

“You were right about how unhappy I was back then,” I add. “This might sound strange, but it was
as if I’d lost a piece of myself. But then somehow I managed to find it again.”

Mr Haversham wavers for a few moments then gives a rather uncertain smile. It’s obvious he
doesn’t understand what I mean but I don’t really mind; I wouldn’t have expected him to. The
important thing is that I understand, because in that moment I’ve had a startling sense of clarity that
I’m not only referring to you. You’re part of it, of course. A huge part – a vital part – but you’re not
the only thing. Instead, for once it’s about me. My Self. If I’m honest it’s what I went over the cliff
for, because I always knew I couldn’t be the same once I denied my sense of what I wanted to be
and the person I thought I was. It would have been impossible, and no amount of reasoning or
rationalisation could atone for it, because I just couldn’t ever be the same. It’s not as if I wasn’t
already aware of the conflict but somehow sitting here like this, reflecting on the old self and the
new, reinforces with a fresh sense of resolve that last night isn’t over yet – that it can’t be over –
and you shouldn’t be allowed to walk away from what you’ve done without facing any kind of
consequences. The alternative would be granting you permission for a continuing lifetime of lies
and disloyalties, and it means a part of me will have been betraying myself the entire time –
resonating then colluding with another part of you who likewise refuses to compromise.

And it’s then that I finally realise what I have to do.

*****

There’s a wedding being hosted at the hotel and by the time I get back the reception is already in
full swing. An elaborate marquee has been built on the lawn, wispy and ethereal looking with
realms of fairy lights and garlands of leaves, and there’s even a string quartet in the corner
swooning their way through Canon in D. The lobby itself is deserted but before I’ve even got
through the door I can hear someone playing the piano; and while I’m not close enough yet to
confirm it, somehow my instinct still immediately tells me it’s you. The piece itself is elegiac and
beautiful, but also rather haunting, and as I walk a little nearer I can see that you have your eyes
closed as you’re playing. It’s as if you’re gently coaxing out the melody by proxy, the right-hand
notes darting round like minnows through the rippling high tones before blending seamlessly into
the yearning pulse of the lower register. I’m close enough by now to reach out and touch you, but
while you still haven’t opened your eyes I can tell without asking that you’re fully aware I’m here.
I don’t want to interrupt the music though, so in the end just wait beside you in patient silence as
you continue to work your way through the piece. The emotion of it is unbearable – nearly enough
to make me want to cry – because I know that this is your way of speaking to me about how you
feel. You might be unwilling to open up again the same way you did last night, but in that moment
you don’t even need to. You don’t need to speak a single word because the longing tone of the
music expresses your intentions almost as well.

“It’s nice,” I say quietly once it’s finally drawn to its lingering close. “I haven’t heard you play that
before.”

“That’s because it was a recent discovery.” You’ve opened your eyes now, although still don’t turn
round to look at me. “It is a modern composer; a Russian musician named Engel.”

“What’s it called?”

There’s a small pause; as I watch you glance down at the piano then slowly run your fingertip
across the top of the keys. “Sunset,” you reply.

The way you say this sounds slightly ominous, and I suppose as a concept it essentially is. After
all, sunset is suggestive of something coming to an end: of inevitability. We’ve had so many of
those moments together, haven’t we? So many endings…countless times where it seemed the last
finale had arrived and there was nowhere else left to go. But then I guess that’s yet another thing
about endings. One moment might have finished but it can also signal the beginning of something
else. Something new.

Briefly I now lean over to put my hand on your shoulder. “Come on,” I say. “We need to talk.”

Your only response is a silent nod of agreement, but as you stand up to move towards the elevator I
immediately take hold of your arm to stop you. “Not back to the room,” I say, jerking my head in
the direction of the entrance. “Let’s go outside.”

This suggestion makes you look mildly surprised, although in the end you still seem content to
follow me out into the grounds without objecting to it. A few feet away the wedding guests are
already spilling out of the marquee for a series of toasts on the terrace, the air ringing out with a
noisy chorus of ‘Un bacio per la sposa’ and ‘evviva gli sposi’. It’s obvious no one’s paying
attention to us, but to be on the safe side I still make sure you’re on the part of the path that’s most
in shadow – although not before I’ve taken advantage of the distraction to lean over and swipe a
discarded wine bottle from one of the nearby tables. Partly this is because I’m desperate for a drink
(and suspect you’ll be grateful for one too before much longer) but also because I know your
eccentric standards for what constitutes shitty behaviour means there’s no way you’ll ever steal it
yourself. Right on cue you look faintly disapproving, but I pretend not to notice and put another
hand on your elbow to steer you towards the same firepit we went to last time. God, it’s like it’s
turned into a tradition by now: the place for whispered confessions and hard truths. I remember
telling you that I wanted us to buy one of our own, but by this point the association’s become too
strong and I think I’ve changed my mind. It’ll be hard to look at one in the future with
remembering the strain of a moment like this.

The last time we were here I remember sitting snugly beside you, only I’m not quite ready for that
anymore so instead just fold myself cross-legged onto the nearest bench while leaving you to sit
alone on the one opposite to it. For a while we then just sit there without speaking as I take several
long swigs from the wine bottle before silently reaching forward to offer it to you. To be honest,
I’m not entirely expecting you to take it. It’s such a slovenly gesture – far more my style than yours
– but to my surprise you actually do have a leisurely sip (wincing rather daintily the entire time at
how cheap it clearly is relative to your own high standards).

“That cellist is abysmal,” you say finally, gesturing to where the string quartet has finished Canon
in D, and (having appeared to have lost inspiration) promptly started it all over again from the
beginning. “He is completely out of harmony with the others.”

I give a small shrug. “No one cares. They’re all drunk by now.”

You throw me a quick glance, eyes narrowing into little slits of disapproval before returning your
gaze to the marquee. “I care,” you say.

This immediately makes me smile to myself, because I can tell you really do care. Then I take
another slug of the wine (which, to be fair, is admittedly pretty terrible) and crane my neck round to
where the quartet are awkwardly crammed beneath an arch of metallic balloons in assorted shades
of silver and pearl.

“Alessia and Alessandro,” I read off the banner. “Well, with any luck their musical hire isn’t an
omen and they’ll be very happy together.”

“There’s no particular reason to think they won’t be,” you say. “I’m afraid I don’t have especially
strong opinions about it one way or the other.”

You sound bored now, although I can’t say I blame you. I don’t even know why I’m talking about
it myself; if anything, I care even less about it than you do. Not about the bad wine, or the abysmal
cellist, or if Alessia and Alessandro are destined to be happy. What I care about is you and me,
even though by this point I can’t seem to get as far as something so basic as to whether we’re going
to be happy or not. After all, we probably won’t – people like us aren’t really meant to be. What we
should be is together; and which was supposed to be the whole reason for having this torturous
conversation in the first place.

“So how are you doing?” I ask at last. “After yesterday?”

As I watch your shift your head slightly until you’re looking straight at me; in the shadows your
eyes look like they’re gleaming. This is the image of you I’m more used to – the icily aloof,
impenetrable version – but I don’t really mind. Your level of exposure last night was stunning.
Unprecedented. It was too much to expect you’d be prepared to reveal that level of rawness again
so soon.

“I was thinking you would be angry with me,” I add when it’s obvious you’re not going to reply.
“For making you feel that way.”

In response you turn your head a little further for another gleaming stare. “I’m not angry.”

“It wouldn’t matter if you were. It won’t change anything.”

“I’m not angry, Will.”

I nod without speaking then pause myself so I can take another slug of wine. “I suppose that
simplifies things,” I say when I’m done. “Because I am.”

“I know you are.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. When I told you the truth about Il Macellaio I anticipated nothing less.”

“Only you didn’t tell me the truth, did you?” I say quietly. “What happened instead is that you were
forced to stop lying.”

This time you don’t reply. In fact, the silence has lasted so long I’m starting to think you’re not
going to – and am just about to ask something else – when suddenly you lean across your bench
and then, without any warning at all, proceed to pounce straight at me. The way you do it feels
furtive and distinctly predatory; in the flickering shadows of the fire it almost seems as if you’re
slithering. I stare at you in silence, both eyebrows slightly raised, and in return you give one of your
more enigmatic Sphinx-like smiles. To be honest I’m so paranoid that my first thought is I’ve
angered you and you’re about to walk off, but in the end it turns out that all you wanted was to join
me on the same bench. I shuffle further to the side to give you some room and you smile at me
again then briefly reach out to touch my cheek. I stare back at you rather stonily, refusing to break
eye contact.

“Look at you,” you say now. “You might find this hard to believe, but I like how you’re no longer
afraid of me. You used to be, didn’t you? Not even all that long ago: a part of you still thought I’d
try to hurt you. You used to flinch. Pull away.” You let out one of your low, rustling sighs then
deliver a farewell stroke to my cheekbone before finally lowering your hand again. “You are also
correct,” you add. “You forced me to speak the truth earlier than intended – although I promise that
I did intend to speak it eventually. In that respect, I also have nothing new to reveal since my
previous disclosures, but if you have questions for me then I am willing to answer them. Insults to
throw. Demands to make. Whatever you like.”

“Okay then,” I say slowly. I’m watching you very carefully now; your expression doesn’t change
by a single flicker, but I still can’t help feeling you’re displeased to be taken at your word. I
suppose you were hoping that last night had solved it, weren’t you? That the display of such
sincere and obvious regret would be enough. “I want to know what you expect is going to happen
next?” I ask in a firmer voice.

“I expect very little,” you say. This is followed by the faintest hint of a shrug; a sort of elegant roll
of one shoulder. “I understand my actions have forfeited the right to expectations.”

“Fine. Then what do you want to happen?”

You now pause before answering, which is both of character while at the same time being exactly
as predicted. After all, I already have a good idea of what you’re going to ask for – and how hard
it’s going to be for you to admit it. “I want you to find a way to forgive me,” you finally reply.

You look very soulful when you say this, and as I sit there and gaze at you I immediately find
myself thinking back to our last and most significant fight; the way you quoted Bedelia at me in a
reminiscence over what once was and who we both were. Forgiveness is too great and difficult for
one person, you’d told me. It requires two: the betrayer and the betrayed.

“Betrayal and forgiveness are best seen as something akin to falling in love,” I now repeat out loud.
“Do you remember that?”

“Of course.”

“You still believe it?”

“I do. Both are things over which one has very little degrees of control.”

As you’re speaking I take the opportunity to glance at you again, peering rather furtively from
beneath my eyelashes so you won’t immediately know that I’m doing it. You look so sad: even
after your previous show of grief it’s still something of a shock to witness it. God, I spent so long
believing that it wasn’t possible to truly hurt you didn’t I? Even the potential for physical damage
seemed limited; the idea of wounding your heart or mind seemed beyond the scope of feasibility.
Only it’s turned out that was never really true, and it makes me wonder if you’ll ever be able to
acknowledge the way you pretty much did this to yourself. You’ve always been so used to lying
without consequence; it’s like you’ve been repeating the same script we used for years and have
finally been forced to accept that I’ll no longer take the same cues I once did. Our story’s changed,
yet you’ve still been clinging to the old version. Last night changed all that. It ripped it away from
you and left only uncertainty in its place.

“Forgiveness is an act of compassion,” I eventually add. I’m aware of how slowly I’m speaking
now, selecting each last word with every possible care. “Someone told me that once: it might even
have been you. How we don’t forgive someone because they deserve it, but because they need it.
And I know you need it Hannibal because I need it too. What you said last night – that you can’t
do without me. I understood exactly what you meant. Because I don’t think I can do without you
either.”

“Mylimasis,” you say softly. For a few fleeting seconds you look intensely vulnerable all over
again; longing and hopeful while somehow much younger than you actually are. It only lasts the
length of a heartbeat, but it’s definitely there, and the openness of it immediately makes me think
of the child you must once have been. Even you, as hard as it is to imagine it: a solemn dark-eyed
little boy, drowning in the world’s casual cruelty while yearning for nothing more complex than
loyalty and love. Even so, you still don’t make any attempt to lean forward and touch me. You
understand that it’s too soon for that, don’t you? You can tell I’m still not done.

“You know what the worst thing is?” I add equally quietly. “The last few months I’ve been so
preoccupied with it all. With death. With killing. With the FBI. I’ve been worried about it,
dreaming about it…and all along the real source of conflict in my life was you. You, and I didn’t
even know it: it’s like I’ve gone back in time and you’re the person who’s been working behind the
scenes to try and bring me down.” You wince slightly then open your mouth, presumably to object,
but I quickly hold up my hand as a request for further silence. “I know that’s not the way you saw
it,” I add. “Perhaps it’s not even what you wanted. But you must understand how the impact was
the same? You couldn’t get what you were hoping for, so your first instinct was to revert to your
old methods.”
There’s another strained pause. It’s painfully obvious how much you want to contradict me, but in
a rare display of humility seem to be managing to suppress the urge. “That’s true,” is all you finally
reply. “Yes – I did.”

“Yes,” I repeat. “You did. So that’s why it’s not enough to just apologise: not this time. Even if I
forgive you it’s not enough. This time you have to show that you mean it.”

“I understand,” you say. “I…”

“Look at what you’ve done in the last few months,” I snap, cutting you off before you have a
chance to add anything further. “You’ve drugged me. You’ve lied to me. You’ve gone behind my
back multiple times, even for things you knew I’d object to.” Briefly I think of Clarice and find my
voice hardening. “Especially things you knew I’d object to. And nearly every time you justify it
with some variation of how it’s for my own good. That it’s for my Becoming. That you only do it
because you care so much.”

“Indeed,” you reply. You still sound very calm, although I can tell that you’re not; not really. “I am
guilty of all those things, as well as several more. I have admitted as much. More to the point, I
have admitted they were misguided.”

Without even fully meaning to I bring my hand slamming down onto the surface of the bench; it
makes a sharp cracking noise in the otherwise silent air, enough to make you flinch slightly as you
hear it. “God Hannibal,” I snap. “They were more than misguided. They were wrong.”

Silently your eyes track down to my hand before slowly sliding up to my face again “Wrong,
yes...” you say. “I can’t deny it. My only defence is that I deceived myself into believing they were
done for the right reasons.”

“And now you want me to forgive you for it,” I reply. “Again.” My resentment is obvious, and I
now wait a few seconds before forcing myself to continue in a less agitated tone. “But I will. Like I
said, because I need to. I feel like I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice, my love.”

“Not when it comes to you,” I say wearily. “You know that. Just like you know you’re not really in
the habit of giving me one.”

As soon as I’ve said that I can immediately tell how much you like the way it sounds. Not so much
the second part, perhaps, but certainly the first: you’ve always loved the idea of causing me to feel
out of control. I mean, why wouldn’t you? It makes it all the more satisfying when you’re the one
who steps in to restore a sense of comfort and safety amid the chaos you originally caused. Even
so, your expression still remains very sombre and when you finally speak again your voice retains
the same thoughtful quality as before.

“Once again, I can’t contradict you,” you say – and which is actually something of a shock,
because I wasn’t expecting you to be so prepared to admit it. “Yet it is also one of several things
that I wish to redress. It was a process which I began last night. My entire conduct with Jack was
about giving you a choice.”

“I realise that,” I reply, once more doing my best to sound reasonably calm. “And I know I’m not
the only one who’s made sacrifices. I’m grateful for it; you gave up a lot for me. Your life’s so
different now to how it used to be.”

“I gave it up gladly, Will. I would give up far more.”

I throw you a quick glance, suddenly curious in spite of myself. “Like what?” I ask. “What else
would you give up?”

“Everything.” You pause yourself then follow it up with a rather wry smile. “I would be prepared
to live a very quiet, peaceable life if that was what you wanted. I would be exemplary in both
thought and deed: a true model citizen. The thrill of the hunt, the beauty, the horror…I would give
it all up to please you.”

“You know I’d never ask you for that.”

“No,” you say thoughtfully. “Perhaps you wouldn’t. But I want you to know that I would offer it to
you all the same. Your presence alone would be enough for me, Will. Just the chance to wake up
with you each day and be overpowered by you all over again.”

This time you leave an even longer pause, eyes slowly flitting over my face like you’re trying to
memorise each feature. Your voice has fallen a little lower by now – soft and almost smouldering
in how sincere it is – and as you’re speaking I can feel your long fingers beginning to glide across
my hand and wrist.

“To lay you down and touch you and make love to you,” you finally add in the same rhythmic
way. “Then afterwards let you fall asleep in my arms. To hold you and know you. To breathe you
in. To explore all that dark terrain inside yourself…to interpret your sense and feeling in the same
way that you have breached mine.” You catch my eye very briefly then let out a sigh, smooth and
rustling as a length of satin sliding across the floor. “I wouldn’t hurt you, mano meilė. I’d be so
gentle. I’d lay myself at your feet.”

“But I don’t want you at my feet,” I say fretfully. “Same as I don’t want to be at yours.”

“I know, beloved. It is not my intention to place you there.”

“Good,” I reply in a firmer voice. “Only I don’t want you to worship me either.”

Once more I find myself abruptly falling silent again, another small frown beginning to flicker
across my face as I remember the time that you called me your muse. It was a huge compliment in
many ways – as well as another parallel to that small, long-dead sister who still drives so many of
your impulses – yet there’s no denying that a muse is so often a difficult, demoralising role. They
get fetishized by the artist, and ignored by the audience, while always being held to an impossibly
high standard by both. I know I can’t live comfortably on the pedestal you’ve put me on, but the
process of clambering off it is so often impeded by your insistence on lifting me back up.

“When you worship me you objectify me,” I now add. “God, it’s why we ended up in this situation
in the first place. I’m your partner, Hannibal – not your project.”

You lean back against the bench then regard me through eyes which are very faintly narrowed. “I
understand that.”

“Do you though?” I snap. “Do you even know how?”

“But even if I didn’t it would hardly matter,” you reply, very calm and precise. In fact, I can tell
I’ve hurt you by rejecting your earlier overtures, but right now it feels like the stakes are too high to
waste time with appeasement. This isn’t about telling you what you want to hear, after all: it’s
about telling you the truth. “Regardless,” you add in a firmer voice. “In your current state my
manipulations would be useless even if I did want to apply them. You’re so poised and strong and
self-possessed – free from nearly all the terrors and oppressions of the past. You’re no longer so
afraid of yourself; and that means you no longer need to fear my attempts at influence. And
besides, we’ve already relinquished our control together. Haven’t we, Will?” For a few moments
you fall silent again, eyes briefly falling closed as if you’re reimagining the roar of the Atlantic and
the moonlit shadow of the cliff. “Like a leap of faith from the same precipice. The same plunge,
into the same abyss, at exactly the same time.”

“Maybe we did,” I snap. “But remind me how you applied any of that while you were pretending
to be Il Macellaio?”

Immediately your eyes flick open again. “I did not apply it,” you say crisply. “Fortunately, I had
you to do that for me. Only consider, mano meilė: you weren’t even aware of the scheme, yet
somehow your conduct still managed to persuade me of how misguided it was.” You catch my eye
again then give a rather rueful smile. “Hence why my entire endeavour has been such a spectacular
failure.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the word failure in the same sentence as a reference to
yourself (much less a spectacular one), and despite my best attempts to be serious it’s impossible
not to give you a small smile in return. “I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen,” I say at
last. “I admit it: I don’t know. What I need from you. What you need from me. What we’ll end up
doing together…we’re going to have to figure all that out as we go along. But there’s one thing I do
know.” As I’m speaking I dart out and seize hold of your wrist, but while the grip is hard enough to
hurt you still don’t flinch or pull away – instead appearing oddly content to tolerate whatever it is I
want to administer to you. “I’m serious,” I say in a voice that’s deliberately low and intense. “You
don’t lie to me like that anymore, Hannibal. Not ever again.”

I pause rather ominously and you give a faint nod in return. “It’s all right,” you reply. “I know what
you’re going to say. And I know that you don’t intend to start haranguing or threatening to harm
me because you understand, sadistic boy that you are, that you can warn me off with something
even more severe.”

I stare back, coolly appraising. “Which is what?”

For a few seconds your eyes assume their yearning far-away expression before the moment has
passed and the look has gone, and you wordlessly curl your hand over mine. “You know perfectly
well,” you say softly. “To withhold yourself from me. To deny me access to you. To your thoughts.
Your feelings. To your love.”

Once more I find myself smiling without even fully meaning to. I know it’s not long ago – perhaps
even as recently as last night – where you’d have said ‘to find a way to leave me’, and it now feels
like a genuine sign of progress that you can trust me enough to accept I don’t want to. What
concerns you instead is the loss of intimacy; that I’ll grow distant and detached, keeping my
emotions from you in the present-yet-absent aloofness I’ve been showing for the past few days. As
if reading my mind you reach out to put your hand beneath my chin, gently raising it up until I’m
looking at you directly.

“Learn to trust me again Will,” you say quietly. “That’s all I ask. Just like you did the first time.”

“Yes,” I reply, equally quietly. “I can try. But like I said, you need to give me something in return.
You need to prove that you mean it.”

“Mean what, mylimasis?”

“What you told me last night: that you’re finally prepared to accept me for who I am. For the
person I am right now – not whatever version I might turn into in the future.”
“How?” you ask. You’re stroking my hand again now, the thumb rubbing very gently across the
knuckles. “What do you need for me to prove it?”

“That you’ll accept my decision not to tell Jack,” I say with a renewed surge of firmness. “You can
deny it all you want Hannibal, but I know that’s the way you’d prefer us to go out: to stage the big
reveal and then vanish. I could see last night that you were hoping I’d change my mind.” For a few
seconds I catch your eye again as I feel my voice harden even further. “And I’m telling you that I
won’t. Not after everything that’s happened. I’m not rewarding you for what you’ve done.”

“You think that would be rewarding me?”

“Of course it would,” I say with obvious bitterness. “You always want things both ways. Your
ideal outcome for this is I forgive you for what you did but then tell Jack anyway.”

“At the very least it would be a fitting finale,” you reply. You sound thoughtful now: it’s easy to
tell how much you’re relishing the image of it. “Poetic, almost. It would have a certain symmetry
to it. Yet still you’d prefer to withhold the opportunity, wouldn’t you Will? To punish me.”

“It’s not about punishing you,” I say grimly, despite knowing in many ways it essentially is. “It’s
about proving a point. Specifically, it’s about you proving that what you said last night wasn’t just
empty words. You know I’m glad you did what you did – by not telling him, you gave me a
choice.” I hesitate for a little longer then subtly remove my hand from yours. “And now I want you
to accept that my choice is no.”

This time you don’t reply at all, and in response I simply drop my eyes again to stare silently down
at my knee. The truth is I can’t quite bring myself to look at you, because I already know exactly
how disappointed you’ll be. You’ll try to hide it of course, but it’ll be there anyway – and it’ll
confirm that when you said you were prepared to let me make my own choices then you were
lying about that too. I suppose you never fully expected me to call your bluff on it, did you?
Although if I’m totally honest I’m not sure I really expected it either. After all, I’ve had a lifetime
of giving into you; it would have been so easy to just follow the established pattern of compliance.
It would have been tempting, even – seductive in how simple it is – only deep-down I know that I
can’t. Not this time. This time I need to draw a line, if not for your sake then for my own.

Even now you’re still not answering. I’m still not looking at you. And oh God, fuck, it’s all so
horribly ironic. Given enough time I know I’d have come round to the idea of destroying my
reputation by telling Jack the truth about us – at the very least, I wouldn’t have prevented you from
doing it. Now I feel as if I’m on the verge of wrecking our relationship for an ultimatum I’m not
even that invested in, all for the sake of proving a point. Although of course at its core it’s not
really about Jack is it? It’s about you and me. It’s about you finally showing – after years of acting
to the contrary – that you’re prepared to stop trying to turn me into an image of yourself. In this
respect it’s sobering to realise that since we met you’ve spent far more time trying to destroy my
morality and sanity than you have in respecting either…although I guess that’s the whole problem,
isn’t it, because if nothing else the last few months have proven just how much old habits die hard.
After all, you could never simply accept my war of conscience: that constant struggle to persuade
myself I have immoral instincts which are driven by moral incentives. For so long you wanted to
smother them then carve the remains into something more like yours. And it reinforces why this
ultimatum is so necessary, because the thing I want now, possibly more than anything, is for you
take the offered opportunity to agree that this is something that’s finally going to change.

I’ve been silent for now long, haven’t I. How much time must have passed? I don’t even know.
“Will,” I can hear you saying. “Please look at me.”

Your voice is extremely soft and serious and it’s then that I have the final, sinking sense of dread
that you won’t. Oh God, you’re going to say no aren’t you? You believe you made a huge
concession by offering to tell Jack about us in partnership and that I’m only refusing it now to
punish you. You think I’m asking too much; that I’m taking his side over yours, just as I did so
many times in the past. You think I’m denying my true nature and, in doing so, denying you. Or
maybe you’re not thinking any of that? Maybe it’s something else entirely? There are so many
things you could be about to say, but from the tone of your voice I can still tell that it’s going to be
something momentous. It means an announcement is coming, but then…what else afterwards?
That everything’s going to collapse? But in the end I do nothing but simply sit there and wait for it
to happen, aware the entire time of how my sense of grief is spiraling as I try to understand how it’s
possible to be in so much anticipatory pain when I’m neither bruised or bleeding yet still feel as if
I’m shattering inside. The thought of living without you is what it feels like to finally lose control.
It’s like that night on the cliff: like gathering everything that matters to me into my arms then
flinging myself from something near and high, because once someone’s airborne the only thing left
to do is submit to the free-fall and accept the inevitability of sailing down while surrendering to the
loss of themselves.

If I’m honest I think the anticipation is the hardest – those last few seconds when the person and
everything that matters to them are stood by the edge of the cliff – because once they’ve committed
to the decision it should bring a certain sense of peace. At least, I guess that’s how it’s supposed to
work in theory. The problem is in the practice though, because I know I’m not quite ready to
simply let go and accept the inevitable; the same way I wasn’t ready back then. I’m waiting, you
see. I’m waiting for the disaster that my life’s become in the last 24 hours to somehow grow
bearable again – and meaningful, and mine – because it might have been a collection of
catastrophes but it’s the only one I have and it’s still valuable to me. I want to protect and preserve
it. Would you like to know what else I want to protect? It’s you, of course. It’s always you. Only
this time it doesn’t seem possible, because while I’ve already given you so much I know I can’t
give you this. I can’t give you all of me and I never truly could.

Briefly I now screw my eyes closed, reluctant to pledge myself to what it means to say yes yet
likewise incapable of committing to saying no. It's such a cruelly impossible choice too, because I
know that regardless of which way I go a part of me could end up being lost. It’s displacement and
dislocation – dismemberment – and my whole body hurts from the agonised force of it. Is this
really it then; are we finally going to part? Here on a bench by an Italian firepit, the sound of a
wedding in the background and the bitter taste of truth in my mouth.

“I can’t compromise on this Hannibal,” I force myself to add, even though a part of me is still
begging me not to. “I can’t. Otherwise, where would it ever stop? When would you accept you
don’t have the right to try and change me by force?”

Even now I can’t quite bring myself to look at you. The circumstances are radically different, but
in a way it still reminds me of that conflict years ago: the last time I had you on one side and Jack
on the other, both of you asking me if I’d do what needed to be done when the time came. It was
overwhelming – unbearable – and just like now I had an endless, gnawing sense of there being no
clear lines anymore between where the deceptions I spun to Jack finished and the ones I was selling
you began. Morality and service vs. desire and darkness. Head vs. heart. In the end I said yes to
both of you but didn’t do what either of you wanted, and it seems like it’s not that dissimilar now.
I’m not taking Jack’s side but I’m also not fully taking yours. Instead I’m doing what I should have
done a long time ago – to take my own – and it's yet another irony that I can remember you
advising something similar, not even all that long ago. It’s a constant tightrope walk, you told me.
Isn’t it Will? Inch by inch, so careful and cautious, and yet you only barely make it onto the side of
morality and righteousness. Perhaps one day you’ll simply have to invent your own side? The
memory of it makes me catch my lip between my teeth, and in the end I realise I’ve grown so
absorbed and desolate that it’s taken me a while to even notice how you’ve finally started to speak.
“Mylimasis,” you’re saying, and you sound so gentle. It’s not what I was expecting; I thought
you’d be hurt or resentful but you’re not. “I admit I’m disappointed,” you add, “but my
disappointment is irrelevant and not something over which you should be remotely concerned. I
also accept why you find it so hard to believe I was speaking the truth last night – and intend to
take as much time as necessary to prove to you how I meant every word. Because understand, my
love, that I don’t want to change you and I don’t want to try and change your mind. Not about Jack.
Not about anything. In fact, there’s only one thing remaining which I wish to do…” You pause for
a few moments then move a little closer as you gently take hold of my hand in yours. “Only a
single thing, Will. Which is that I wish to marry you.”

Immediately my head jerks up, mouth falling open into a small oh of surprise at how once again
you’ve managed to subvert my expectations in such a truly stunning way. In fact, the previous
sense of fatalism was so intense I can’t quite persuade myself that you fully mean it. The way you
looked…the way you sounded. It was so profound. It was like you were searching inside yourself,
and I was so certain you were going to be angry; that my refusal to fully cross sides was about to
open a chasm between us that it might not ever be possible to breach.

“In such circumstances I believe it is customary to get down one knee,” you’re now telling me.
“Although I ought to have done that anyway. To get on one’s knees signals penance; it is done to
atone. And after how badly I’ve hurt you, I feel as if you deserve nothing less.”

This time I just stare at you in numb silence. I’ve no idea what my face is doing; it must be some
sort of ungodly combination of happiness and uncertainty, but whatever it is it’s clearly rather
unsightly judging from how it makes you smile when you see it. Needless to say, I’m also not
expecting you to actually get down on one knee, but to my astonishment you really do. As is
typical you’re extremely elegant about it – a sort of graceful twist of the spine, long legs arranged
at a perfect angle like a dancer doing pliés – but from your expression it’s clear you don’t find any
sense of embarrassment or submission in it. Instead, you look calmer and more contented than I’ve
seen you for a very long time: the angular features softened by affection and your lips curved into
one of your rare, genuine smiles.

“I confess, I’ve been carrying this for a while,” you now say in the same gentle voice. “Waiting for
the right opportunity to present itself.”

As I watch you now reach into your pocket to retrieve a small velvet box, still tightly holding onto
me with your other hand as you do it. It’s obvious what must be inside – undeniable; any moron
could guess – yet somehow I can’t quite process what’s happening until it’s actually being opened
in front of me and you’re taking out the ring to slide onto the fourth finger of my left hand. You
gaze into my eyes the entire time and I’m gazing back so intently that it feels as if entire weeks
have passed before it finally occurs to me that I probably ought to check the ring out too. In fact,
I’m not really sure what to expect beyond a vaguely formed notion that it’ll be something
impeccably tasteful while somehow still being too ostentatious for me to comfortably wear.
There’s no way it’ll just be a plain band, after all. There’s just no way. Not that it matters though,
and I don’t really care – whatever it is I know I’ll be able to love it, simply because it came from
you. Then I glance down and promptly find my breath catching all over again, because whatever
else I was expecting it definitely wasn’t this: Damascus steel, so dark it’s almost black, with an
exquisitely intricate pattern of swirls that are etched across the surface in rose gold. It’s fiercely
beautiful, almost Medieval looking, and completely unlike any other ring I’ve seen before. God
knows how, but somehow you seem to have achieved the impossible compromise of finding
something that’s subtle enough for my tastes while still being elaborate enough to satisfy your
own.

“And do you have an answer?” I hear you asking.

 I blink rather stupidly. I’m still staring at the ring, almost transfixed at how perfect it is.
“Answer?” I repeat.

You make a soft noise, very fond and amused. “I’m asking for your hand in marriage, mano
meilė.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess you are.” My voice is hitching as emotion threatens to get the better of me
so I give a rather shaky laugh then scrub my fingers through my hair. “I suppose it’s an
improvement,” I add. “Time was you’d rather have had my actual hand.”

“Such things you say to me.” You smile again, your own hand gently stroking the side of my cheek
before you use the other one to lift mine to your lips so you can kiss the back of it. “You are a
horror.”

“Well, what did you expect?”

“Absolutely nothing less.”

“My hand,” I repeat. I give the same shaky laugh as before; it goes a bit wrong halfway through
and nearly turns into a sob, only this time I don’t make any attempt to hide it. “My actual, literal
hand.”

“And the rest of you,” you say softly. “All of it, my love. The good and bad together.”

There’s a deliberate emphasis on the word ‘good’ which makes your implication extremely clear.
But in the end all I can do is smile at you again before leaning forward at the exact same time you
do until we’re fully in each other’s arms – the one place I feel I need to be and where it seems
inevitable I’ll want to go back home to. In the centre of all my chaos, there’ll always be you.

“Yes,” I can hear myself saying. “Yes, of course. Yes.”

The sun is starting to set now, light spilling through the trees overhead to bathe your skin in shades
of burnt gold, persimmon pink, and a deep smoky crimson the same colour as blood. You’re
emotional yourself now aren’t you? I can tell. It’s as if there’s a fine tremor running through your
entire body and likewise you’re not even trying to hide it. Not that it matters anymore. You don’t
care about being vulnerable in front of me. You’ll allow me see you now; to see all of you. All of
you…with all of me.

Chapter End Notes

Hey guys, sorry that this one is late. Getting to the end of a fic this length is like
finishing a marathon, and it makes the relentless complaints/criticism feel especially
demoralising when I’m already running low on motivation. Tbh, I’ve considered just
ending the fic here, but at the same time am reluctant to let the negativity stop me
from completing my original plan for it (and including the remaining reader requests
<3). However, I’m afraid I really don’t know when the next chapter is going to be
written so am not going to leave a posting date for it like I usually do. Genuinely very
sorry about that; I know it’s a huge pain for people who aren’t subscribed. It’ll
definitely be on a Sunday though (and hopefully sooner rather than later) so please
don’t worry about checking on other days.
Huge thanks, as always, to everyone who’s continuing to read and leave positive
messages – I would have given on this months ago without you, and your support and
encouragement really mean the world to me xox
 Chapter 52
Chapter Notes

Hey my lovelies, sorry this one is so late. And extra-sorry if you were hoping for plot
development, because this is absolutely nothing except 20k words of fluff, smut, and
pretentious Hannibal dialogue (often all at the same time) xD

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The walk back from the firepit to the hotel room isn’t exactly a long one. Even so, I still can’t
remember any of it once it’s over, simply because it all seems like it rushes past me in something
of a blur. Well…maybe not all of it. I suppose some odd scraps of it stick out: the wedding guests
calling ‘Viva l’amore’, for example, or the quartet playing Canon in D (again) or the warmly
comfortable way your arm feels when it’s slung across my shoulder. In fact, it might be this gesture
that’s the most memorable thing of all, for no better reason that it’s not the sort of thing you’d ever
normally ever do. I think you find it too informal – almost as bad as slouching – only tonight
you’ve decided it doesn’t really matter, and we end up staying like that all the way into the lobby
as if we’re two teenagers at the mall. You then proceed to keep it there for the entirety of the
elevator ride and only finally, and reluctantly, remove it once we’re back in the room again; partly
because it’s impossible to get through the door while still conjoined, but also because you want to
pour some wine out from your private stash (and which you don’t admit outright, but is almost
certainly an attempt to exorcise whatever ungodly grape urine I was forcing you to swig from
straight out the bottle). I sit and wait for you on the sofa while you’re doing it, obsessively playing
with the ring by twisting it round my finger before holding my hand out to admire the way the light
catches the gold. I know I must look ridiculous, but I don’t really mind – and likewise, it’s
extremely obvious just how much you’re enjoying the spectacle of it yourself. I even catch you in
the act at one point: paused with the corkscrew in one hand and a bottle in the other, gazing at me
with an expression of such intense fondness on your face that it’s genuinely rather touching to see.

When you see me looking you start to smile then retrieve the wineglass for a leisurely sip before
prowling over to join me on the sofa. This is only a short distance, but of course is still
accomplished in your usual stately which always bears a closer resemblance to gliding than
anything so mundane as actual walking. God knows how you manage it. A lot of tall people tend
to be quite ungainly, but you never are. I promptly shuffle aside to make room for you to sit next to
me – although it turns out I really needn’t have bothered, seeing how it’s only a matter of minutes
before I’m stretching out with my head on your lap (initially so you can inspect the dressing, then
afterwards because I’ve realised I like it so much I don’t particularly want to move again). It’s
actually rather strange: it’s impossible to imagine doing this with anybody else, and I can’t even
really imagine someone else doing this to me. But then of course this is you, which means it
doesn’t feel awkward or childish as opposed to a chance for the sort of comfort and closeness
we’ve been so badly in need of yet haven’t been able to ask for. In this respect it’s also rather
striking that neither of us have instigated going to bed yet, although in a way I quite like this
change too. To be honest, it feels like another sign of progress. We’ve spent so long channelling
our emotions into sex and physicality – if anything, much too long. It’s harder, yet ultimately far
more meaningful, to simply sit down and discuss them like the grown-ass adults we’re allegedly
supposed to be.

“Actual husbands,” I now announce in a slightly awed voice. “Actual, lawful husbands.” I glance
up to catch your eye then smile at you. “As opposed to murder ones.”

“Indeed.” You sound unbelievably smug now, although I can’t say I blame you. “Actual
husbands.”

I give you a hint of a smirk, then lean over to steal some of your wine before emitting a small,
involuntary cackle. “Although in our case,” I add, “lawful is spelt with the first ‘l’ silent.”

I turn back round again, beaming at you in a way that’s almost equally smug, and you immediately
start to smile again too. “Oh yes, very good,” you reply. “I suppose a moment of silence is now
required as tribute to that particular triumph of wit?”

“Oh come on,” I protest. “That was worth at least three.”

“It shall have none,” you reply. “Which is exactly what it deserves.” You smile a bit more, then
wait very patiently for me to roll my eyes at you just so you can roll yours right back. “Are you
drunk, by any chance?” you ask before adding (with another smirk): “I do hope so.”

I open my mouth to reply to this, only to have to close it again straight afterwards once I realise I
might need a second or two (or several) to decide whether or not it’s actually the case. In this
respect, considering my answer feels like an extremely reasonable plan…although it turns out to
take far more than a few seconds (and at one point is considered so intently I almost go cross-
eyed). “N-o-o,” I say at last. “At least…not much. Not more than a little.”

“Excellent,” you say briskly. “I confess, I was watching you guzzle that atrocious wine and hoping
for just such a result. You are uniquely entertaining while under the influence.”

For some reason hearing you say the word ‘guzzle’ strikes me as incredibly funny and I now spend
a few moments sputtering with subdued mirth while you sit there very patiently and wind a strand
of my hair round your finger. The motion is slightly ticklish, so I finally reach out my own hand to
stop you – only to catch sight of the ring again while I’m doing it and promptly getting distracted
by that instead.

“Look at you,” you say fondly. “Beloved. You are almost unbearably charming. It’s like waving a
shiny object in front of a cat.”

“Oh shut up,” I reply, equally fondly. “It’s an amazing ring. Why wouldn’t I want to admire it?”

This time your only response is a contented humming noise, so I smile at you again then give your
own hand a small squeeze before going back to studying mine with even greater intensity. The ring
is just so stunning; you’ve really surpassed yourself this time. It’s making me wonder what the
wedding ring might be like…or, for that matter, the actual wedding itself. For a few moments I
now find myself frowning slightly, briefly rather intimated. Oh God, knowing you you’ll probably
want to be married in St Peter’s (with the Pope himself officiating), although at the very least it’ll
still be something large, lavish and with the potential to be incredibly stressful. I mean, why
wouldn’t you; there’s no way you could possibly be satisfied with the kind of hastily low-key civil
registration that I had before. Oh well, it can’t be helped I suppose; and it’s not like I’d really mind
– there’s no question I could force myself to do it if that was what you wanted. The most important
thing is that we’ll be married. Lawful husbands (with the first l silent). I smile to myself
contentedly then lean over to give you an affectionate prod in the ribs.

“By the way,” I say. “I’m not going to take your name. So don’t even think about asking.”

“No my love,” you reply in the same fond voice. “Rest assured, I know better than to even consider
asking. Besides, ‘A rose by any other name,’ as the saying goes…it’s not as if I won’t still know
who you belong to.”

“Of course.” Lazily I stretch my hand out to give you another prod. “Just make sure you don’t
forget who you belong to.”

“Naturally not.” You pause yourself then give me a slow glance, lashes sweeping suggestively
across your dark eyes. “A name does very little to change that. Nevertheless, if you were to do so…
I hope you know it would make happier than I am able to express.”

“No,” I reply, attempting to sound firm. “Anyway, it’s not like you would ever agree to taking
mine.”

Immediately you open your eyes very wide. “On the contrary, mylimasis,” you say. “I would be
honoured to bear your name if that was what you wanted.”

This is declared in a tone of voice so intensely sincere that it somehow manages to implode on
itself halfway through and ends up sounding like total bullshit instead. I burst out laughing then
lean over to ruffle your hair. “You’re such a liar,” I say. “You know you wouldn’t – and I’d never
expect you to. I want us to each keep our own names.”

“But it’s not as if it lacks precedent,” you reply in the same overly innocent voice. “Didn’t your
wife take your surname?”

“I mean…yes,” I say with a hint of defensiveness. “But I didn’t ask her to. She insisted on it.”

“And what if I were to insist on it?”

“Well, if you insisted,” I say, beginning to smile again. “I suppose I can’t stop you being a Graham
if you really wanted to be.”

“It is a very charming name.” You announce this with the kind of finality that suggests you
consider the matter closed (although regardless, I’m still convinced there’s no way you ever
actually would). “It’s Celtic, I suppose?”

“I’m not really sure,” I say. “I think it’s Scottish. Something to do with grey...” Then I’m about to
elaborate further before realising that this isn’t going to be possible on the grounds of not having a
fucking clue. Grey what, after all? Lochs? Mountains? Bagpipes? I really can’t remember, even if I
ever knew it in the first place (which right now seems doubtful). “Grey…ness,” I eventually add.
In fact, I’m reasonably certain the last part is true (probably), although it comes out sounding so
incredibly half-assed that you promptly start to smile again. “I’ve never looked into it,” I add,
beginning to smile too. “You can research it yourself – seeing how you’re so determined to become
one. Anyway, what about you? I bet that’s more interesting. Where does yours come from?”

“It’s Russian,” you say. “Lécter. Possibly a Slavisized version of Letzter, which is a German name
– although on that I am likewise uncertain.” You give me another slow smile then run your fingers
through my hair again. “It would appear I have investigated it with only slightly more energy than
you have yours.”

Immediately I can feel my own smile starting to broaden. I can’t help it; there’s just something
inherently appealing about these types of conversations. I wonder if it’ll always be this way?
Curled up together in the dark, cosily exchanging the dull minutiae of each other’s lives like a pair
of sentimental old bastards. “I would have thought you’d have investigated it at length,” I now add.
“Seeing how nothing is as fascinating to you as yourself.”
You smile a bit more at this, briefly cradling my face in your hands before leaning in just long
enough to brush your lips against mine. “Well, now I have competition for my fascination,” you
say. “It is very hard for me. It seems I am more compelled to investigate yours instead.”

“So you’re cheating on yourself with me?”

“Apparently so,” you say, leaning back against the sofa again so you can resume stroking my hair.
“Of course, you could step in to heal this breach by agreeing to take my name, but I am content to
leave such discussions for another time. I can tell you are not particularly enamoured with the
idea.”

“You know it’s nothing personal?” I add in a more serious voice. “And if there’s anyone I would
do it for, then that person would be you. I guess I just like the idea of us being independent. I don’t
know…it’s hard to explain. It’s like we’re together, but our identities are still separate.”

“Yes, I suppose I can hardly object to that.” There’s a faint tickling sensation by my ear now; a
sure sign that you’re wrapping one of the curls round your finger again. “After the way I have
imposed upon you, a desire for autonomy is very understandable.”

“It’s okay,” I reply gently. “Like you said, we can discuss it another time.”

Of course, it’s already obvious you’re going to try and get me to agree, but I know I won’t mind
when it happens. It’s not like it’s a deal-breaker, after all: certainly something I feel I could
compromise on if it’s really that important to you. “So, what kind of wedding do you want?” I ask
instead. I sound a bit dreamy now; it’s embarrassing but almost impossible to stop myself. “Have
you given it any thought?”

“I have given it extensive thought,” you reply – and if such a thing were possible, I’d say that you
sounded a bit dreamy yourself. “My conclusions were that I should enjoy a ceremony which meets
your own requirements. Namely something small and quiet.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, trying not to sound too relieved about it. Reaching out I give your hand a
grateful squeeze and you return the pressure immediately, your thumb stroking tenderly across my
knuckles as your eyes gaze into mine. “I know you like events to be a bit more…elaborate than
that.”

“I do, but there is a time and place for such things.” As you’re speaking you reach over to cup my
cheek with your other hand, carefully easing my face round until I’m looking right at you. “That
means something beautiful yet modest will completely satisfy me. It would be more discreet – and
therefore safer – as well as swifter and simpler to organise. And most importantly of all, it will not
aggravate you more than necessary by forcing you to socialise.” You smile at me again then lean
over to gently smooth my hair off my forehead. “My little lone wolf.”

“I mean, socialise with who though?” I say wryly. “We can’t even have a best man. We’ve killed
half the men we know…and the other half want to arrest you.” Your sole response is the faintest
hint of an eyeroll, so I grin back at you then swivel my face round to kiss the side of your wrist.
“Seriously though,” I add. “Thank you. Something small and quiet sounds perfect. At least, it is for
me – I know it wouldn’t have been your first choice.”

“There is no need to thank me,” you say. “Making you happy is an enormous source of pleasure in
and of itself. Besides, the ceremony is one day only: little more than a formality. What matters far
more to me is what it represents.”

“Yes,” I say softly. “I agree.”

“It’s really not a privation.” You smile down at me again then spend a few moments just gazing in
silence as your hand continues its rhythmic stroking through my hair. “A small wedding does not
prohibit something exquisite or memorable,” you eventually say. “And regardless, it will still give
me the very great gratification of seeing you in a suit. In fact, the only requirement I have is that
you allow me to choose one for you myself. Something impeccably tailored which will showcase
how beautiful you are. Elegant. Refined. Something formal, at the very least. Anything rather
than…”

You pause very briefly then catch my eye. “Go on,” I add in an ominous voice. “Say it. I dare
you.”

“But you can hardly blame me, beloved,” you reply in the same faux-innocent way as before.
“What am I to do? I suppose I could tell you that your clothes are a marvel of style and good
taste…but we both know I would be lying.”

“So what?” I ask. “You love lying.”

Your promptly give me the most god-awful smirk, so I smirk right back at you then settle myself a
little more snugly across your knee with my eyes closed. I’m really tired by now, yet there’s still no
question of trying to fall asleep. Instead, I want to savour this moment. Make it last. As if reading
my mind, you begin to run your fingers through my hair again before slowly sliding your hand
round to stroke the back of my neck. You’re so incredibly relaxed, and it’s enough to make me
smile all over again because I love it when you’re like this – not least because it’s so extremely out
of character. You’re unusual that way, aren’t you? On one hand you come across as supernaturally
calm and unemotional, yet there’s nearly always a sense of how your mind’s still working away
behind the scenes: poised and predatory, permanently ready to pounce. Being this tranquil really
suits you. It reminds me a little of a documentary I saw once about savanna lions; how the males in
the pride would sometimes bask in the sun, briefly forgetting to be fearsome in favour of peace and
playfulness. You’re like that now – it’s as if you’ve retracted your claws. Gently I trail my own
hand down your arm then lace our fingers together and hold on tight.

“You seem so tired,” you say. Even your voice sounds different now: very low and rumbling,
almost close to a purr. “It’s not surprising, I suppose. You lost a lot of blood last night.”

Briefly I open my eyes so I can look at you. You’re still smiling; I can’t remember the last time I
saw you smile this much. “No, I’m okay,” I reply. “Just relaxed.”

“And drunk,” you add with yet another smile. “You even look a little flushed from the wine. It’s
very appealing, my love: you’re normally so pale. Regardless though, I still think you need some
rest.” There’s a slight pause before your thumb delicately rubs along the length of my knuckles.
“We should go to bed.”

As soon as you say this I find myself catching your eye again. Christ, I’m not actually blushing am
I? No, I can’t be…it’s not possible. I refuse to give myself permission to blush. In the end I just
stare back at you in rather owlish silence, your eyes running along my face as your faint smile
begins to ever-so-slightly broaden.

“Um, yeah, maybe,” I finally say. “Yeah, okay then. Yes. Yes please.”

God only knows why I’m suddenly being so awkward about it. I’m acting like a teenager, aren’t I?
In fact if anything it’s worse than that, because surely any self-respecting teenager would have
infinitely better game than whatever the hell it is I’m doing right now. The whole thing is
ridiculous – and normally I’d be humiliated over it – but even now it somehow still feels okay,
simply because you’re the one who’s here to witness me doing it. I know you understand; you
understand me like no one else ever has. After all, it’s not even that impossible you’re feeling
something similar yourself. You won’t express it in the same way of course, but the recent loss of
intimacy has been traumatic for both of us – and it makes a certain kind of sense that we’ll need to
take our time to enjoy discovering it again.

The whole time I’m thinking this you’re continuing to watch me, your thumb smoothing over my
knuckles as your other hand repeats it slow slide though my hair. “You’re beautiful like this, Will,”
you say finally, your voice very soft and intense. “I’m fated now to always remember it; how
perfect and trusting you were. One day I want to describe it to you. I want you to understand the
ability you have to live in my memory.”

Once more I simply stare back at you, my sense of calmness completely restored as you lean down
to lightly brush your lips against my temple. “Memory is a form of artistry, beloved,” you add. “It
is an architect. With memory one can reconfigure reality and alter the shape of things into whatever
one most wishes them to be. Regardless of what occurs in the future, I’ll have a version of you that
I can keep with me always. Because I remember everything about you, Will; from the first day I
met you and from all the days that followed.”

For a few moments you now fall silent again yourself, eyes narrowly slightly as if you’re reliving it
in real-time right in front of me. “I remember the way you used to lean against my desk with your
hands in your pockets,” you eventually say. “How you’d pace about my office, or stare at me with
that blend of sadness and defiance which is so uniquely your own. So many recollections, beloved.
They’re etched into my memory like calligraphy, each one illuminated to its best advantage then
stored away while set to music; and I could recreate any one of them at a single moment’s notice.
All these little fragments of you – a look, a glance, a feeling – preserved for posterity more
attentively than you could ever possibly know.”

Once again I find myself simply gazing back at you without speaking, words scattering into
nothing as I try and fail to summon an appropriate reply. I wonder if your adulation will ever stop
making me feel this overwhelmed (the answer being no…almost certainly not). “Mano meilė,” you
add softly, having clearly decided to spare me the effort. “I know it’s an imposition, but just this
once I would be very grateful if you would allow me carry you to our bedroom.”

Immediately I start to smile at you, taking hold of your hand again while repeating the same
huffing noise from earlier (and which is an inevitable result of wanting to drunkenly giggle before
trying to transform it into a Manly Man’s laugh halfway through). “Only it’s never ‘just this
once’,” I say. “Is it?”

“No,” you agree. “It never is.”

I smile at you a bit more, then instead of replying simply lever myself off your knee and raise my
arms up so you can hook your own beneath my knees and shoulders. You’re notably cautious about
it – it’s obvious how much trouble you’re taking to avoid getting too close to my ribcage – and just
as before the sense of being cared for is powerful in a way that’s difficult to fully express. It also
means it’s easy to suppress the kind of joking complaints I’d normally make, instead just wrapping
my arms around you then snugly tucking my head beneath your chin while you murmur something
soft to me in Lithuanian. You carry me all the way through to the bedroom like that, occasionally
rubbing your cheek against my hair, then tenderly lay me on the bed before settling down next to
me so you can gaze straight into my eyes. Your face on the other pillow is only inches from my
own yet somehow it still feels as if it’s miles away.

“I did as you asked,” you finally say. You still have that same soft, smoky inflection. It’s nice; I
like it a lot. It’s almost like being caressed with your voice. “I began the process of packing our
belongings and have been in touch with the storage company. We could leave very promptly if
that's what you wanted.”

“Yeah, I think so,” I say slowly. “At least – definitely no more than a week. And then after that we
lay low. I mean it, Hannibal. I want to keep you hidden for a while.”

This makes you smile again. “Tell me how you’d feel about travelling further south?” you ask.
“There are so many beautiful places I want to show you. Capri…Barletta…The Amalfi Coast...”

“I honestly don’t mind,” I say. “Wherever you like.” Slowly I stroke my gaze across your face,
from eyes to lips then back again. “Of course, we could always go further than that someday?
Another country. Another continent, even. Australia, South America – it doesn’t really matter. Just
so long as we’re together.”

You smile a bit more but don’t reply, so this time I just stare back at you; equally still and silent as
I wait to see what’s going to happen next. It feels like I’m starting to quiver now, although it’s not
from anxiety so much as a surge of emotion that’s swelling up inside me the same way it did that
night in the alleyway…the same as the ocean did that night by the cliff. Your eyes are still gazing
into mine and I can see them in the lamplight, intense and unwavering and filled with an expression
of quiet yearning that’s worth a hundred words. Your skin feels so warm next to mine. We’re not
even touching but I’m still aware of it – all that warmth – and it’s impossible to not start imagining
how it would feel if my clothes were being pulled away and it was pressed against my own. At
some point you’ve caught my face between your hands, holding me still then moving yours until
it’s directly hovering above me. But while I’m not sure if I’m the one who first moves forward or
whether it’s you, it doesn’t change the overwhelming relief that rushes through me at the exact
moment our mouths finally meet and I’m parting my lips to allow your tongue to slide its way
inside.

For a few seconds it’s almost tentative – like a fragile sort of truce – with you silently testing out
exactly what I’m going to allow (and me determining how much I’m prepared to let you have)
before I feel the last traces of tension slipping away and I’m giving a soft moan as my tongue
pushes eagerly into your own mouth. At the same time I start to wrap my legs around you, but even
though it’s a relatively innocent touch it’s still enough to make you completely lose control of
yourself: tugging my head back by the hair, then starting to suck a livid bruise onto my throat while
pinning me down by the wrists with the other hand. In return I tighten my legs in a punishing grip
before dragging my arm free to claw at your shoulders; and for a few minutes it feels more like
opponents in a fight than a pair of lovers, in which neither of us are prepared to submit first. The
entire thing is so turbulent and riotous and fiercely passionate – so full of bruising tenderness and
vicious intimacy – that it seems as if the other person’s touch is enough to scorch. I half expect to
see livid prints across your skin from where my hands have been; a brand, signifying ownership…
what love would be like if it was set on fire.

I’m murmuring your name now. At least, I think that’s what I’m doing. Really it just seems like a
stream of softness and sound, although the intention is the same regardless; an attempt to welcome
you back to me again. Your response is to twine your arms around me even tighter, pulling me
against your chest then searching out my mouth again to kiss me hungrily on and on in what feels
like less like a normal embrace as much as flaying away the last layers of concealment and secrecy
as one person merges into the other. In some ways it’s so deeply familiar it’s as if we’ve never
been apart, yet in other ways it’s very different too. It’s also intense. So intense – nearly as much as
it was the first time we ever touched each other like this. It’s about pushing tightly against one
another’s bodies and breathing one another’s breath; about quiet whispers, soothing touches, and
silent pledges with unspoken promises which this time are going to be kept. And it’s about passion
and desire but likewise in a slightly different way, because right now it feels as if things have
moved beyond something as ordinary as passion. It feels essential: elemental. Somewhat
mysterious.

By now it’s like my need to be close to you has grown all-consuming, so I roughly pull you
towards me until I imagine I feel your heartbeat pulsing next to my own: fierce and fiery and fully
alive. You sigh as I do it then promptly smash your lips against mine, stabbing your tongue into my
mouth as if I’m necessary for you to breathe while I tangle my fingers into your hair and tug. I’m
trembling now from the inside out, and when I feel you quiver too it’s almost too much. I give
another low moan: completely lost in the sensation of your tongue pushing against mine, of shared
breath and warm skin and hearts that beat with the same chaotic rhythm. I just can’t stop touching
you, clinging onto you with everything I have. We’ve not been together like this for so long, have
we? Being apart from you has been agonising; it like it’s only now that I’m finally able to realise
how much. I can smell you so clearly, too. Spice and wine and cedarwood – a touch of the
antiseptic from where you’ve been touching the dressing – then underneath it all that musky,
undefinable scent that’s uniquely you. I inhale deeply, dragging my nose against your skin. It’s like
you’re flooding my nose, my lungs, my entire body: flowing right through me from my flushed
face down to where my cock is so hot and straining, already soaking wet at the tip. God, I’m so
turned on. I put my hand over yours then guide it to my groin so you can feel how hard I am and
know that it’s for you.

As we finally break apart for air you pull away a little then let out a rather shuddering breath.
“Welcome back my love,” you say softly, your fingers beginning to trace across my cheekbone. “I
missed you so much.”

“I know,” I say, equally softly. “I missed you too.”

For a few seconds you just gaze at me with your lips parted before finally leaning forwards again,
gently pinning me against the mattress as you do it so you can ease your way on top of me to bury
your face in my neck. You tenderly kiss the hollow at the base of my throat then breathe along my
collar bone, pausing occasionally for a light scrape of teeth as your hands skim across my shoulders
then down along my waist and hips. I make a small whining noise, my eyes falling closed as you
whisper a snatch of something rapturous in a foreign language then nuzzle my throat with your
forehead. Despite your best efforts my ribs are getting the occasional throb of pressure, but it no
longer occurs to me to even notice if it hurts. I tip my head back instead to give you better access,
sighing again as you take hold of my hand before pressing a series of soft kisses along my cheeks
and eyelids.

“Forgive me, my love,” I hear you murmur against my skin. “Forgive me, but I must leave you for
a moment to fetch something. Please just wait here. It won’t take long.”

You pull away as you’re speaking, although still just end up gazing at me (then dipping your head
for a few more kisses) before finally forcing yourself to get off the bed. I make a soft noise of
protest – which promptly makes you return for a few kisses more – but despite both of us acting
like you’re about to hike overland to India, it ultimately takes you less than 30 seconds to cross the
room and rummage around in one of the suitcases before striding straight back to the bed again. I
snap my eyes open, immediately curious, to see that you’re carrying two small boxes with you, one
in each hand.

“Oh hey,” I say as you place the first one on the nightstand. “Isn’t that my statue?”

You give me one of your more Sphinxy smiles then pause in removing the cocoon of tissue paper
so you can press another kiss against my forehead. “It is,” you reply. “I want to look at it while
we’re making love.”
“Do you now?” I ask. As you catch my eye again I smile back at you, lazily stretching my foot out
to give you a gentle nudge. “I thought I was the one with the weird statue kink.”

“Well, it must be contagious,” you say fondly, “as it appears I now have one too.”

I huff out a laugh, then lean back against the pillow to watch you while you swivel the bedside
lamp around until it’s falling on the statue like its own personal spotlight. You lean back too once
you’ve finished, your own gaze stroking across the gleaming marble in obvious admiration.

“Look at them,” you say softly. “The way their bodies are arching together as if they crave each
other’s touch. As if they’re hungry for it. It’s easy to see why you thought they were more like
lovers than adversaries.”

Your tone is so deep and sultry it almost sounds as if it’s smouldering: suddenly I realise I no
longer feel like laughing. At the same time you’re positioning yourself behind me, gently tugging
me against your chest until my head’s resting on your shoulder and you can begin unfastening my
shirt. I sigh rather blissfully at the sensation then lean back into your touch.

“I am going to make love to you,” you say. “Repeatedly.” You wait a few seconds to slide the shirt
down my shoulders then delicately drag your tongue along the curve of my ear in a way that makes
me shiver. “But first I simply want to watch you bring yourself to orgasm. Just like this, while I’m
holding you in my arms. Would you do that for me?”

I give another moan than quickly twist my head round, searching out your mouth until it meets with
mine in a messy clash of tongues and teeth. You’ve been working so fast you’ve already discarded
my shirt and unfastened my belt; to help you out I kick my jeans off the rest of the way, then
spread my legs rather wantonly until you hook your own round my ankles to make me open them
even further.

“Oh fuck, yes,” I manage to say. “Yes. Whatever you want.”

“Good boy.” You sigh very deeply yourself then nuzzle my hair with your cheek. “In that respect I
have bought you a gift. A new one: something very special. Would you like to see it?”

You’re stroking my lower lip while you’re speaking and as you slide your fingers into my mouth I
suck on them eagerly with a long, low moan. You murmur my name in response then shift a little
further backwards to make sure there’s enough room for me to comfortably arch myself against
your chest.

“Is that a yes, my love?” you say finally. “It certainly sounds like a yes.”

Without waiting for a reply you now reach over to the edge of the bed to retrieve the second of the
boxes, your other arm still tightly wrapped around my chest. I watch your progress with interest. I
already have a vague idea it could be another collar – if for no other reason than you enjoyed it so
intensely last time – but to be honest there’s no real way of telling what it might be. With you it
could be anything: it might not even be related to sex at all. At the thought of it turning out to be
something sweet and wholesome I get another urge to laugh, and you smile back at me rather
wickedly then resettle yourself so you can slide your hands down my arms until they’re covering
mine and can manoeuvre them into opening the lid.

I crane my neck round to aim a rather clumsy kiss at your jaw. “You really don’t have to get me
anything else,” I say. “You buy me so much already. I should be getting you something.”

You let out a soft, affectionate noise in reply then quickly lower your own head so we can kiss each
other properly. It’s slow and tender, slightly playful: a lazy slide of tongues, interspersed with
small nips of teeth, with me pressing my lips across your jaw in a series of smaller pecks before
skimming my tongue along the curve of your upper lip. “Mano meilė,” you say softly as you
eventually pull away. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m afraid this particular gift was not
purchased solely from a spirit of altruism. It’s safe to say that I’m going to derive just as much
satisfaction from it as you will yourself.”

This promptly makes me smile again, because of course there’s no doubt at all now as to what it
might be. In fact, now I’m properly looking I can see that the box is distinctly sensuous in and of
itself: a very dark, glossy rosewood with an embossed golden clasp and elaborate pagan-like
symbols carved across the surface. It’s debauched is what it is; I haven’t even fully got it open yet
and already I can see a shimmer of red satin lining. Then I push the lid back and let out a subdued
kind of grunt, because…oh yes. Yes. It’s definitely something sex related. On the other hand, the
exact nature of what that involves is slightly less apparent, because while it’s clear what the thick
plug on one end is intended for the same can’t really be said for the bulging hook-like wedge on
the other. The fact it’s so black and gleaming also makes it look rather formidable – almost a bit
alien-like – but at no point does it occur to me to feel alarmed. I trust you implicitly now; there’s no
way you’d ever want to hurt me or force us past a comfortable boundary. Even so, it’s possible my
confusion is showing on my face because you now make an amused sound then nuzzle my hair
again. I know you get a bit of a kick out of the fact I can still be relatively clueless about the
variabilities of anal sex. It’s a convenient reminder that no one’s ever done this to me except you.

“Mylimasis,” you say in the same purring voice as before. “Don’t look so perturbed: it’s not as
complicated as it seems. This part…” You pause, then slowly guide my fingers over the head of
the plug, “is designed to slide inside you to massage your prostate. Whereas this…” There’s
another pause as you repeat the process with the opposite half, “presses down to stimulate your
perineum. Double stimulation, you see? It’s going to feel very intense…in the best possible way.”
At the thought of it I give a small, involuntary whine, and you murmur my name again then gently
scrape your teeth along the side of my throat. “You’re going to like it, beloved,” you say, straight
against my skin. “I promise; you’ll enjoy it so much. And I am very much going to enjoy watching
you.”

As I moan again you drag your tongue up my throat in a hot, wet swipe before finally letting go of
my hands to take hold of my shoulders instead. It’s clear you want to get me into position, but I still
stubbornly take my time about it, moving deliberately slowly. The irony is that it scarcely seems
feasible to wait any longer, yet I’m also desperate to relish our mutual desire by letting the moment
linger on as much as possible. It’s actually a sort of paradox: I want this so badly, yet once it starts
that means it’ll have to end, and a part of me feels like I could stay like this with you forever.
You’re feeling it too, aren’t you? We both are: struggling with an urgent need to pace ourselves and
remain in control for as long as we can, knowing that once our sense of restraint has snapped then
it’ll be completely impossible to salvage it.

“I suppose it would be more efficient to have you all fours,” I now hear you saying. “But I’m afraid
I am feeling very possessive, mano meilė, and I want you here in my arms instead. Can you move a
little onto your side? Now raise your leg up. Good boy, that’s it. Just like that.”

As you’re speaking you reach round into the box again, this time to retrieve what I assume must be
lube. I didn’t even notice that it came with its own (and which of course is suitably splendid and
pompous in an elaborate vial of smoked green glass). You drizzle a generous amount onto both me
and the plug, then press another kiss against my hair before sliding your fingers into my mouth
again so I can suck them. Even though you’re fully clothed I can still feel the hot, thick length of
your erection jabbing into my back and it’s making me so aroused I could nearly scream with it.
“You better fuck me after this,” I manage to say. It’s intended to sound firm but just comes out as
rather maniacal instead. “I’m warning you.”

You make another humming sound in response then use your cheekbone to deliver an affectionate
nudge to the side of my face. “You should be careful what you wish for, beloved,” you say. “After
this you may well find yourself too…stimulated for anything further.”

“Seriously? You think I’d care.”

Immediately you lean in even closer, curling your palm round my throat again so you can hold me
still. “Move up a little,” you say fondly. “Up here; rest your head further against my shoulder.
Good boy. Now spread your legs wider for me.” You put one hand across my forehead to ease me
into lying backwards then kiss me again before stroking your free hand up and down my chest.
“Now, as to your previous query…” you add. “You might very well care.”

“Well, in that case I want you to make me take you,” I say. “I want you to fuck me over and over.”
I give another small groan, quivering slightly as your hand dips lower and lower. Your breath
against my cheek is so warm and humid. “I want you ramming your cock into me until you feel me
start to come round it.”

This makes you let out a sort of growling noise, your palm moving reverently down my abdomen
to stroke along all the scars which I no longer mind you touching. God, you’re playing me like an
instrument now; just the lightest, most delicate touch across my bare skin.

“Your request is noted,” you say softly as you pull away. “But first…an appetiser. Can you feel the
girth of it, beloved? It’s big, isn’t it: so much larger than your previous ones. Do you think you’re
going to be able to take it?”

Immediately I start to smile to myself, because of course this is nothing more than a very
predictable bit of posturing on your part. After all, we both know it’s still much smaller than you
are. I have a fond, private eyeroll then just let out a small moan instead, whimpering slightly at the
way the plug’s blunt head is starting to thrust up against me. You rub it in slow circles to begin
with, testing the resistance before gradually increasing the pressure without ever actually pushing
in.

“Look at you,” you say, and I can easily hear how your own breath is starting to catch. “Your
beautiful body…it’s so incredibly eager. Such a tight little clench of muscle to accept something
this thick and wide, yet you’re still so desperate for it. Aren’t you my love? All you want is to feel
something inside you. Stretching you open. Filling you up.”

As you’re speaking you give the plug a sharply suggestive twist. God, the sense of anticipation is
insane by now. It’s been less than a minute, and I’m already leaking a steady stream of pre-come
over both of us: it like every shift of my hips is enough to cause more to spill out. You give a sigh
of satisfaction when you see it then slowly run your fingers through the glistening, sticky trail
before pushing them against my lips.

“Open your mouth again beloved,” you say caressingly. “Let me watch you taste yourself.”

Before you’ve even finished speaking I’m already doing what you’ve asked for: wantonly sucking
your fingers clean, then licking my tongue across the pads like they’re something delectable as you
catch your breath even louder then bury your face in my hair. “That’s it,” you murmur. “You look
so beautiful doing that – I wish you could see yourself.”

In response I moan a little louder round my mouthful, head tipping back even further so you can
gently stroke my jaw. The brush of your fingertips is so warm and soft it’s making me shiver, but
bizarrely it only now occurs to me that you still haven’t got undressed yourself: it’s like you’re so
preoccupied with what I’m doing you’ve forgotten about it entirely. I think in the past I’d have
been more aware of a power discrepancy in being naked while you’re fully clothed, but right now it
doesn’t seem like that. Instead, it’s erotic and sensuous – intensely so – but there’s also a softer
element to it that’s making me feel cherished and cared for. The fierceness of your fascination with
me is addictive, I suppose. It always has been.

“It’s a dilemma for me, mylimasis,” I now hear you saying. “I want to feel you in my arms, yet I
also want to see the way you look when you’re stretched around this plug. What a pity it is not
possible to do both. When this is over you have to promise to show me: I want you to get on your
knees with your back arched and your legs spread apart.” As I whine in agreement you
immediately dart forwards again, decorating my throat and face with another patina of biting
kisses. “Your skin will be so slick and glistening from the lubricant,” you murmur once you finally
pull away. “It’ll make you look as if you’re wet for me, the same way a woman would be.”

“Oh God...”

“Would you let me photograph you that way, my love? Soaking wet with your legs spread open?”

Inadvertently I can feel myself flush. My breath is grinding out of me by now, heaving in a series
of fevered pants; it’s like the pressure from your teeth is all over my skin at intervals, even though
I’m not actually being bitten. As you murmur my name again I give another low moan, frantically
pivoting my hips while exposing my throat so you can scrape your teeth across it even deeper than
before. God I’m almost achingly hard by now, my cock growing slicker and heavier against my
stomach with every moment that passes. I can’t possibly last much longer like this. You’ve
scarcely even touched me yet, but I’m so frenziedly aroused it seems inevitable I’m going to end
up coming anyway.

“Fuck yes,” I say. My heartbeat in my chest is so relentless; it’s like I’m having to fight for each
last breath. “Yes. You know I would.”

“Good boy.” You make a low satisfied noise – a sigh so low it’s almost a hiss – then pause again
so you can lick a bead of sweat from my throat. “I’m going to push it inside you now. Very deep…
very slow. Are you ready?”

“Fuck, so ready,” I pant out. By this point I’m slumping against you with my entire weight,
struggling to stay upright as I gasp into your skin. Reflexively I now reach up to hook my arm
around the back of your neck, strongly aware of an enclosing sense of safety that means no matter
how hard I push back against you, I know you won’t let me fall. “Please,” I add. “Just do it.”

My urgency is obvious but as soon as I’ve said I know I’ve just made a huge tactical error –
namely because you now promptly change your mind again (of course) and decide to spin it out a
bit longer instead. This is incredibly typical: despite wanting this as badly as I do it’s like you’re
incapable of passing up an opportunity to be a huge dick about it. I give you an affectionate nip on
the shoulder with my teeth, which makes you nudge me back with your forehead while reducing
the pressure even further.

“Patience,” you say caressingly when I let out a whine of frustration. “Patience, my love.
Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure – I promise I’m going to make it worth your while.”

“You better,” I say. “Oh Christ, you’re such a sadist.”

“Me?” you reply in an exaggeratedly innocent voice. “Surely not.”

I huff out a laugh, which quickly turns into a sort of breathy yelp when you push the plug further
forward until I’m just being breached by the tip. “Look at that,” you say approvingly. “So smooth –
even more than I expected. You’re going to take it beautifully for me, aren’t you? I can already tell

“Damn right I am,” I say. “If you ever – y’know – actually give me a chance to prove it.”

You make an amused sound then use your forehead to give my hair another nuzzle. “Look at the
statue my love,” is all you say in reply. “It’s exquisite, isn’t it? I must congratulate you on your
impeccably good taste. It’s the reason I like it so much, because your story makes me think of you
in your youth whenever I see it. A beautiful young man, hovering on the verge of adulthood...”
You pause to brush your mouth against my jaw – gentle press of lips; the barest hint of teeth – then
run the fingertips of your free hand along my ribs on the uninjured side. “The motherless son with
the wifeless father,” you add. “An array of boatyards and classrooms in simmering Southern
summers and stifling winters, yet with a mind too sharp and a soul too uncompromising to ever be
contained in any of them. You would have still had a certain innocence about you, wouldn’t you
beloved? It’s why the image appeals to me as much as it does. If the last few months have shown
us anything, it’s that I have not always valued this particular quality of yours in quite the way it
deserves.”

Your tone is much softer and more serious now. You sound so thoughtful – almost rather sad – and
it’s enough to make me stop squirming and just lie quietly against you as you brush your lips along
my forehead. “I often think of what you must have been like back then,” you add, your other arm
wrapping tightly round my chest to hold me close. “What sort of narrative you spun about yourself
in the recesses of your own mind – and what raw materials you might have drawn upon in doing so.
Fiction so often makes a more convincing display of truth, but of course you hadn’t fully
discovered your own truth at that age. How I wish I had known you. I could have helped you make
the journey so much easier to bear.”

Briefly I put my hand out to run my fingers over yours. “I couldn’t have coped with you back then,”
I say quietly. “It would have been too much. You would have broken me.”

“Never.” For few moments press your face against mine, the tip of one sharp cheekbone stroking
along my skin. “But even if I had, I would have ensured I put you back together again. One piece
after another beloved, with infinite tenderness and care. I would have restored you to a new sense
of becoming – exactly the same way as you have remade me.” Once more you fall silent, the faint
hitch of your breath an unspoken glimpse of all that raw vulnerability you first revealed last night.
“I love you so much,” you say finally in the same soft voice. “I adore you, Will. You’re everything
to me. You always were.”

This time my only response is to murmur your name, blindly lurching forwards with yet another
craving urge to have your mouth against mine. I’m arching my back to the point of discomfort,
whimpering slightly as my hips give helpless little jerks of anticipation; but it’s only now that you
finally relent and give your hand a slow thrust forward until the head of the plug is pressing right
up against me. I can almost feel the muscle quivering at the intrusion, but then there’s a sort of
popping sensation as it starts to relax and the first clench of resistance gives way. I let out a startled
whine when I feel it happen, so you quickly lower your head again; pushing your tongue deep into
my mouth at the exact same moment you slide the entire length inside me. My head immediately
snaps back, spine curving and hips snapping as the claw-like arm presses down at the same time
with a jolt of pleasure so intense I can feel my cock give a violent spasm right across my abdomen.
For a few panicked seconds I actually think it’s going to be enough to make me come.

“Oh,” I say faintly. “Oh my God.”

“Yes?” you ask, kissing my temple.

“Yes. Yes.”

You groan too, tightening your grip round my chest before tugging my head back so you can press
your teeth against the side of my throat. “Yes,” you repeat. “You like it, don’t you my love?”

“Oh fuck. Fuck, Hannibal. It feels so good.”

“It’s not too much?”

“It is, yeah, but…oh.” I break off to drag in a few more fraught breaths, helplessly arching against
the corded muscles of your chest as you caress my face with your other hand. “In…a good way.”

It is, too…almost unbearably so. It’s like my senses have been crazily heightened until I’m aware
of everything: from the warm tips of your fingers, stroking in delicate circles, to the way the initial
tightness has yielded so eagerly to the gentle yet firmly persistent pressure. You give a worshipful
sigh at the sight of it then spit onto your thumb so you can use the pad to massage the slippery, taut
skin around the plug where I’m getting stretched wide open. I catch my breath again, head falling
back onto your shoulder as I start bucking my hips with the same rhythm as you’re moving your
hand. My hair is damp with sweat by now, my entire focus shrinking and constricting to how
intense it feels, and when you give the plug another thrust I lose control completely – crying out,
then trembling so violently you need to wrap your free arm around my chest again to keep me
upright. I’m so feverishly hot that both our hands glide easily across the smooth, sweat-slick skin as
you tug my head back by the hair to lick into my mouth. I whine loudly at the rawness of it –
nothing but need and craving and warm, moist breath – then moan back into your mouth without
breaking the kiss. You hungrily swallow the sounds down like you’re trying to devour them: a taste
of every hitching pant and shuddering sigh.

As we finally break apart I slump backwards then bury my face in your neck. “Beloved,” you
murmur, beginning to press ecstatic kisses against the damp skin. “Look at you…if you had any
idea.”

I quiver slightly, whispering your name again as my hand darts down into my lap to wrap my
fingers round my cock. It’s lying hot and wet against my abdomen, almost painful from lack of
attention, and I groan a bit louder then rub my thumb around the head a few times before starting to
pump it in the same rhythm as each thrust of your hand on the plug. Being edged for so long is
making me sweat with the strain, and as the first sharp waves of pleasure begin to hit I let out a
desperate cry. Oh God, we’ve scarcely even started and already I feel a bit mad. I’m losing my
mind…although it’s not like it really matters. I gave my mind to you a long time ago, didn’t I? It
was my gift to you. I wanted you to have it.

“No, don’t close your eyes,” you add, soft but firm. “Keep them open. I want to watch you while
I’m doing this.”

You briefly cradle my head in your palm, eyes bearing down into my face before finally taking
hold of my hip instead so you can pull me harder onto the plug as you fuck me with it. By now the
sounds you’re making are almost like growls as you press your lips against every part of me you
can reach: biting and lapping at my jaw, throat and shoulders before stabbing your tongue between
my lips for another searing kiss. The effect is immediate as I cry out over and over, helplessly
fisting my cock before going totally rigid when a visible shudder of pleasure runs through my
entire body. I’ve planted my feet against the bed to give myself better leverage for thrusting against
you, and you now roughly bracket your ankles around mine again so that when you move your legs
apart it forces mine open too.
“God, it feels so good,” I gasp out. I sound slightly shocked, almost panicked. “Oh, I like that, I
like it.”

“I know you do,” you murmur. “My beautiful boy.”

You’ve got your arm tighter around my chest now; easily able to take my weight then rocking me
against the plug until I cry out again as another stream of pre-come spills over my hand. You press
some more rapturous kisses against my jaw when you see it, waiting until my breath has quickened
even further before giving it an even deeper twist.

“No, don’t hold back,” you add, noticing the way I’m biting my lip to try and stifle the harsh,
desperate sounds I’m making. “I like seeing you lose control. I adore it. You have no idea.”

“Oh God. Hannibal…”

You kiss me again then make a soothing humming sound between your teeth. All the time your
hand continues to move in the same deep circles: turning and pushing, clearly testing my reaction.
“Is this what you’ve been waiting for, beloved?” you ask. “To feel your body being probed and
explored this way? You only had to ask. You know I’d always give you whatever you wanted.”

As you’re speaking you begin to move your hand a little faster, thrusting at the base of the plug in a
smooth rhythm while alternating with shorter, firmer strokes. I can tell you’re glancing down each
time to see how hard my cock is getting, so I eagerly buck my hips to show you; shamelessly
fucking myself against your hand and desperate to get the pressure as deep as possible.

“Yes, you really like it,” you say with obvious approval. “You’re so excited. Look at you.” You
pause for a few moments, craning your neck forwards followed with a low sigh. “Exquisite,” you
add with something like reverence. “So delicate yet passionate. So debauched. Practically…
edible.”

By now I’m much too far gone to roll my eyes at you, so have to settle for a kind of anguished
groan instead. You laugh slightly in response then lightly kiss my hair. “My only regret is that I
can’t watch you being penetrated,” you add rather ruefully. “My own fault, I suppose: I’m not quite
ready to let go of you yet to secure a proper view. What a pity we don’t have a mirror.” You sigh
again, biting more kisses into the side of my throat before pausing to give my earlobe a gentle tug
with your teeth. “Now show me what else you like,” you say. “Do you like it harder? Faster,
perhaps? Do you like it deeper?” You alternate the movement of your hand according to each
adverb, and I gasp again as my head tips further back against your shoulder. “Although this isn’t
enough for you is it?” you purr, clearly delighted with such a rapturous response. “Tell me what
else you need, mylimasis. I want to hear you say it.”

I let out a stifled moan; hungrily pillaging your mouth, then clawing my fingers across your neck
and shoulders with one hand while fisting my cock almost brutally with the other. “I want you to –
ah – I want you to fuck me.”

“Just once, my love? Or several times.”

“All night…Forever…Oh God, now. Please, just do it. I need it…”

“I’m going to, mylimasis. I promise. Just let me enjoy you a little longer like this.” Leaning
forward again you rub your face against mine before twisting round far enough for me to search
out a kiss. It’s urgent and messy, licking into each other’s mouths for what feels like hours until
you finally pull away. “Now keep looking at the statue my love,” I hear you murmur. “Can you see
it?”
I give another small groan, fingers twitching uselessly across my hip bone. It’s soaking wet and
slippery from the gleaming pool of pre-come but still I can’t quite bring myself to move my hand
any further. I’m desperate for a release, yet at the same time I don’t want this to be over. The
sensation is a rather strange one; it’s like I’m so in love with this moment that I never want it to
end.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I see it.”

“Just imagine if your scenario were the true one,” you add. Your voice sounds so rhythmic now;
almost dream-like in how low and smouldering it is. “A vulnerable young man, destined to be
sacrificed to a monster, only to seduce it into falling in love with him instead. Theseus was a
suitable hero in that respect; did you know that? Intelligent. Brave and idealistic. Impetuous.” You
pause for a few more seconds then tenderly brush your lips against my temple again. “Physically
beautiful. Imagine how he must have felt entering the Labyrinth for the first time? Although I
suppose you don’t have to imagine it, do you beloved. You already know exactly how that feels.”

Of course, the irony of this is that I didn’t know – at least not until it was far too late – although
I’m still not surprised that you’ve said it. After all, it’s been obvious for a while now that one of
your favourite ways of deflecting the sins of the past is by acting as if I had far greater autonomy in
those days then you ever actually gave me. Even so, it’s not as if I really mind. It indicates your
burgeoning guilt (a sign of progress in itself) – but regardless, it’s hardly like this is the right time
to start pointing it out. The dual pressure of the plug is getting so intense by now; much longer and
my self-control will be useless and I know I’ll start to come anyway. The thought of it creates a
heady surge of arousal and humiliation that’s enough to make my cock spasm, another thick rope
of pre-come leaking out it then dripping onto your thigh.

“The malice of the Minotaur was legendary,” you continue in the same crooning voice. Oh God,
you’re so hard now aren’t you? I can feel your erection thrusting into my back each time I move
and it’s honestly impressive that you’ve managed this long without coming yourself. I’m not even
sure how you’ve managed it; the way you’re rammed up against me means you’re getting far more
friction than I am. As if reading my mind, you let out another deep sigh then begin to trace a finger
along the base of my throat. “One of the Ancient World’s most fearsome and devastating
monsters,” you add. “It ate its victims alive…”

You leave a much longer pause – this time to scrape your teeth along my jaw – while I give a low
moan at the association then press myself even harder against you. You groan too, rocking your
hips upwards at the exact moment I grind down my own before tilting my head round sideways,
throat exposed like I’m offering it to you. Immediately you’re all over it: you, with your murderous
hands and teeth. You could tear the carotid artery to pieces right now if you wanted…God it’s
obscene sometimes, how much I trust you. You’re the most dangerous person I’ve ever met – me,
who’s met so many of them – yet somehow I’ll never feel as safe as I do when I’m this close to
you.

“It had every possible advantage,” I now hear you saying. There’s another pause as your fingers
trace across my hipbone; a single sharp cheekbone gently rubbing against mine. “Cunning.
Strength. Raw supremacy. Yet Theseus still vanquished it regardless. Of course, in the myth he did
so by the sword but in your younger self’s imagination he applied a far more lethal type of force.
Look at them, Will. Look how powerful they are together…the effect of love on a monster.”

Until now my eyes have been screwed tightly shut but I finally manage to open them again to cast a
bleary glance at the Minotaur’s head: the flaring bestial nostrils, and the way its horns curve
around its face like spears. There’s no doubt this is starting to stray into some weird hentai-type
shit by now, but I can’t really bring myself to care. After all, there’s no way that you will: the
transgressive aspect of it is precisely what appeals to you. If I’m honest, I’m half surprised you
haven’t invoked the image of a wendigo instead…although admittedly that would probably be a bit
too much, even for you. I give another small whine at the thought of it, and you twist the plug so
deep and hard in response that it makes me haul in a lungful of air: gulping then trembling before
letting it all out between my teeth again with a long hissing exhale.

“Yeah, they look good,” I finally manage to say. My voice is hoarse and scratchy from all the
panting: it means you need to lean in closer to hear. “But that’s also one thing you got wrong. You
know that don’t you? Passion vs. force…you know you chose the wrong one when you wanted to
tell Jack about us?”

You give another of the rumbling sighs then slide your finger along my lower lip. “Tell me
beloved,” you say. “Tell me what I should have planned instead.”

“Revealing it in person was one way.” Fuck, talking requires an almost inhuman level of effort by
now; I’m not sure how I’m even able to manage it. “But it’s a bit predictable, don’t you think? A
bit tame.” As you press down on the plug again I give another strangled moan than reach round to
twist my fingers into your hair. “You should have sent him that tape we made instead.”

Of course, there’s no way I would ever agree to this, not least because it would cause both of us to
expire prematurely (me from mortification, you from insane levels of jealously). But that hardly
seems to matter right now, and I can even convince myself that I genuinely like the thought of it.
“Yeah, that’s the last thing he would have expected,” I add. “It’s the last thing anyone would’ve
expected. Just like those two…” I pause very briefly to jerk my head towards the statue. “Lovers
rather than adversaries. I mean, he might have imagined you teaching me how to hunt, but never in
a million years that you’d teach me how to fuck. Only you did, didn’t you? You’ve spent over a
year now making me learn how to take a cock. In the mouth. In the ass…God, it would blow
Jack’s mind that I’ve turned into such a slut for you. The total shamelessness of it. That I crave
you; that I can’t ever, ever get enough.”

Anything like this is always guaranteed to be music to your ears, and behind me I can already hear
the way your breath has started to speed up. With a huge force of effort I now clamber my way off
your chest, arduously swinging round until I’m facing forward to straddle you with my knees on
either side of your hips. I drag in a few shuddering breaths, trying and failing to gather my wits
together as I reach out to take hold of your face in both hands. Very slowly I tip your head back,
gazing deep into your eyes as my hips continue to grind against yours.

“Do you remember?” I ask softly. “The way I used to start trembling whenever you touched me? I
used to get so nervous about it, didn’t I, and just look at me now. You love it too, don’t you – and
that’s another thing he wouldn’t expect. The way I make you lose control of yourself. He thinks
you’re above anything like that. He doesn’t know how passionate you are.”

Vaguely I’m aware of long fingers curling around my waist, one thumb rubbing circles on my hip
bone as your other hand starts to work away at the plug. It’s like you’re playing with it now: testing
different angles and pressures as your eyes keep flitting down to where my cock is straining so hot
and heavy between us. The second either of us touches it I know I’m going to come, so it’s a real
relief that you’ve realised this too and are holding off to ensure sure things won’t be over too
quickly. Leaning down I begin to kiss you again in a way that’s deliberately slow and intense:
pushing my tongue into your mouth, then sucking your lower lip between my teeth until I finally
pull away.

“Yeah, you love it so much,” I say in the same soft voice. “Don’t you? You love fucking me in the
ass: how small and tight it feels when you’re on top of me and thrusting that huge cock in and out
of it. The way I cry out your name because I’m struggling to take it but still don’t want you stop.”
As I watch your breath hitches again, a small bead of sweat beginning to trickle down the side of
your forehead. Immediately I lean back down again, slowly dragging my tongue across it to lick it
up. “It’s okay to admit it,” I add, my voice almost as low and rumbling as yours is. “I love it too. I
love being filled up with you...getting stretched to the absolute limit. And I love how it makes you
lose control of yourself; the way you leave me afterwards empty and aching because you’ve taken
me so hard.”

You make a noise in your throat that’s close to a snarl before spitting out something sharp and
harsh beneath your breath in Lithuanian. Your hand is gripping so tightly onto my knee your
knuckles have turned white, and for a few heady seconds I think you’re about to come right in
front of me, completely untouched. In fact, in the end you don’t, although it’s clearly
uncomfortably close; even in porn I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that near to climax and
manage to hold it back. If I wasn’t so frantic I’d probably feel obliged to congratulate you under
The Man Code, but in the end the only thing I have time for is a startled ‘oof’ noise as you
promptly seize hold of my waist in both hands to flip me onto the mattress. Normally there’s a
certain elegance and restraint to it when you undress yourself, but this time you pretty much rip
your clothes right off your body; at one point yanking your shirt so violently there’s a sound of
tearing stitches as a few buttons go clattering across the floor. I lean up to help you (pausing
halfway through to bite your lower lip then smear my mouth against your throat) but you’re
working so fast my contribution ends up limited to just unfastening your belt until I’m getting
pushed down again so you can drag your mouth along the length of my cock in a hot, wet swipe
before burying your face between my legs.

I shudder then screw my eyes closed, flinging my arm across my face with a choked-off hitch of
breath. Large strong hands are holding my thighs still as your tongue begins to swirl across the
slippery clench of muscle that’s stretched so taut and tight around the plug: licking and kissing,
then pausing to massage the skin with a single broad thumb before diving straight back in again.
As you start to suck the rim I can feel my body giving pitiful little jerks, the motion getting more
pronounced as you bury your tongue in as far as you can fit it around the stretch of the plug. God,
I’m dripping wet by now, saliva seeping down both thighs onto the mattress in a way that makes
my muscles tense in a squirming blend of both shame and desire. Fortunately, your free hand is
still gripping onto mine which I’m desperately relived about. I don’t want you to jerk me off, but I
also don’t want to do it myself: the only time I know I’ll be ready to come is when you’re finally
inside me. At the thought of it I let out another moan, helplessly bucking my hips as my head tips
further back. I can hear myself intoning ‘please’ and I seem to be echoing it over and over as if it’s
the only word I can say anymore; the only word that makes sense to me.

“Please,” I keep saying. I sound so intense, breath searing out through my nostrils as my heartbeat
smashes my injured ribs. “Please. I need this. I need you. I need you.”

You make a low sighing noise yourself, grip tightening onto my hand before you pull away
entirely to kiss the inside of my thigh. “Will,” you say, even quieter than before. “Beloved. Mano
meilė. I need you too: more than I can tell you. More than I have words to express.”

As a statement this is simple enough, yet it still resonates very deeply with me since the one who’s
saying it is you: you, who always has so many words – far more than one person could ever
possibly need. The implied depth of devotion is obvious, and for a few seconds the force of it
makes me screw my eyes closed even tighter as I fight to draw in one panting gasp after another.
My need to feel you fucking me is overwhelming by now, yet while there’s still a part of me that
wants to stretch the moment out and make it last it’s not enough anymore to make me want to
stop…it’s nowhere near enough. I groan again, face pressed hard against the mattress as I blindly
stretch round with both hands so I can spread myself wide open for you. It’s so exposing, but
somehow it never occurs to me to feel ashamed. Instead I just twist my face to the side so I can
watch the way my cock is hanging so hot and heavy between my legs; leaking with a stream of pre-
come then swaying back and forwards with each throb of the plug until you abruptly swoop
downwards to yank it right out of me. The sudden sense of emptiness is jarring and I let out a small
whimper, muscles clenching in a helpless spasm from the urgent need to be filled back up again.

“Oh God,” I say, voice little more than a stuttering gasp. “I can’t…I…I'm going to…Oh Hannibal,
fuck.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” you murmur, sounding slightly overawed. “Tell me again what you
want, beloved. What it is that you need?”

I give another moan in response. You’re already so close to me, yet not being even nearer still
suddenly feels unbearable. Somehow I manage to struggle upright again before slumping forward
to cradle your face with my palm, the motion slow and exploratory as if trying to chart your
features through the touch of my fingertips.

“You,” I say, very soft and intense. “It’s always been you.”

As you begin to kiss me I urgently kiss you back, unable to let go even for the time it takes you to
lower me onto the mattress again then tenderly arrange a pillow beneath my head. I know I’ve
never felt like this during sex before, although I guess that’s hardly surprising; I’ve never had a
partner I crave as much as I do you. I whimper rather piteously at the thought of it then
shamelessly spread my legs for you, desperate to provide you access to where I need attention the
most. At the sight of it you repeat the growling sound – another rich vibration, very deep in your
throat – then lean down to move them even further apart.

“Spread yourself open again for me,” you say. “Like you did before. Use both your hands.” I groan
then comply, pushing the cheeks apart with fingers that are starting to tremble slightly. Your
possessiveness is almost breath-taking by now; it’s like you want to consume me until you’ve
forced away the memory of any touch I’ve ever had which wasn’t yours. “That’s it,” you add
softly, as if reading my thoughts. “That’s perfect. Look at you. How long has it been since you
wanted it like this?”

“Never,” I gasp, completely abandoning any attempt at restraint. “Never, God. Only with you.”

You let out another, softer growling sound then take hold of my hand. “Mylimasis,” you say.
“You’re mine now; you belong to me. You belong to me, and you are everything.”

This time when we kiss it’s somehow even more passionate than last time, despite the fact our
mouths are moving in such a slower gentler way. I can feel your fingers flitting around my face –
stroking my jaw and cheekbone, running through my hair – as your other hand runs up and down
the inside of my thigh. The plug has left me so stretched and slick that more lube isn’t really
necessary, but you still end up spitting straight onto your cock before using the thickness of the
head to smear the saliva all over me. The wetness feels incredibly warm and slippery, and it means
you’re able to reach down to cover your hands with mine; using your thumbs to spread me open
with incredible ease before sliding deep inside me with a single smooth thrust.

“Oh,” I whisper, beginning to arch my back. “Oh my God.”

I’m clawing along your back now, enjoying how flat and hard your muscles feel as they flex
beneath my touch before roughly digging my teeth into the flesh of your shoulder. I’m vaguely
aware how uncomfortable it must be for you, although you never give any indication of wanting
me to stop. I mean, of course you don’t – why would you? Even the smallest signs of my capacity
for violence are always such a source of delight.

“Don’t move yet,” I murmur against your throat. I can’t seem to stop trembling; can’t manage to
catch my breath. I feel I could almost cry at how perfect it is. “Please. Just stay still like this…
exactly like this. I want it to last.”

“I can last,” you reply softly. “I can stay like this for as long as you need me to.”

I groan again before it turns into a rather broken laugh halfway through. “Actually…forget that,” I
add. “I don’t think I can. In fact, I know I can’t.”

You immediately smile down at me, your angular features strangely softened by love. “It doesn’t
matter,” you say. “We have all night. And tomorrow night – and then the one after that. We have as
long as we need, mylimasis. We have a lifetime.”

I give another gasping laugh before abruptly falling silent again as my entire body trembles then
goes totally rigid. “I’m really close,” I say; I sound surprised, like I can’t quite believe it. “I’m...oh.
Oh God, Hannibal. I…I think I’m going to come.”

Unbelievably, I think I actually am. Just here, just like this; just from feeling you inside me. With
anyone else it would be humiliating, but since it’s with you it just feels sensuous and comforting, as
well as intensely intimate. For a few moments I simply skim my hand up and down your spine
before moving to your face again; stroking your cheekbones, your lips, your jaw, enjoying the way
it makes you quiver as you lean into the touch. I’m smiling up at you and you’re smiling back
down, your own hand moving round to smooth away my damp tangles of hair before leaning down
to nuzzle your forehead against mine.

“I love you,” I say softly. “I love you so much. I can’t wait to marry you.”

Your response is to sigh out my name very softly to yourself, elegantly extending each letter as if
you’re savouring the sound of them; as if it’s a sacred word – the words of a prayer. Instinctively
I’ve begun to rock myself against you again, so you now slide my fingers into your mouth to get
them wet and slippery before covering my hand with yours so we can both stroke my cock at the
same time. I moan into your mouth as you do it, but in the end it’s the feeling of you beginning to
thrust in and out of me that’s finally enough to push me towards the edge. Already I can feel the
orgasm starting as a series of deep contractions round your cock as I lie beneath you, my entire
body shuddering and tensing as it prepares itself to come.

By now your rhythm is so fast and unfaltering that the bed is creaking with it every time you move.
At one point you even slip out entirely, cock dragging on my soaking wet rim before it plunges
straight back in again with a thrust so hard my body goes pitching forwards with the impact.
Immediately you hook your hands around my thighs to keep me in place, spreading my legs even
wider as you tug me backwards to meet you for each powerful shove of your hips. Your eye keep
flitting from my face to between my legs and your expression makes it easy to guess just how
much you’re relishing the sight of my ass sliding up and down the long, thick length of your cock.
Not that I blame you: I wish I could see it too. Oh God, God, it’s so good being fucked like this; so
blindingly pleasurable that it’s impossible to even think straight. I gasp out your name again with a
desperate wail and you give a deep sigh of your own before dropping forwards to bury your face in
my hair.

“That’s it,” you say. “My beautiful boy. You’re so close, aren’t you? I can feel it.”

I bet you can, I think wildly. I can feel it as well: the way my ass is getting tighter and tighter
around the stretch of your cock until it makes it feel unfeasibly large inside me – almost as if it’s
too big to fit. You’ve also angled yourself so you’re thrusting relentlessly hard against my prostate:
pounding it in a way that’s even more intense than the plug, then just rocking the thickness of the
head deep inside me with each sharp snap of your hips.

“Oh God,” I keep gasping out, sounding almost panicked. Then once I’ve started I seem unable to
stop, and just keep repeating it in an increasingly urgent chant. A few drops of sweat fall from your
forehead onto my skin, and it makes me wail again because I want to taste it so badly but can’t
reach. Blindly I grasp my arm downwards until I’m touching your cock, groaning at the way I feel
it thrusting as it sinks in and out of me. You groan too then take hold of my hand, forcing my
fingers further downwards until I can feel the tight slippery stretch of my own asshole, tender from
friction while soaking wet with saliva and lube.

“Oh God, oh fuck,” I cry out. “I’m…oh God. I’m going to come. I’m coming, I’m…oh God,
Hannibal. I’m coming, I’m coming...”

I’ve no idea why I keep announcing this so urgently – it’s not as if it isn’t obvious – yet for some
reason I still keep telling you anyway. Even as my cock is spurting while you continue slamming
into me. Even as the evidence is spattering over both of us in thick hot pulses…I still want you to
know. It’s like some sort of frantic, primal urge to show you that you’re the one responsible for it;
to make sure you can see how good it was and know that I’m only able to feel this way because of
you. As I call out your name again you drop downwards then wrap both arms beneath my
shoulders to hold me through it, murmuring how much you love me, how beautiful you think I am,
before letting out a groaning pant as you finally start to come yourself. It’s so intense it’s like I can
actually feel it happen: wave after wave being fucked into me until thick droplets start seeping
down my thighs as if there’s simply too much to be able to stay inside. God you’re still so hard,
even now…your cock continuing to pound in and out like all you want to do is pump me full of
your come until I’m flooded with it.

The sensation is overwhelming for both of us, but when it’s eventually over I don’t pull away like I
often do. Instead I just lie very softly and peacefully in your arms, letting out a series of contented
noises while tenderly stroking your hair and face. In turn, you carefully adjust your body to make
sure I’m not bearing your full weight before simply gazing down at me in quiet adoration without
moving or blinking while I gaze straight back: both of us exchanging secret smiles and
wonderingly touching each another’s faces as if checking that the other one is real. At moments
like this it’s as if making love to you is an idiom all of its own; a language of the body. Something
that’s guided by worshipful, questing touches – quiet and yearning – which seeks to read a story in
each other’s skin the way a blind person reads Braille.

You always stay hard for ages after you’ve come, but after what feels like hours have passed you
finally pull out again then lean back on your heels to stare at me. I’m expecting you’ll soon lie
down again (even shuffling across the pillow in silent invitation) but your sole response is to drop
onto your knees instead before pushing your face straight between my legs. My mouth falls open in
a silent ‘oh’ as I feel the way you’re lapping up the stray beads of semen from my thighs – only to
quickly turn into a breathy moan when you spread me open with both hands to begin scooping out
the rest with your tongue. It feels so blissful and shameful that it’s almost close to being too much:
just the awareness of how I’m lying here, flat on my back with my legs spread, as your tongue
slides in and out of my ass to lick up your own come. I wonder if you realised how I’d been
clenching beforehand; the way I’d tried to keep it inside me before realising I’d been fucked so
wide open it was humiliating impossible? The actual sensation is incredible, too: your tongue so
thick, warm, and wet – muscular, almost – with a level of intimacy that’s nearly shocking in its
intensity as it pushes further into me before pausing to suck against the rim. Having my ass
explored this thoroughly is turning me on more than I would have thought physically possible, my
cock already twitching across my stomach like it’s trying to get hard again. Your tongue promptly
gives another deep thrust in response, and I spasm rather violently then cry out for you; fingers
helplessly clawing the sheet as I feel a hot throb of pleasure convulse through my entire body.

“Oh God,” I can hear myself panting. “Oh God, Hannibal. That’s… oh.”

Once I might have felt humiliated by how frantic I sound, but not anymore. Instead, it’s just an
ecstatic sense of neediness and abandonment which leaves my eyes practically rolling back in my
head each time you lick against my hole with slow wet strokes. Oh fuck, now you’re using your
hands again: spreading me wide open so you can bury in even deeper. I moan a bit louder to
encourage you, grinding my hips into your face as you work me open while shuddering at the
warmth and thickness of the slowly stabbing tongue. In return you let go of me for a few moments,
releasing the pressure and giving me some freedom to move how I want to. It’s clearly an attempt
to be considerate – although either way your ability to wait seems dramatically limited, because it’s
still almost no time at all before you’re possessively seizing my hips again so you can thrust your
tongue back in. The whole thing feels phenomenal, and when you’ve finally finished you shift up
the bed again to lean back over me, gently rubbing my lower lip with your thumb in a silent request
to open my mouth. Your intention is extremely obvious, but while it’s the type of thing that
would’ve made me squeamish in the past I’m more than happy to oblige. Immediately I part my
lips, keeping eye contact with you the entire time, then tip my head towards you so you can spit
your come straight from your mouth into mine. As you hear me swallow it you give a low moan
then murmur a string of something rapturous in Lithuanian.

“Look at you,” you finally add in English. “Mylimasis. You’re so beautiful. You’re perfect.”

Technically, I suppose this breaches your earlier ban about not worshipping me. Only it seems
unnecessarily dickish to start pointing it out, so instead I just tell you you’re perfect yourself then
collapse against you on the pillows with a big, dumb grin on my face. I’m so incredibly relaxed and
sated that I actually end up dozing off like that, waking up with a jolt about 30 minutes later to find
you’re still leaning over me in the exact same position you were in before. It’s like you’ve simply
been lying there, fixed and immobile to watch me sleep. For a few moments I gaze back at you,
smiling slightly in equally silent devotion. The sense of closeness is striking – addictive, almost –
but it’s so impossible to go too long without touching you that I’m soon tugging you onto the
mattress again to start kissing my way down your chest. I take my time about it, admiring the
warmth and smoothness of your skin above the powerful slabs of muscle, until I’ve finally reached
as far as your waist and can snugly settle myself between your thighs. Immediately you give a low
groan: taking hold of my hair with one hand, and your cock with the other, then firmly pushing it
against my lips as if you’re trying to feed it to me. I eagerly moan in return as I start to lick around
the thickness of the head – swirling my tongue across it, lapping hungrily at the slit – before finally
widening my mouth until I’m working through the rest of the length one hot swollen inch at a time.
I take it so far I can feel my nose brushing your stomach, my throat contracting hard against how
choking and heavy it is. But although my eyes are watering and there’s saliva trickling down my
chin I don’t care, and none of it matters, because it just feels so incredibly good as I swallow you
down. Already I can feel the muscles in your abdomen drawing up tight as I build a firmer rhythm,
although the moment I taste the first salty tang of pre-come is still the moment you tug at my hair
in a silent request to stop.

“Not yet my love,” I hear you say. “I want to see you first.”

Your fingers are still twining through my hair and you end up just keeping them there, using your
hand to guide me towards you until I’m back beside you on the pillow. You start smiling when you
see me and so I smile too, tenderly kissing your forehead then letting you take hold of my hips until
you’ve managed to pull me on top of you and I’m straddling your chest again.
“Good boy,” you say softly. “Now touch yourself for me: run your hands over your body. I want to
watch you.”

Just like before I’m more than happy to oblige, quickly sliding forward until I’m providing the best
possible view for you as I start to jerk myself off. When I’m beginning to get close you open your
mouth as a sign you want me to come in it, but frustratingly it seems like I can’t quite manage to
get there. I guess it’s still too soon after last time, so to help me out you finally take hold of my
waist and lift me up with both hands before lowering me back down again straight onto your cock.
You’re so hard – and I’m still stretched and slippery from being so thoroughly fucked – that the
slide of penetration is unbelievably smooth. God I’m just so full of you. It’s like being impaled, my
thighs trembling madly with the strain of the sensation: it’s as if I’m so unsteady the only thing
preventing me toppling over is the huge length of your cock sunk deep inside my ass. Briefly I
screw my eyes closed, suddenly aware of the light brush of fingertips on my hip bones as your body
rocks up against mine.

“Oh fuck, yes,” I hiss between gritted teeth. “Yes.”

My hair’s so damp with sweat it’s tangling into my eyes, but through it I can still see the blurry
outline of the Minotaur: the rapturous way it’s arching its back like Theseus is riding it the same
way I’m riding you now. What was it you said a few months ago? You were being rather playful at
the time, yet as with so much else you say the words have gained a richer, deeper meaning with the
added context of time. ‘Love is a glass,’ you told me, ‘which makes even a monster appear
fascinating.’ Because it’s true, isn’t it? It is, and I do…so much. Sometimes I feel that all I need to
be at peace with myself is to simply look into your face and love you.

I’m so busy gazing at the statue that it’s only now I grow aware of the gentle way you’ve begun
stroking your hand along my thigh. You’re so attuned to me, aren’t you? You can tell I’ve retreated
into my head so are providing silent reassurance to guide me back again. To show you things are
okay I lean down to kiss you before gradually moving upright again with my spine arched into a
sharper curve. Oh fuck, it’s just so good. So, so good: just the thick, slippery stretch of your cock
as is slides in and out of my ass. Your eyes are extremely focussed and intense and I keep on
staring into them as I smooth my palm across my chest, slowly sliding downwards until it’s pressed
up against my abdomen.

“God,” I say, my breath breaking in a low soft moan. “Oh my God, I can really feel you.”

It’s not even just flattery because I really can: a sort of pulsing vibration deep inside from being so
utterly filled and stretched. You groan yourself then reach out towards me, rubbing against my
stomach in possessive circles before lifting me up by the waist again until only the head of your
cock is moving inside me. I can feel it dragging against the rim, nudging and rubbing demandingly
until your arms are giving another twist to bring me plunging straight back down. I let out a cry,
eyes widening in shocked satisfaction at how breathlessly good it feels as the tension quivers
through my entire body. At this angle the penetration is so deep it’s like you’re barely able to fit
inside me, piercing me open with each thrust as I groan and stretch further in the tight wet slide up
and down your cock, eager to push my body to its absolute limit.

“Yes,” I keep gasping. It sounds more like a chant by this time: a mantra or an article of faith,
frantic shards of sound spilling out between my lips as I’m being fucked. “Yes, yes, oh God.”

“That’s it,” you say adoringly. “Beloved. You take it so well.” For a few seconds your own breath
catches, eyes screwing tightly closed as your head tips back. “You’re perfect,” you say. “You’re
perfect.”

As you’re speaking you rub your palm against my stomach again in a series of slow circles –
clearly enjoying the depth of the vibrations each time you fuck into me – then promptly speed up
the rhythm until you’re slamming into me with enough force to make my knees slide over the sheet
as I helplessly cry out for you over and over. I don’t even have to move at all now; it’s like you’re
determined to do all the work for both of us.

“God, you’re so fucking big,” I somehow manage to add. “You’re gonna make me come like this.
You know that don’t you? Just being filled up with your cock is going to be enough.” I pause for a
few seconds, catching my lip between my teeth before gesturing rather wildly in the direction of
the statue. “I already know how it would feel if that thing was fucking me,” I say. “It would feel
like this. Being vulnerable but powerful. Losing control and liking it. Oh God, Hannibal. Fuck. It
would feel how something that’s supposed to be wrong is right in a way I can’t even describe.”

I sound a bit wild now, but it’s still true. I can’t describe it: nothing can really describe you. You
defy description and you always have done. You can’t be explained or accounted for, only felt and
experienced.

“I love you,” I say almost desperately. “Oh God, I love you. I love you.”

This time when we come it’s pretty much together, the whole thing concluding in a contented
tangle of limbs across the bed with your head on my shoulder as I stroke your hair. Afterwards we
both doze for a while (at least I do; you never doze so much as lie there with slitty cat eyes, silently
recharging like a giant cell phone) before pouncing on each other all over again barely 40 minutes
later. It starts with a lot of kissing and touching that’s worshipful and slightly exploratory – like
we’re checking the other one out, confirming that yes, this is really happening – although
eventually I get so aroused I simply can’t wait anymore and end up tugging you upright so you can
sit on my cock and ride me. To be honest this can often be a bit of a nightmare (albeit a very
enjoyable one) because you tend to be incredibly controlling when I’m on top: pinning me onto the
bed by the wrists then grinding down in a deliberately tormenting way by refusing to let me come.
In moments like that, you during sex isn’t entirely different to you in a fight. It’s like you want to
force me to surrender to you: an opportunity to demonstrate dominance and physical strength.

This time, however, it’s absolutely nothing like that. Instead you’re being much more conciliatory,
letting me hold onto your hips to guide the pace then moving very rhythmically in a way that
works for both of us. I give you a rather lop-side smile of acknowledgement then gently stroke my
hand across your thigh. My breath is coming very rapidly by now: soft little sighs and gasps to
match the ones you’re making yourself

“That’s it,” I say fondly. “Just like that. Behave yourself for once.”

You give me a distinctly wicked smile in return, followed by another deep roll of your hips. God,
you look amazing this way: very fluid and loose-limbed with your back arched and your eyes
lightly closed, muscles lithe and supple as they flex in the lamplight every time you move. You’re
perfect. So beautifully stormy and wild. A terrible tempest of flame, fearlessness, intelligence, and
passion, like a breathing sculpture or poetry brought to life…I could watch you like this forever. In
fact, I end up so absorbed by you that the next orgasm almost takes me by surprise (how many
have I even had now? By this point I’ve lost count) leaving me with breath that’s racing and
ragged breath as my body spasms and I abruptly start to come again. I’m deep inside you when it
happens with our fingers laced together, but afterwards I still flip onto my knees without being
asked, simply because I know you’re so possessive right now that you’d far prefer to finish inside
me than be jerked off over my chest. By the time it’s finally over I can already see the sun starting
to rise, streaking the sky with scarlet and vermillion like blood on black velvet. A new dawn and a
new day: the end of one thing and the beginning of something else. It’s lighting you up like your
own personal spotlight: you and the bleeding sky. Oh God, I love you so much. There’s nothing
else except you.

The force of this emotion is sincere – intensely so. In fact, it’s so sincere that none of it seems
remotely possible to express in words, and in the end I just silently move forwards to show you
instead; sliding my hand into your hair without breaking eye contact then gently pulling you
against me to kiss you. Compared to what we’ve just been doing it’s downright chaste, yet it
doesn’t feel anti-climactic compared to the sex. On the contrary it’s a continuation of it, because no
one has ever kissed me like you do. Not women during relationships, or men during those furtive,
messy fumblings in college: no one except you even comes close. You always do it so thoroughly,
with a level of intensity that borders on violent, but it’s like it’s how you feel I deserve to be kissed;
with attention, passion, and devoted dedication. It’s as if it’s something I’m made for – something
developed entirely for you – and I return it with enthusiasm that’s equally fierce and fearless. Your
tongue is so warm and wet as it hooks between my teeth, probing and exploring while our mouths
smear together. As I start to suck it you groan slightly, the piercing points of your teeth scraping
against my parted lips while you tangle your fingers round mine. To an outsider it would look
rough, but we both know it’s not from an attempt to harm, or even to dominate, but simply to
demonstrate love. I can’t get enough of you, we’re telling each other with every harsh movement
and every thrust and push. I can’t, I can’t – it’ll never be enough. Let me own you, claim you…this
is how much you matter to me.

When it’s finally over you hold me against you as I try to catch my breath, one hand curled around
my shoulders while your fingers gently stroke along the edge of my throat and face. I can feel
myself starting to quiver again now; urgently clinging to your body in an impossible bid to ever
feel truly close enough. In turn, you’re not kissing me anymore so much as inhaling against me,
smelling my skin from jaw to collarbone in a blatant gesture of ownership while your face rubs
across my face and hair. You’re so tactile, aren’t you? You’re like a wolf, caught in a softer and
more affectionate moment: lots of scenting and nuzzling with the occasional nip of teeth, breath
falling warm against my skin as your tongue licks along the curve of my throat. When you see me
looking you start to smile, finally going still for long enough to trace your finger down my
cheekbone. The beginnings of sunset are streaming through the window now and the low light is
bringing out the slight reddish tint in your eyes. They’re so deep and fathomless, aren’t they. Your
eyes: bright-edged flints, the colour of dark blood and amber…

“Mano meilė,” you say softly. “You’re so beautiful.”

Beside me I can hear how you’re still panting; equally exhausted as I am. I love seeing you this
wrecked. I smile too, wrinkling my nose at you before leaning over to give you a small nudge. “Oh
shut up,” I say. “I’m not beautiful.”

You promptly start to smile again as your hands resume their gentle exploration: trailing along my
ribs, skimming over my chest, then gradually sliding downwards so you can dig your thumbs inside
the hollow of my hipbone. As I give a small moan you murmur appreciatively then run your
tongue across my lower lip.

“Al contrario, mio amato,” you say.

I attempt to give you another nudge, only to end up dissolving into the same snorting cackles as
earlier when you catch hold of my hand to nudge me back. I can’t help it: it’s just so rare for you to
let go enough to be dumb and playful, and it’s always rather exhilarating whenever it happens.

“I’m not beautiful,” I repeat, before adding more firmly: “And you’re not a monster.”

“Again, there are many people who would disagree with you.”
“You’re not,” I insist. “Not to me – and I don’t care what other people think.”

“You’ve called me worse yourself in the past.”

“Well, you’ve called me a mongoose. And a boy. And a whore…” I pause to furrow my eyebrows
together. “Am I missing any?”

You give the tiniest hint of a smirk before leaning down again to kiss my forehead. “Shrew.”

“Oh yeah. Shrew. Well then, there you go: who cares what you think either?”

This immediately makes you break into one your rare exuberant smiles; the type that reaches your
eyes and causes your face to crease. “Trust me, my love,” you say. “Imagining that you care what I
think is not a misconception I have ever been labouring under.”

I grin back at you, then take advantage of the distraction to get another nudge in (just for the hell of
it) before collapsing in a sprawling heap against the pillows. I’m so tired, but it doesn’t matter; I
know I’m still not ready to let this moment go. After all, it’s our first night together being engaged.
It’s the sort of thing that can only ever happen once and I want to savour it. Make it last. Leaning
over I run my hand down your arm until I can reach yours then twine our fingers together.

“I need to buy you an engagement ring,” I say. My voice is thick with exhaustion, but I don’t care
anymore. All I know is that I don’t want to leave you. Not yet: not even for a few hours.

“Mano meilė.” You smile again, the forefinger of your other hand beginning to stoke along my
cheekbone. “You are very welcome to do that – but it would make me even happier if you bought
me a wedding ring instead.”

I immediately crack open an eye so I can catch yours. “Oh yeah?” I say with another smile.

“Yes, indeed.” You’re smiling too now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this much: the types
of smiles that go beyond your mouth, even beyond your eyes. Your face could be totally
motionless and somehow I’d still know you were smiling inside. “Not even the tremendous
pleasure of calling you my fiancée can persuade me to make this engagement a long one,” you add.
“I want to marry you, beloved. I want that more than I have ever wanted anything – and the sooner
it happens the better.”

“Well, that’s good,” I say quietly. “Because it’s what I want too.”

For a few moments I now fall silent again, suddenly struck by the realisation that even if I didn’t
want it then things would still be okay. When have I ever been truly able to say that? After all, I’ve
had the sense for many years that you were prepared to offer me endless devotion and regard, but it
was always in a way that was conditional: just so long as I never questioned or challenged you. It
doesn’t feel like that anymore, does it? I could defy you right now – tell you no, then tell you again
– and it wouldn’t matter. For a while I just stare at you without speaking, relishing this moment of
mutual peace and acceptance as I slowly tangle then re-tangle your fingers in my own. You stare
back just as intensely, your other hand continuing the gentle stroking motion through my hair.

"Sei talmente bello così,” you say finally.

I smile at you again, very slow and sleepy. “That’s cheating. You don’t get a pass for saying it in
Italian.”

“But what am I to do?” you ask with the same gentle fondness. “I say it because it is true. It’s
strange, Will: this is such a small speck of time – a fleeting moment, destined to be lost and worn
away – yet I shall never forget how you look right now. So peaceful, as if all the chaos in your
head has finally fallen silent. Serene and softened and sated and beautiful. And mine.” You pause
very briefly yourself then wrap your arm tighter around me, pulling me close while pressing
delicate kisses along the length of my throat. “No matter what happens afterwards, I shall always
remember you this way,” you add. “Your perfection in this moment shall haunt me for the rest of
my life.”

“That sounds rather ominous,” I reply, equally fondly. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not exactly,” you reply, in between kisses. “You mistake me, my love: it is not pessimism, but
pragmatism only. I hope we’ve established that I have good intentions towards you, but the last few
months are nothing if not a reminder of how good intentions are not always enough.” For a few
seconds you glance up at me, dark eyes still gleaming very softly in the low light. “Hence I fear
that my judgement may fail me again in the future.”

“Not may,” I reply. “It will. You’ll get it wrong. So will I.” As I’m speaking I lean in towards you,
slowly stroking my finger along the side of your cheek. “And then when we do – we’ll fix it.”

“Yes,” you say. “Yes.” You pause then smile again, briefly looking intense and almost dream-like
as if inspecting some internal panorama that encompasses far more than what’s simply happening
at that moment in the room. “You remind me of the lines by Rilke,” you say finally. “But every
touch draws us together, as a violin’s bow: from two strings draws one voice.”

“I know,” I reply, equally softly. “It’s always been that way. It was only the music that changed.”

“Yes, indeed: a growing sense of harmony.” Once more you leave another pause to gaze at me,
reaching out at the same time to tenderly cup my face in your palm. “It’s extraordinary, isn’t it
mano meilė? Just how far we have journeyed together. The small shabby boy with a headful of
horrors who couldn’t even look me in the eye…destined to become all the great warriors and
philosophers of the world to me.”

Your voice is so soft now; once again it feels as if you’re taking off the mask to really let me see
what lies beneath it. “I adore you, Will,” you add, still very soft and intense. “I don’t think you can
ever fully understand how much. You are my inspiration. A piece of unprincipled poetry: all
delicacy, fury, grace, and passion. You pierce my mind yet consume my interest, and when we’re
lying here together like this I feel I could happily live in a world I’d given up for you with no one
else present.”

“No, I can understand,” I say. Without breaking eye contact, I raise your hand to my lips then
gently kiss the back of it. “Do you want to hear something weird?”

“Always.”

“Well, sometimes…” I say slowly. “Sometimes I felt like that the only way I could catch the
Ripper was to become him.” As our eyes meet I find myself hesitating, the words briefly fading
away as I start to remember it: that anguished sense of fascination with beauty, horror, self-
realisation, and the grimly grinning vigour of death. “That meant a part of me became you,” I
eventually add. “And I never let it go again. I remember feeling how at times it was as if we’d
fused together: like my mind was your mind. Like I was you and you were me. It was as if we
weren’t two people anymore but one. Two halves of the same whole, and I didn’t know anymore
where I ended and you began. Sometimes I even felt like I would have merged with you, if such a
thing was possible. That if it were possible…I would have done it.”

I’ve got my eyes closed now, unsure anymore if I’m talking more to you or to me. Not that it really
matters, I suppose: it’s all the same in the end. “Tell me, my love,” I can hear you saying. “Tell me
why.”

This makes me smile slightly. I know you’re already aware of exactly why, but you still want to
hear me describe it in my own words – just the same as I so often do with you. “Sometimes I felt
like I wanted to step inside you,” I add in the same quiet voice. “In fact, that might be what I
remember the most. I didn’t just want to be close to you; I felt as if wanted to be you. I felt like the
only way I could ever be near enough would be to climb into your body and wear it as my own.”

Abruptly I now open my eyes. Yours are gleaming back at me in the dimness and I can
immediately see how tender you look. How devoted. It’s strange, isn’t it; do you think so too? How
someone so feared and lethal as you are – someone who wields such an impossible amount of
power – could grow so soft and pliant beneath my touch. That my fingers through your hair can
make you quiver then catch your breath. The way you close your eyes when I kiss you.

“You understand why, don’t you?” I now add.

“Tell me, beloved,” you repeat, your voice just as soft as mine.

“Because of how I experienced you,” I reply, beginning to take hold of your hand again. “You were
an enlargement and extension of myself, like looking into a broken mirror. Me but not-me. Because
when I looked at you, I saw myself staring back. You were like my dark reflection, Hannibal – the
dark side of myself – but the difference was that you owned it and accepted it so completely I felt
like I could love you for it. I felt like the only way I could know myself was through knowing you.
For you to bring me into your darkness. That it would be the only way I could ever be free or safe.
Be at peace.”

“And now you are all of those things, my love.” For a few moments you just stare at me before
finally reaching up to cradle my face in both hands, your thumbs gently smoothing beneath my
eyes as if trying to stroke away the shadows there. “Safe, peaceful, and free. But not only by
knowing me. You accomplished it by forcing me to fully know you.”

This makes me smile again; even after everything, I still wasn’t quite expecting you to admit it so
readily. “Yes,” I reply in the same quiet voice.

“Do you see now?” you ask, equally quietly. “Do you see that I was speaking the truth when I told
you that the process of becoming belonged entirely to you.”

“Not entirely,” I say with another smile. “Not completely – not through want of trying.”

“That’s true,” you reply before adding, with a strikingly simple sincerity: “I did try – and I failed. I
was a far less accomplished architect than I gave myself credit for, Will: the true arbiter of this
particular masterpiece was you. You were the tinder lying in wait for a flame. I suppose I was
closer to the truth all those years ago than I even realised, wasn’t I? That I can influence and
persuade – whisper through the chrysalis – but that whatever emerges is destined to follow its own
nature and is beyond me.”

“Yeah, you definitely got that right,” I say. “Wrong, perhaps, with the process – but right with the
result.”

“And I hope you understand now that I would never want it otherwise.” You smile, suddenly
playful again as you move your hand up to stroke my hair out of my eyes. “If I saw you merely as
an acolyte or apprentice I would have grown bored with you long ago. Instead, you are my equal.
And very soon…you are going to be my husband.”
“I know.” Briefly I fall silent, struck all over again by the enormity of it before finally starting to
laugh (and which is intended to sound wry and worldly, but ends up as more of a demented giggle
instead). “We’re going to be married.”

“We are,” you reply with obvious contentment. “An aspiration, I should add, that before I met you
I could never have known I even wanted. To love or have loved, as the saying goes. That is
enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life.”

“I like your gloomy love quotes,” I say. Oh God, I’m so tired now; I’m not sure how much longer I
can possibly stay awake. Even so, I’m still grimly clinging on. I can’t leave you yet. I don’t want
to. “I hope you keep them coming,” I add. “The more morbid the better.”

“Rest assured, I have a steady supply.” You smile back at me then gently stroke my hair again.
“But if you ever require something more traditionally romantic, you only need to ask.”

“No,” I reply. “I was actually being serious: I like them because they’re very you. They’re dark and
elegant and slightly obtuse.”

“Well, I like your points of comparison,” you say fondly. “And if you are using the language of
geometry then allow me to offer one of my own. If I am obtuse then you are acute.”

A part of me wants to make a lame joke about neither of us being straight, but your knowledge of
slang is so woeful you almost certainly won’t get the reference and I can’t really be bothered to
explain it. “And neither of us are right,” I say instead. “No nice, neat 90 degrees.”

“Certainly not,” you reply with another smile. “Right angles are necessary, but also rather dull and
predictable. You and I have always charted a more arbitrary course.”

“Arbitrary,” I repeat. “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

Immediately your smile starts to broaden. “And what would some of the others be?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, waving my hand around as if summoning inspiration. “Illegal. Immoral.
Depraved.”

“Adequate descriptors, I suppose – although not ones I would have chosen myself.”

“Unhinged?” I smile too then lean a little nearer until I can kiss your forehead. “Monstrous. Not
that I care anymore. If you’re a monster then I am too.”

“A monster is in the eye of the beholder,” you reply with a level of tenderness that’s genuinely
touching to hear. “But it is also a creature of imagination. You and I are real. This…” You pause
then lean closer yourself until our foreheads are pressed together. “This is real.”

“Yes.” I let out a contented sigh, reaching round until I’m clinging onto you even tighter. “It took
years, but yes. Finally.”

This time you don’t answer straight away. Instead, you just lie there incredibly still: nothing except
the slight rise and fall of your chest in the shadows. I used to find the way you’d do that unnerving,
didn’t I? Intimidating. Eerie. Now I just find it graceful and strangely endearing, because it’s a trait
I associate so entirely with you. “Indeed,” you eventually reply. “Many years. But now it is real
and tangible, as well as several other things. Wild and beautiful. Powerful. Uncontrollable.”

“Uncontrollable?” I ask fondly. “That doesn’t sound like you. Dr Control Freak. I don’t think
anything’s ever happened to you that you couldn’t control.”
 “Mylimasis,” you say. “Mano meilė. That might have been true once, but not anymore.” I can feel
your fingers in my hair now; your lips skimming across my cheeks and eyelids as I slowly drift
away. “After all, my love: you happened to me.”

Chapter End Notes

I’m so sorry guys, but despite my best efforts it’s looking unlikely I’ll be able to finish
this fic quite as fully as I’d first hoped for. Instead, my main goal now is to just get it
wrapped up ASAP, which’ll mean shorter chapters going forward and a lot of planned
material cut out. There are admittedly disadvantages to this in terms of story quality,
but on balance it really feels like a better option for all of us to just draw a line under it
rather than dragging it on for months and months as a WIP that’s run out of steam.

On the plus side, I’m determined not to let the trolls drive me out the fandom
completely, so after a bit of an AO3 break my goal is to start posting the missing
scenes/plot threads as standalone mini-fics which will form part of the ‘Love Crime’
series. And if you’ve read this far then please don’t worry: I’m still committed to
giving you a proper ending (which means including as many remaining reader requests
as possible, and as many loose ends as I can manage getting fully wrapped up) xox
 Chapter 53
Chapter Notes

There’s a bit more plot, and a bit less pretentious dialogue...but otherwise I’m afraid
this is another one that’s pretty much nothing but fluff and smut :-/ However, on the
plus side, some gorgeous fanart is now available from DD_cookmelonger, which you
can feast your eyes on here :-D Also, huge thanks to AgentPink for doing a
phenomenal internet deep dive to compile a master post of the beautiful fanart that’s
been made for this fic and The Shape of Me over the years. There are so many talented
creators in this fandom, we’re all so lucky to have them <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

I fall into a sleep so deep it practically borders on coma, only finally waking up again hours later to
realise it’s already gone midday. I can’t even remember the last time I stayed in bed this late and
the awareness creates a rather gleeful sense of transgression: like being a teenager again at the start
of summer, with nothing stretching ahead of me but long, lazy days where nothing matters and I’ve
no responsibility for anything. Even so what’s far more notable is the fact that you’re still asleep
yourself, because if I wasn’t here to witness it then I’d scarcely have believed it was possible. At
the very least it must surely be some type of personal record? I now start to smile at the sight of
you then run my finger down your cheekbone with a quietly contented sigh. I love waking up like
this. The way the sunlight is bathing the bed, your body strong and warm as it curves around mine
in a way which fits so snugly it’s as if you’re meant to be there. We always want to stay so close to
one another, don’t we? I’ve never had this with a partner before: to fall asleep entwined in each
other’s arms, only to wake up afterwards the exact same way.

Next to me you now stir very slightly so I lean over again to carefully smooth a few stray strands of
hair out your eyes. You seem so peaceful; I’ll never get tired of seeing you like this. I guess there’s
also still a certain sense of novelty to it, because sleeping this soundly in front of me is something
you’ve only very recently allowed yourself to do. You have that classic predatory instinct which
disdains vulnerability of any kind, so even after we’d been sharing a bed for a while it was clear
you harboured a strong dislike of me waking up before you did. Only now you don’t seem to care
anymore, and your patterns reflect that; not only in falling asleep much earlier, but by remaining
like that far longer. It’s your way of showing you trust me and are comfortable in my presence, and
at the thought of it I can feel myself smiling all over again. It means a lot to me, and I hope you
know that. To be trusted by someone like you is almost as big a tribute as being loved.

I’ve been taking care not to disturb you, but as I watch your eyes now suddenly snap open to gaze
at me before your mouth opens for a long, cat-like yawn that reveals your tongue and rows of sharp
white teeth. The fact it’s so informal and out of character makes it ridiculously charming; so much
so that it nearly makes me wonder if you’re doing it on purpose. I immediately move across to
nuzzle my forehead against yours, arching up against you as your fingers wind into my hair while
your other arm wraps around my shoulders.

“Morning,” I say.

You look sufficiently tired I just know you’re going to forget to speak English, and sure enough the
start of your reply is sharp and Slavic-sounding before your mouth and brain finally reconnect
themselves and you switch back halfway through. “It can’t possibly be morning,” you say. “The
sun is too low in the sky.”

“Figure of speech.” I smile a bit more then squint towards the window before turning back to face
you again. “But if it makes you feel better: good afternoon.”

You give a satisfied nod and I immediately feel my smile start to broaden. It probably does make
you feel better: for such an epic bullshitter, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with such a hard-
on for accuracy as you.

“At least room service took the hint,” I now add, waving my hand towards the bedsheets. As
gestures go this is admittedly rather vague, although in my head is meant to imply that the entire
room looks exactly like what it is: somewhere we spent literally all night having sex in. “It would
have been a bit awkward if they’d come barging in with the breakfast tray.”

“Indeed it would,” you reply, even though we both know I’m the one who’d have found it
awkward and you wouldn’t have had a single shit to give. “That’s why I took care to hang the ‘do
not disturb’ sign on the door.”

“Do not disturb,” I repeat. “It should really say ‘Already disturbed’.” You give a rather agonised
sigh at this, although I politely decide to ignore it (not least because you’re the absolute last person
to complain about someone else’s fucking awful puns). “Are you hungry?” I ask instead, suddenly
rather rueful at the lack of a breakfast tray. “Do you want me to make you something?”

“Thank you, but I am ambivalent.”

“What do you mean you’re ambivalent?” I say fondly. “Either you are or you aren’t.”

“Well…” you reply, pretending to think about it. “On one hand being served a belated breakfast in
bed by your charming self has considerable appeal.”

“Okay: what’s your other hand?”

“That doing so will require you to vacate said bed – and lying in it with my beautiful, naked fiancée
in my arms in more appealing still.”

“Then I’ll serve it to you naked,” I say with a hint of smugness. “How’s that for a compromise?”

“I think it is admirable.” Your eyes are practically gleaming now; it’s obvious just how much you
like the idea of it. “Look at you, my love: brains as well as beauty. Clearly I have chosen wisely.”

The fact you’re using my perceived positive qualities as a way to compliment yourself now strikes
me as being equally ludicrous and endearing, and as you start to smirk at me I quickly lean
forwards again so I can search out your mouth for a kiss. I’m only intending it to be a brief one, but
your lips are so soft and inviting – and your skin feels so warm against mine – that it rapidly gets
out of control and ends up going on and on and on for what seems like hours. I just love kissing
you so much, I really do: there’s almost something addictive about it. I love the quiet noises we
both make, how we arch against one another, or the way our lips fit so perfectly it’s like they were
always intended to be slotted together. It’s just such a soothing, sensuous way to begin the day with
a gentle slide of tongues as the sunlight streams through window, your fingers twining through my
hair while my palms skim up and down your back.

“I love you,” I say softly when we finally break apart to breathe. “So much. I know I don’t tell you
that often enough – from now on I’ll try to do better. Every day, at least.”
Your sole response is to murmur my name to yourself before pouncing down for another kiss. The
brush of your fingertips against bare skin feels so good: it makes me shiver slightly, a small moan
lodging itself in the back of my throat as your palm slides down my ribcage to cup itself round my
hipbone. I’m well aware of how hard I am – the hot, heavy weight of it pressing across my
abdomen – but as you start to reach towards the nightstand for the lube I find myself making an
amused sound before catching hold of you to stop.

“You’re insatiable,” I say fondly. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t. You pretty much wrecked me last
night – I can’t even walk straight. You’re going to have to give me a couple of hours.”

I’m expecting you to smile back but instead you just look very solemn and serious. “Mylimasis,”
you say. “Beloved. Rejecting my advances is not something you ever have to apologise for.”

“It’s okay,” I reply. Privately I feel a bit bemused; I’m not exactly sure where you’re going with
this. “I know that.”

“Good. But in that respect, there is something else I want you to know.”

“What?”

“I adore making love to you.” You leave a small pause, smiling at me again before leaning down
to lightly brush your lips against my forehead. “It is without question one of the most fulfilling
experiences of my life. You’re so beautiful when you lose control. You’re perfect…”

Your voice is very tender, but of course you still can’t help yourself and the faint emphasis on
‘losing control’ makes it clear you’re expanding the notion of inhibition to far more violent
contexts than just sex. Briefly you now catch my eye, smiling slightly once you’re satisfied I’ve got
the reference before immediately growing gentler and more relaxed again. “But if you forbade me
from touching you,” you add, “then I could still learn to be content with it. Because nothing –
nothing – can ever give me so much pleasure as hearing the type of declaration you made just now.
That was all I ever wanted from you, Will. It was what I waited years for: give me that and I can
never ask you for anything more. My imago…” You pause for a few moments, gazing very
soulfully into my eyes as your fingers continue the rhythmic stroking through my hair. “Do you
understand? Your body is necessary to me, but your mind is essential.”

This time I just gaze back at you without speaking, aware of a sudden wave of emotion that’s
possibly more on your behalf than it even is for my own. There’s such an unspoken gulf of
yearning and loneliness in your expression, and it indicates a much deeper depth of feeling than
mere words ever could: all those empty, wasted years of craving something I so violently refused
to let you have. Admittedly I’m not surprised by it, because your response to my recent withdrawal
was more than enough to prove how much it still matters to you. Even so, it can sometimes be
rather jarring to realise that those emotions aren’t quite so new in you as they might have initially
appeared. Briefly I now find myself remembering Mr Haversham and his thoughts about a time
machine: the idea of a future self which travels backwards to comfort the sad self of the past. I’ve
been in need of that so many times, haven’t I? It’s often easy to forget that you have too.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. As I’m speaking I slide my hand into your hair, pulling you closer so I can
press your face against my shoulder. “You’ll always have both. I won’t take them back again.”

Although you smile at me you still look rather sad, and I know that’s yet another thing about you
that’s gradually starting to change. It used to only be me who was haunted by all the old injuries
and losses of the past. Making yourself more open to emotion has leant an extra layer of
pensiveness and reflection to you that still feels surprising to see; and is further evidence that when
you told me you were practicing empathy you really were telling me the truth.
“You’re a victim of your own competence,” I say now. I lean far enough upright to bump your
forehead with mine as I’m speaking, which is the kind of playfully dumb gesture that’s always
guaranteed to make you smile. “If you weren’t so good in bed you wouldn’t get me into this state.
God, we spent all night having sex.” I pause then watch as your smile promptly morphs from
amused into smug right before my eyes. “Although I suppose we might as well make the most of it
while we can,” I add sardonically. “Married couples never have sex.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it is. Everyone knows that: it’s like the small print in the wedding vows.”

“Well, I for one did not know that,” you reply. “And I shall soon see to it that you no longer know
it either.”

“Even so…” I say with mock-seriousness. “I still think we should make the most of this time while
we’re only engaged. Y’know? Just to be on the safe side.”

“Oh yes,” you say. “Better safe than sorry – indeed.” You smirk again then use your thumb to
caress the soft skin at the back of my neck, very sensuous and suggestive before slowly skimming
down the curve of my jaw like you’re trying to memorise each contour. “And what exactly did you
have in mind?”

“Oh, you know…” I say lightly. “This and that.”

Before I’ve finished speaking I’m already starting to kiss my way down your chest, and in the end
it seems like no time at all before I find myself sprawling on my back with my head hanging off
the edge of the bed so you can kneel on the ottoman in front of me to slide your cock all the way
down my throat. It feels like you’re literally fucking my mouth, but even though the choking
thickness is enough to make me gag I love it so much it never occurs to me to want to stop. God,
you’re leaking so much pre-come I need to keep pausing at intervals to swallow it. Above me you
give a low groan then reach down to where my hand is dangling uselessly across my chest so you
can raise it to your lips to kiss the side of my wrist.

“Beloved,” you say. Your voice is incredibly hoarse; I’ll never get enough of hearing you this
wrecked. Immediately you break off to groan again then wrap your palm rather wonderingly
around my neck so you can feel it straining; muscles and tendons all bulging fiercely at how much
space your cock is taking up inside it while I swallow you down. “Your throat’s so small,” you
finally manage to add. “Mylimasis. Mano meilė. That feels…”

Quickly I shove myself further forward until my nose is crushed right up against your abdomen.
My lips are stretched round you so tightly: the scent and taste of it is driving me a bit wild and you
now let out such a growling moan in response that you never do get to tell me what it feels like.
Not that it matters, of course; it’s still extremely easy to guess. Your breath is harsh and ragged
with how much you’re enjoying it, but while your fingers are winding firmly into my hair you
never try to force me to take more than I want to. Instead your touches are gently encouraging,
stroking along my jaw in a request to take you deeper without ever attempting to make me.

“So beautiful, Will,” you murmur, reaching out for my hand again so you can press a kiss against
my palm. “The way you look…”

There’s no way you’ll ever say it out loud, although I already know what you’re thinking: ‘I love
the way you look sucking my cock.’ I moan around you to show you I like it too, clamping my lips
together to take it harder and deeper then sucking rather frantically as your cock slides thick and
hard along my tongue before pounding the back of my throat. You give your hips a series of rugged
thrusts in response then for a few moments actually stop and pull out entirely just so you can lean
down to run your mouth across mine. Your skin feels so sensuous – warm and satiny-smooth, with
a musky salty tang of sweat and arousal – and I eagerly arch myself against you until you finally
straighten back up again to line your cock up with my mouth. I slowly swirl my tongue around it,
starting with just a light flicking movement then progressing to longer licks and shallow kisses
before letting out a muffled groan as you abruptly thrust it all the way back in again.

God, you’re so close to coming now, aren’t you: I can feel the way your muscles are twitching
each time I hit a particularly sensitive spot. The sensation is so addictive that I don’t even care
about myself anymore – all I can focus on is trying to make you feel as good as possible. You’ve
clearly got other ideas though, because somehow you’re still able to muster sufficient presence of
mind to haul my legs onto my chest until I’m bent in half and you can lean over to spread me open
with both hands before starting to eat me out. As the slippery thickness of your tongue slides into
me I quiver then let out a stifled wail, completely losing track of what I’m doing until my head
goes still and you need to start moving your hips to make up for it. I keep moaning helplessly
around your cock, my body giving pitiful little jerks of pleasure each time the tight ring of muscle
gets breached while you continue thrusting back and forwards to fuck my mouth. Above me I can
hear you murmuring my name, and as I begin to rock myself against your face you push in a long
finger to help you bury your tongue even deeper; licking and sucking in warm, wet circles before
finally adding a second one.

“Just let go,” you say when you briefly pull away to kiss my thigh. “I want you to enjoy yourself,
beloved. Nothing else matters.”

The sincerity in your tone is so obvious that I instinctively know how deeply you believe what
you’re saying – not least from how much you love watching me fall apart beneath your touch. In
this respect I’ve barely given my own cock any attention at all, but I’m so feverishly turned on by
now that when you begin to stroke my prostate I know I’m going to end up coming anyway. It’s
impossible not to – inevitable – and as you adjust your face to start sucking the tight, slippery skin
that’s stretched around your fingers I arch my back almost violently, legs twisting round you as I
dig my heel into your back in an urgent attempt to keep you in place. Oh fuck, I’m just so wet:
dripping with your saliva as my abdomen gets soaked with a glistening pool of pre-come. In fact
there’s something rather humiliating about finishing so soon, but even as I try to stop myself I
know the struggle is useless. You always have this effect on me: it's like my body is far more eager
to follow your instructions than my own. My free hand is twisting into the bedsheet, hips thrusting
into nothing then letting out another desperate whine at the way I can feel my ass clenching down
on your tongue and fingers as they fuck me so relentlessly.

“Oh yes,” you say when you realise it’s about to happen. “My beautiful boy. Yes.”

You take hold of my ankles, spreading my legs further apart so you can watch me coming, then
wait until I’m trembling and empty before leaning back down again to scoop it off my stomach and
licking your fingers clean. Unbelievably you’re still managing to keep pounding your cock on the
back of my throat throughout the whole thing – although even your iron self-control can’t last
indefinitely, because it’s now that you let out a final groan as your hips start to stutter and you
promptly end up coming too. I moan ecstatically as I feel it filling my mouth, but while it seems to
last for ages you’re somehow able to pull out before you’ve finished just so you can get the rest on
my face instead. The sensation promptly makes me moan even louder, because it all feels so
wonderfully intense: the way you’ve got your fingers knotted into my hair to hold my head still as
thick, hot ropes of it spatter onto my chin and cheekbones. I try to drag my tongue around to lap up
whatever bits I can reach, and at the sight of it you moan yourself then lean forward to kiss me,
tongue plunging in deep in an obvious desire to taste yourself in my mouth.
Once it’s finally over and we’ve both stopped panting you kneel down properly so you can cradle
my face in your hands hand before kissing me all over again with great care and thoroughness.
You’re stroking my jaw very tenderly with your thumb, almost as if you’re trying to comfort me,
and it’s only then that I realise how utterly wrecked I must look: lips swollen from all the friction,
damp hair tangling across my forehead and eyes that are streaming from repeated applications of
the gag reflex. I probably seem as if I’ve been through some sort of ordeal, so I now reach round
myself to tangle my hand into your own hair, lightly tugging it then moaning into your mouth to
confirm that I’m fine and enjoyed it as much as you did. In fact, I feel rather lightheaded –
delirious, even – and eventually just end up lying there so I can drunkenly stare at the ceiling while
cycling through a response set that begins with ragged panting, proceeds to something a bit like
giggling, and finally culminates in a series of staccato exclamations along the lines of: “Oh God.
Oh my God, that was…God. Fucking hell.”

“That’s very profound Will,” you say fondly. “You are a natural theologian.”

“Well, it was.”

“It was. I agree.”

“God,” I repeat.

“Although what has God got to do with it really?” you ask, leaning further down so you can press
your forehead against my temple. “I would suggest leaving Him out of the whole thing.”

“Shut up Hannibal,” I say amicably.

“Granted, I suppose He does have a tendency to insinuate Himself where He is not wanted – here
as with so much else.”

“Seriously though,” I say, pretending to bite your shoulder, “do shut up. Why can’t we just have a
nice, non-philosophical, non-theological post-coital moment like normal people?”

“Because we are not normal,” your reply, not sounding remotely concerned about it. I give a snort
of laughter and you smile again before beginning to stroke my hair. “Any other religious
revelations to get out your system?” you add.

“No,” I say, pretending to consider it. “I think I'm done now.”

“Well, in that case: hallelujah.”

“Oh do shut up,” I say. I draw in a shuddering breath then start to laugh again, which immediately
makes your smile broaden even further.

“I like you this way,” you say softly. “Mylimasis: I like it very much. So mischievous and high-
spirited. Captivating. Beautiful.” You back down again for another kiss, lips brushing lightly over
mine to lick into my mouth before pulling away with a gentle tug of teeth. “Not that that is entirely
accurate either of course, because everything you do is captivating – and you are beautiful all the
time.”

Before you’ve even finished your mouth is already seeking out mine, and for a while it seems like
neither of us are ever going to be bothered to move and might just stay there indefinitely. The only
problem is that my head is still dangling off the bed, and eventually I’m hanging there so long I get
dizzy and reluctantly need to stop kissing you so I can roll myself upright again to slump across the
pillows. You immediately settle yourself next to me, so I spend some time just gently stroking my
hands across your body instead, exploring its dips and contours while admiring the combination of
angular bones and smooth, firm muscles. You’re intensely masculine in many ways, yet still with a
certain sculptured elegance that elevates you beyond mere brute strength. I love it so much; I want
to memorize the way you feel. In a way it makes me remember the old days and how I used to
admire you from behind a mask of dispassionate disinterest which was never entirely genuine. I
suppose there was always something sensuous between us wasn’t there, even before it was sexual.
I always thought you were beautiful.

“I love you,” I say quietly. Briefly I press my palm down against your sternum, marvelling at the
slow, solid throb of your heartbeat. “You’re so stunning. You’re perfect. I’ll never, ever get tired of
touching at you.”

Your response to situations like these is always incredibly endearing, because no matter how hard
you try to hide it it’s obvious how much you love the attention. By this point you’re basking in it:
practically preening. Right on cue you now break into one of your rare exuberant smiles, so I kiss
you again even more tenderly before finally hauling myself off the bed to start preparing the
promised breakfast. To be honest I kind of regret offering now: mainly because I can’t really be
bothered, but also because I know you’ll be watching every stage of preparation with beady goblin
eyes, ready to start issuing indecipherable instructions the second I look like I might be about to
fuck it up. I suppose I should probably just call your bluff and feed you cereal instead, but
ultimately the urge to make you happy wins out over petty assholery and I end up opting for ricotta
pancakes on the basis that it’s relatively high quality without being too much effort. Admittedly
there’s no vanilla or buttermilk, but I still find a fresh lemon in the fridge and there’s even a bit of
leftover syrup from a vinaigrette you made last week.

“It’s possible to make your own buttermilk,” you now call out (because of course you just can’t
help yourself). “Simply add a tablespoon of lemon juice to a cup of milk then wait for it to curdle.”

I pause to give you a small, fond eyeroll (followed by one at myself for not having the sense to
close the bedroom door) then carefully reposition myself so you can no longer see what I’m doing.
I still take your advice though, then even go to the trouble of melting some butter into the syrup
before mixing it up with a handful of fresh berries and finishing with a large fluffy spoonful of
cream. After that I make a cup of espresso, brewed deep and dark to your exact preference, and
carefully pour out a glass of orange juice which I make myself with the hotel’s juicer. Then after
that I dampen my hands with some water and run them through my hair until it’s tousled just the
way you like it before loosening the belt on the robe so it’s tantalizing close to slipping off
completely. I suspect you’ll notice and appreciate both these things pretty equally, and as I go back
into the bedroom your reaction promptly proves this theory right in that you get perilously close to
doing a doubletake before your eyes acquire a darkly intense expression that always makes them
look like they’re gleaming. I pause in the doorway, deliberately letting the moment last, and you
hold out your hand before saying in a voice pitched so low and forceful it’s practically
smouldering: “Come here, Will.”

I can’t help smiling when I hear your tone, because while I might be a little embarrassed to admit it
there’s something about being able to wield such enormous influence simply by walking into a
room that’s undeniably heady. I now take a few slow steps towards the bed before drawing to a
halt again, tilting my head to the side to cast you a rather defiant look from beneath my eyelashes.

“Look at you,” you add with obvious admiration. “You look…” You pause then stroke your gaze
across my face. “Edible. You’re doing it on purpose aren’t you?” My faint smile grows a little
broader and you promptly begin to smile too. “I’ll take that as an affirmative. Congratulations
Agent Graham – you succeeded.”

“Good,” I say lightly. “Didn’t I do well?”

“You did indeed: extremely well. May I touch you?”

“No Dr Lecter, you may not.”

“I see,” you reply with another slow smile. “You’re going to make me persuade you?” I quirk a
single eyebrow in response then resettle my grip on the tray as an indication of how happy I am to
stand here and wait. “I’m going to have to earn it,” you add. “Aren’t I? I suppose this is your
punishment for my various misdemeanours.”

“Pretty much,” I agree. Of course, only you would describe your recent behaviour as a mere matter
of ‘misdemeanours’, but I already know I’m not going to call you out on it. “Well go on then,” I
add. “What are you waiting for? Give it your best shot.”

“What a terrible tyrant you are,” you say with obvious approval. “Not that I can blame you. It’s one
of the powers beauty has, after all: one expects it to be cruel and capricious. It is beauty’s privilege.
What would you accept as a suitably earnest petition, I wonder? What if I said ‘please’ and
sounded as if I meant it? What if I promised to make it worth your while?”

“Well, in that case,” I say, delicately arching my back in a way that lengthens my spine and makes
my hips tilt. “Perhaps I might let you. If you sounded like you meant it – and if you made it worth
my while.”

“A transaction, then?” you reply. “Trading one desire with another: you get to relish being adored,
and I have the satisfaction of being the disciple. That seems more than fair.” You pause again, eyes
gliding down to where my obvious erection is beginning to tent the front of the robe. “And yet
you’re so excited now,” you add, so low and rumbling it’s almost close to a purr. “Aren’t you
beloved? You’re aloof and indifferent to all this attention, but even so you still can’t conceal it
entirely. Would you if you could? Or would you still let me have my reward for being so
devoted?”

God, I love the way you sound when you’re like this: your voice is nearly as arousing as your
touch is. This time I don’t reply at all, instead simply smiling again before taking a single step
closer to the bed. “I don’t believe you’re quite so pitiless,” you add softly. “You’re not entirely
without mercy are you? You wouldn’t exploit your victory over me in such a cold-hearted way.”

“Mmm, maybe,” I say, taking another slow step forward. “I might decide you’ve earned a little bit
of leniency – just this once.”

You smile at this then glance towards the tray now that I’m finally close enough for you to see it.
“That looks delectable, my love,” you say. “Although speaking of things which are delectable, I
believe we had an agreement as to precisely how it would be served?” There’s another, longer
pause while you slowly trail your eyes from my groin to my chest then back again. “It’s time for
you to take that robe off.”

I smirk at you slightly then place the tray on the carpet before straightening up again to begin
unfastening the belt. “That’s it,” you say in the same purring tone as before. “Good boy. Take your
time though, we have all afternoon. Do it slowly…just slide it off. Only your shoulders to begin
with, please; let me see your collar bones. Ah look at you, Will. So pale and beautiful: exactly like
ivory. How do you manage to make a lack of colour appear so vibrant? Now pull the sleeves down
a little further…right over your arms to your wrists. That’s good; that’s perfect. Can you feel how
easily the fabric slides down? It hardly requires any effort at all, does it? It’s as if it’s in league with
me and wishes to see your body revealed as much as I do.” You pause again then let out a low sigh
of satisfaction. “Exquisite,” you say. “Rest it around your hips for a few more moments then when
I tell you let it drop down to the floor.”
Admittedly a part of me is watching all this with fond exasperation, privately rolling its eyes at you
for having to make a performance out of absolutely everything. Another part is also rather
perplexed, wondering how the hell a lumbering striptease in broad daylight with a hotel bathrobe
can possibly be this arousing. But both of them are ultimately getting subdued by a third part,
which has managed to take the feelings of the other two and combined them to conclude that hell
yes, it is arousing – almost unfeasibly so. Mostly I think it’s explained by having you as the
audience, because you just look so incredibly sensuous right now: a few strands of hair tangling
into your eyelashes, sheets ruffled artfully across your waist, and an elegant smattering of bruises
and scratches along your chest from where I was clawing at you during the night. You have that
rather intense, predatory look about you (which, if I’m honest, is how I like you best) which always
indicates you’re basking in a sense of your own inherent power before getting ready to pounce. I
don’t even need to glance downwards to know how hard I’m getting – and from the expression on
your face it’s very obvious that you’ve noticed it too.

“Come here,” you now repeat. Your voice sounds unbelievable by this point: so low and
smouldering it should come with its own age-restriction warning. “Put the tray on the nightstand,
please. Then remain where you are and bend over for me.”

I give you another small smirk (because despite the intensity of the moment it’s impossible not to)
before stooping down to retrieve the tray from the carpet. It’s obvious you’ve been planning this:
the Minotaur statute is already stowed safely away in its box again, and you’ve moved the lamp to
the far corner while banishing assorted phones and watches to the floor. I place the tray in the
space you’ve cleared then take hold of the edge of the nightstand to give myself some leverage,
back arching provocatively as I slowly bend myself over. Immediately your breath begins to hitch,
palm smoothing rather rapturously up and down the inside of my thigh.

“Yes,” you say. “Exactly like that. Spread your legs a little wider for me, my love. That’s it: that’s
perfect. Ah look at you mano meilė – you’re so beautiful. Such a smooth, firm body.” There’s a
slight pause: I grip onto the side of the nightstand, quivering then letting out a low moan as I hear
you spit onto your thumb before the pad starts moving in slow, slippery circles across the tight
clench of my asshole. Oh God it really is tight and it’s going to give way any second now…any
second.

“Fuck,” I say. My breath is spiralling into a series of frantic pants which fill the otherwise silent
room. I’m already starting to sway with a rather stuttering motion, helpless to resist the urge to
thrust downwards to where you’re gently stretching and exploring my ass. “Oh fuck, Hannibal...”

“The skin looks so tender,” you say softly. For a few seconds you slow your rhythm, carefully
moving and probing as you gently work me open. “Rather sore. My poor boy. You took so much
for me last night, didn’t you?”

“Fuck yes, I did.” I stare down between my legs while I’m speaking, letting out another moan as I
watch a thick rope of pre-come spill out of my swollen cock to drip onto the carpet. At the sight of
it your own breath hitches too before you’re quickly pouncing down to kiss me again: passionate
and possessive, stabbing your tongue into my mouth then scraping your teeth against my lower lip.

“You always push yourself too hard,” you say as you finally pull away. “Forcing your body beyond
its limits.”

“And I loved every second of it.” I quiver even harder, breath catching in a small, involuntary
whine as my legs spread further apart to give you better access. “God, I liked it so much. I love
getting fucked in my ass.”

You give a low sigh of satisfaction, rubbing and stroking with obvious relish as you massage my
hole in slow circles. “And now you are suffering the consequences,” you say. “You’ll recover
though, won’t you my love? All you need is some time and persuasion. This evening I am going to
help you; I’m going to undress you then put you over my knee. Would you like that, Will? A little
patience, and a lot of oil, and soon you’ll be as good as new. You’ll be gripping round my fingers
won’t you, begging me to give you so much more.”

As you increase the pressure I arch my back and begin to move, moaning loudly as I work myself
against the impossibly broad thickness of your thumb. Desire has taken over now and there’s no
sense of restraint at all: just warmth and responsiveness as it slides so smoothly in and out of me
while you gently guide my hip with your other hand.

“Yes, it’s so frustrating for you isn’t it?” you say softly. “You want more right now yet you’re still
not ready to have it. You just like it so much, don’t you my love? At least you look very beautiful
when you’re as restless as this – I hope that’s some consolation for you. I adore it, Will: I’ve never
met anyone so responsive as you are. So luscious, so tactile…the way you can be brought to
orgasm simply from feeling me push inside you.”

You briefly pull away to spit into your hand again before resuming the rubbing in slow, firm
circles: gentle yet persistent along the slippery furl of muscle until your thumb is replaced with two
fingers which push inside me until they’re buried knuckle deep. I promptly give a frantic jolt; my
whole body drawn tight now and hovering on the absolute edge.

“Oh,” I whisper. I’m close to breaking down completely now, madly aware of how tightly I’m
clamping down round you in an attempt to feel as full as possible. “Oh yes, yes…”

“Yes,” you repeat, very low and intense. “You want that don’t you?”

“Oh God, yeah, I want that.” My teeth are clenched now, eyes screwed tightly closed as my nails
dig into my palms. The pulse of my heartbeat sounds wild within my ears. “Fuck, Hannibal,” I
whisper. “I like it. Oh God, I really like it. I think…oh fuck. Fuck. I think I’m going to come.”

“You look so lovely when I do this to you,” you say in the same soft voice. There’s a slight pause
and I know without being told that you’re taking time to admire the way I look while stretched
open round your fingers. “I never get tired of watching you. It’s such a little piece of your body,
isn’t it? So small and tight, yet still capable of giving you so much pleasure. Look how hard and
wet you’re getting, just from feeling me explore you here.”

“Oh God, I know…I know…”

“I want you to look, beloved. Down at the carpet – can you see that damp patch you’re making?
My beautiful boy. You’re enjoying it so much.”

“I know,” I say helplessly. “Oh. Oh fuck, fuck, it just feels so good.”

As you increase the pressure I rock back against you, letting another breathy sigh while you
murmur something rapturous to me in Lithuanian. Your fingers are still sliding around the spit-
slick clench of muscle: fondling, rubbing – almost playing with it – then getting me loose enough
to thrust back in to massage my prostate before withdrawing all the way again to teasingly stoke
the rim. My hips keep jerking against your hand, shamelessly seeking more as I fuck myself against
you: it’s like I want to ride your fingers until I make myself come round them. Each thrust of your
hand forces another moan out of me, snapping my head back then trembling violently as a fresh
stream of pre-come leaks out my aching cock and drips onto the floor. You’re an absolute expert at
this, there’s no denying it: making me quiver on the very edge of release with an exquisite, studied
torment that’s uniquely your own.
“Yeah, fuck,” I hear myself saying. The words are falling into each other now: just a stuttering
stream of sound. “Just like that, please, yes, fuck me harder…”

You lean down to lick a bead of sweat from my shoulder blades then briefly pull away to apply
more spit. “You’re still so tight,” you say. “This reluctant little opening between your legs…trying
so very hard to keep me out. You can’t help it, can you my love: your body’s instinct is to deny me
by not allowing me inside you. You still know you have to though, don’t you mylimasis? You
know don’t have a choice. Nothing can change the fact I belong there.”

“God, you can’t wait to fuck it again, can you?” I manage to gasp out. You promptly sigh with
agreement, clearly long past the point of being able to hide it. “You can’t think about anything
else.”

You catch your breath a little louder then ease further forward until you’re breaching me with just
the tip of your finger. “I can’t deny it, mano meilė.”

“I know you can’t.” I suck in my breath through both nostrils before letting it all out again with a
hissing exhale. “It’s driving you crazy, isn’t it. God, look how hard you are. How does it feel to
have to learn some self-control for once?”

For a few moments I glace down at my own cock again, swaying swollen and heavy between my
legs as it gives a violent twitch and yet another thick rope of pre-come spills out the slit. I whimper
slightly then reach down to take hold of it, lightly rubbing my thumb round the slippery head
before giving it some tight, slow tugs. You mutter something ecstatic beneath your breath as you
watch me then quickly lean down too, using your free hand to cover mine as you slick up your
fingers with my pre-come.

“I can tell what you’re thinking,” I say. “You’re wishing you could grab my hips and start forcing
that huge cock into my ass. Is that what you want? Yeah, of course you do,” I add before you even
have a chance to reply. “God, I’d be so tight – it’d take you ages to fit, wouldn’t it? I’d be crying
out the whole time, but you’d still know I didn’t want you to stop. You wouldn’t even need to ask
me. I’d be leaking all over myself from how much I love feeling you inside me: spreading my legs
for you, begging you for it, pleading to get fucked full of your come…”

By now my eyes are screwed tightly closed but I can still hear the sharp hitching sound from how
much your breath has sped up. I love seeing the way you lose control when I speak to you like this.
It makes a certain kind of sense, I suppose: it’s natural someone so cerebral as you are would
respond this well to mental stimulation. Your imagination is so vivid, isn’t it? Almost as much as
my own is, albeit in a different way. In fact the awareness of it has given me a sudden surge of
inspiration, and I now groan even louder before leaning forward to shove the tray aside until the
crockery roughly clatters together.

“I want you to eat this,” I tell you rather wildly. “Now. Only not from the plate – I want you to eat
it off me.”

If the association is obvious, then so are the incredibly sinister implications: beside me I hear you
hitch your breath again. Possibly you can’t believe that I really mean it – it’s as if you’ve gone past
the point of actual speech, instead just pulling me against your chest to press kisses along every bit
of skin you can reach. Your arms feel so strong and tight as they wrap around me. Never let me go.

“I want to feel you,” I add, deliberately firm to show not only do I mean it, I actively want it to
happen. “Use your teeth.”

Your breath is so warm against my cheek as for a few moments you stay totally motionless before
suddenly springing back to life again with a speed that borders on aggressive: picking me up by the
waist, then roughly spinning me onto the bed so you can pin me down beneath you while reaching
over for the tray. You begin with drizzling the syrup across my chest, but soon the cream and fruit
have also been added; and of course it’s not long before your mouth follows too, all tongue, teeth
and hot exhales as you dine straight off my naked body. I give a low moan then arch up towards
you, gasping each time I think you’re going to bite me despite feeling calmly certain that you
won’t. It’s like I can feel you covering every part of me at once: pressing feather-light kisses or
simply breathing over me as my muscles twitch in the aftermath of everywhere your teeth have
been.

The whole time I’m pinned beneath your weight and strength, chest rising and falling as I stretch
myself out like an offering for you: like a sacrifice. My cock thrusts against your thigh at the same
time I feel the hot thickness of yours, both of us close to losing it because of how badly we want
this. As if proving my point you now make a growling noise deep in your throat then scrape your
teeth against my collar bone even harder than before. The sensation is electrifying, leaving me to
moan loudly and shamelessly as my cock spasms straight across my stomach with a glistening trail
of pre-come. At the sight of it you promptly growl again, briefly inhaling my skin like you’re
trying to breathe me in before flattening your tongue to lap it up. I arch my back to encourage you,
so you repeat the same slow dragging movement before doing it again – and again – alternating
wet strokes with teasing licks and loudly sighing the entire time so I can hear it and know that you
consider me something delectable which you can’t get enough of. At the same time I catch my lip
between my teeth with another breathy moan, pivoting myself off the bed before wrapping one leg
across you and digging my heel into your spine. You quickly push me back by the hips, so I
shudder and tense again then tangle my hand into your hair, tugging with increasing urgency while
I try to force your head down. It’s fucked up beyond belief – I know it is – but somehow the
pleasure isn’t even sexual. Instead, it’s an almost euphoric sense of trust and safety that I’m letting
you do this while at no point feeling uncomfortable or afraid. It’s like a celebration of intimacy, but
also of forgiveness and healing.

As if reading my mind, you now shift a little further down so you can slide your lips across the
mess of scar tissue on my abdomen. It’s obvious how much you want to feel it: and in turn, it’s
almost shocking to realise how much I want to let you. Your tongue is warm and wet as it digs into
the crevices of damaged skin – at one point sucking so hard it’s like you want to force it open again
– and in a weird way the intensity is rather moving: the fact I spent over a year refusing to let you
anywhere near them and your obvious ecstasy now that I’ll finally allow you to touch me there.
It’s frenzied enough that I actually end up flinching, although even then it’s not because it’s
triggering me but simply that the pressure is getting close to ticklish.

“It’s all right Will,” you murmur. Your voice is very soothing, and I can’t help being struck by
how quick you were to pull away: yet further proof you clearly meant what you said about your
previous pledge to practice empathy. “My love. Mylimasis. Mano meilė. You know I’d never hurt
you.”

You don’t sound hurt or offended as opposed to deeply sincere, gazing down at me in obvious
devotion as your palms skim along my ribcage with a series of feathery strokes. In fact, you’re
sufficiently sincere that I can’t help finding a certain dark humour to it; that you could announce
this so earnestly when only seconds ago you had your teeth all over the memories of the time you
nearly killed me. I suppose my whole body’s like that, isn’t it? A living, fleshly museum housing
multiple relics of all your violence and resentment. Except that that’s not you anymore – just like
it’s no longer me – and to show you I don’t mind I now grab hold of your hair to push your face
straight down into my abdomen again.

“Don’t stop,” I say. “Do it harder.”

Oh God, you feel so good. So warm. I can tell where your heartbeat is pounding against mine; can
hear the roar of blood. There’s something deeply safe and sheltering about the way your weight is
pressed against me and I now eagerly push back into it, demanding greater contact without ever
feeling afraid of you. By this point your teeth are on my neck again, licking over the pulse then
tenderly scraping the thin skin that covers the veins and arteries – all those vital structures of life
I’ve seen you rip out of multiple other necks with the exact same sharp teeth. I give a low moan at
the thought of it, cock jerking over my stomach with a thin stream of pre-come that drips down
onto my thigh.

“Do I taste good?” I ask, then smile slightly at the way the question makes you moan too. It’s like
having a tiger by the tail: I know most people would tell me I was beyond insane to allow myself
to be this vulnerable with you. “You’re going to fuck me tonight,” I add breathlessly. “Do you
understand? In the kitchen. You’d enjoy that wouldn’t you? All your favourite seductions happen
there.”

This time your only response is another low growling sound. I can feel large, strong hands gripping
my hip bones, your lips lapping and sucking ecstatically at all the flesh you devastated so
profoundly in the past. Your mouth is so soft and warm. Hungry. Reverential. I moan again
myself, rocking up into the touch.

“Yeah, you like the sound of that don’t you?” I ask. “The kitchen is where you take all your prey.
Only I’m not your prey, am I – and I never have been.” For a few seconds I stutter into silence,
briefly incapable of focusing on anything beyond the hot, slow drag of your tongue as it explores
my body. God, it feels so good: it’s like you need to savour every piece of me. “I want you to bend
me over the counter,” I finally manage to add. “And then I expect you to work for it. That means
no lube. You’re gonna eat me out instead, and I don’t care how long it takes you to do it. I want
you down on your knees with your hands spreading me open and your tongue pushing in and out of
my ass. First you’re going to get it soaking wet – and then you’re going to fuck it so hard you feel
me start to come round your cock.”

To be honest I’m so frantically turned on by this point that if you flipped me over and fucked me
for real I wouldn’t have any complaints. Regardless of the context I know I’ll never, ever get tired
of this: how you can always make me feel like an object of desire rather than a problem to be
solved or an article of damage. In fact you’ve so clearly lost control of yourself that I’m fully
expecting you to do it, although in the end (to my surprise) it turns out that you don’t. I suppose the
most likely explanation is you’re concerned about hurting me – the careful way you’ve been
avoiding my damaged ribcage being further proof of that – so finally I just wait until you’ve lapped
away the last traces of food before springing upright and pouncing on you myself so I can wrestle
you onto the bed. As you gasp at the suddenness of it I smile down at you, stroking my fingers
against your face then waiting until you open your mouth to speak so I can thrust my tongue inside
it.

“What at incredibly underhand move,” you say when I finally let go of you to fumble in the
nightstand for some lube. You’re smiling yourself now, almost a bit starry eyed; it’s clear you
understand as well as I do the depth of trust the last few minutes implied. “I am torn between
resenting you for catching me off-guard while admiring the cunning which enabled it to happen.”

“Well, while you’re figuring it out,” I say, “just lie there and hold still.” I smile down at you again
then flip the lid of the lube so I can drizzle some into my palm. “You good?”

“I think admiration wins by a narrow margin,” you say fondly. “You are a perfect predator aren’t
you my love? I always knew it; I saw it in you. With your ferocity and stealth and your hunter’s
heartbeat. Terror and trepidation, mylimasis: all you require is fangs and claws.”
I start to laugh then lean down to give you a nudge with my forehead. “Because I wrestled you onto
a bed?”

“Because you have vanquished me,” you say. “Utterly. One predator has overrun the territory of
another.”

You’re still smiling, but this time there’s a tender earnestness to your words that makes it clear
you’re referring more to a sense of emotional surrender than any type of physical one. For a few
moments I just gaze at you then reach down to cradle your cheek with my hand.

“I didn’t want to vanquish you,” I say. “I still don’t. I only want to be with you – that’s all I ever
really wanted.”

“I know my love,” you reply in the same soft voice. “I’m only sorry it took me so much longer to
realise the same.”

“That’s okay.” I catch your eye again, my expression just as poignant and tender as yours is. “Like
I said – we’ll figure it out as we go.”

As I finish speaking I lean down to kiss you again, privately wondering how the hell I’m now
supposed to segue into sex in a way which won’t seem overly abrupt or awkward. Oh God, maybe
I shouldn’t even try at all; maybe it’s not appropriate? Perhaps you just want to lie there, and I
don’t know…hug or something? I’m not entirely convinced I’ve got the right emotional smarts to
navigate it – and which makes it extra fortunate I’ve got you on hand to help me out, because if
there’s one thing you don’t have a problem with then it’s worrying about being inappropriate. You
never over-think things the way I do; you always just take what you want. At the thought of it I
start to smile to myself, allowing you to tug me downwards until I’m nudging your legs apart and
can kneel between them to slowly start fingering you open. You give a low sigh of satisfaction in
response then arch your back: fiercely sensuous and elegant until I’m finally ready to take my cock
in my hand and slide it into the smooth, tight heat of your body with a single hard thrust. I give a
loud groan myself at how good it feels then gently push your legs a little wider apart, carefully
positioning myself as I go so I can make sure I’m getting the angle exactly where I want it. In this
respect I’m pretty good at finding your prostate, which according to you is a form of muscle
memory – a remnant of having sex with women for so long that it’s trained me to tilt my hips in
such a way that guarantees I hit the g-spot. Naturally you looked intensely resentful when you were
explaining it, although have since seemed to realise that there’s such an obvious advantage for you
that you might as well just accept the benefits of this specific skill while ignoring how I came to
have in the first place.

At the sight of you beneath me I now give another moan then thrust even harder, arching my spine
before leaning backwards until I’ve pulled out completely and you can get the best possible view of
how hard and wet my cock is. Your breath promptly hitches, so I slowly stroke my fingers across
the head then brush them against your lips for you to suck before pushing back into you again with
another deep thrust. Your mouth still looks so inviting though, so I lean down to slide my tongue
along the curve of your upper lip; gently sucking it, then smiling at the frustrated growling noise
you make when you reach up for a proper kiss only to have me jerk my face away at the last
moment. Speaking of jerks, I’m probably being a bit of one myself by now, but it’s honestly hard
to resist the temptation: there’s just something so tantalising about seeing you this way, desperately
struggling to behave yourself by keeping passive and still. After all, there’s no denying that you’re
physically stronger than I am and the symbolism of it is intensely arousing. Just the awareness of
how dangerous you are; that you could overpower me at any moment if you wanted to, while still
knowing that you won’t. There’s a certain glamour and ferocity to you that’s always only just
concealed below the surface – hunger and dangerousness exuding from every coil of muscle and
rasp of breath – and I now simply stare at you, consumed by a dizzily powerful sense that in my
entire life I’ve never wanted something, anything, as much as I want you.

“Don’t even think about moving,” I say, resuming the rocking motion with my hips then enjoying
the way it makes you gasp. “Stay on your back for me. I want to watch you. I want to see your face
when you start to come.”

I’m being a bit commanding with you now, and a part of me is fully expecting you to rebel at
being spoken to this way. But if you’re secretly resenting it you don’t give any indication, and I
now lean forward again to kiss you properly as a reward for briefly putting your ego aside and
letting me take control. You’re not threatened by it are you? You know the emotional surrender
was always the most meaningful thing. Besides, it’s not like I actually want to control you. I want
you to feel cherished and cared for. I don’t want to see you dominated – I only want to make love
to you. I want to be attuned and intimate, and to make both of us feel good in a silent circle of two
where no one else exists and nothing else matters.

Your hand is resting on my thigh now, stroking with encouragement as I roll my hips in tight little
thrusts to fuck you nice and slow. I love you when you’re like this. Your responses are so sincere
in how you acknowledge my touch: it’s as if all the artifice and deception you use on other people
gets stripped away and you can just be honest and real. In this respect it’s obvious how close you
are to coming, but by this point I’m feeling so possessive that I don’t even want to let yourself jerk
yourself off. Instead, I resettle myself until my thighs are nestled snugly round your hipbones then
spit into my hand so I can do it myself, another loud groan escaping from my lips at how hot and
heavy your cock feels in my palm as I slide it up and down. I start slowly at first, squeezing just
hard enough to get you gasping then watching with parted lips at how the beads of pre-come are
spilling out the slit. God, I really want to bite you. Scratch you. Turn you into my own personal
canvass – an artwork of passionate ownership. If there was a way to do it without damaging you
then I know that I would.

I’m actually shaking now, my breath so fast it’s a struggle to haul enough air into my body:
without the steadying touch of your hand on my hip I think I might have lost balance and toppled
over. All I can focus on anymore is how much I want to tell you how beautiful you look, because
you really do. Flushed and rather wild – hair tangled, eyes faintly glittering – and so hot and humid
I feel I could hold a mirror over you and it would mist up as if touched by warm breath. The only
problem is that by this point I’m too far gone to be able to speak, and as you gasp out my name
when you start to come it’s only a matter of seconds before I’m immediately following too. Oh
God, it feels incredible. Phenomenal: I can actually feel the way your body is pulsing round me.
It’s enough to make me shudder then catch my lip between my teeth, hips stuttering as my cock
twitches all over again and yet another wave of come spills inside you hot and thick. You gasp out
something in a foreign language then buck your own hips towards me, brutally hard yet gracefully
fast; raw and primal – animalistic, almost – that’s all shot through with a heady urge to claim,
consume and own. It’s like the heady euphoria of a hunt. Like being on fire…like falling.

When it’s eventually over I empty my lungs in a shuddering exhale then slump down blindly
towards you, swiping at your jaw to taste salt and sweat before searching out your mouth for a kiss.
It’s passionate and nearly painful in the hungry scrape of teeth and stabbing tongues, only parting
for a few seconds to breathe before clashing back together as you grasp hold of my neck to tug me
down again. Even when I’ve finally rolled off you I still continue to hold you close, pressing your
cheek into the curve of my neck so I can stroke your shoulder while showering your face and hair
with a gentle series of kisses. It seems like hardly any time since we both got up, although I’m so
relaxed and happy I end up falling asleep again anyway (sprawled halfway across the bed with my
head on your chest) before waking with a jolt about 40 minutes later to find you still lying next to
me. You’re not sprawling exactly, although to be fair it’s about as close as I’ve ever seen you come
to it. I smile at you rather sleepily then stretch out to give you a lazy prod with my foot.

“Don’t tell me you fell asleep yourself?” I ask.

“No,” you reply – and which immediately makes me nod in agreement, because of course there’s
no way you’d ever allow yourself to have anything so godless as an afternoon nap. “As it happens,
I have been watching your hands.”

I silently raise my eyebrows (because really, what the hell am I supposed to say to that?). “Okay,” I
add cautiously. “Do I even want to know why?”

“You were clasping and unclasping your fingers in your sleep,” you say. This is announced very
matter-of-factly, as if looking at someone else’s hands have a seizure is an entirely reasonable way
for a grown ass adult to be spending their time. “It was rather charming. Like a kitten flexing its
paws.”

I blink at you a few times before giving up entirely and just rolling back over so I can deliver
another nudge to your leg. “Yeah, I was right,” I say. “I don’t want to know. And for the record,
that is an incredibly unflattering comparison. Why not say like a dog digging or something?
Something more…” You promptly raise your own eyebrows. “Something more robust,” I say
firmly.

“Because there was no exertion in it,” you reply with a faint smirk. “It was very leisurely: hence its
charm.”

“So now I have charming kitten hands?” You smirk again: well, yes, tiny fiancée: obviously you do.
“Actually, you missed an opportunity there,” I add. “You should have said shrew paws. Or
mongoose mitts.” Your features promptly arrange themselves into another godawful smirk, so I
give you another nudge in return to make it a hattrick then settle myself down against your chest
again. I’m still so tired, and it’s something of a shock to realise how enjoyable it feels. It’s soft and
comforting: so different from the numbing haze of exhaustion from the past few months. “As it
happens, me and the kitten hands were dreaming,” I add. “About us moving into a new place after
this one. It was really frustrating: there was no furniture and we had to sleep on the floor.”

“That is less a dream than a reconstruction.” You smile yourself, suddenly looking sentimental as
you lean down to brush a few strands of hair from my eyes. “We were in a very similar
predicament when taking Matteo’s apartment. Do you remember, mylimasis? The power went out
on the first night. We made love on a pile of cushions on the floor, surrounded by candles.”

“He probably turned it off himself,” I say grimly (because if there’s one thing I can always be
relied on for then it’s beating off your romanticism with a great big isn’t-life-shit stick). “Anyway,
what we said last night – about moving someplace new.” I wait a few moments and you make a
soft humming noise as encouragement to continue. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to
wait much longer: I want to go right away. The sooner the better.”

“Of course,” you say promptly.

“What, that’s it?” I leave it a few more seconds then cast a rather doubtful look at you from
beneath my eyelashes. “You just agree now?”

“I do. I believe I have already said so?”

“Yeah, sorry. You did, it’s just that…” I hesitate before catching your eye again. “I just wasn’t sure
if it was what you really felt – or if you were only telling me what you thought I wanted to hear.”
“I was telling you what you wanted to hear: that doesn’t make my intention any less sincere.” You
smile at me then reach your hand back down, this time to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Poor Jack,” you add wryly. “He will be startled by my sudden departure, won’t he? Left once
more with a trail gone cold.”

“I’m sure he’ll recover.”

“I’m sure he will.” You pause and give a tiny smirk: from your tone it’s very obvious you’re
hoping the exact opposite will be the case. “Of course, for propriety’s sake I really ought to offer
him a parting gift. Something nostalgic – to remind him of the last time we were all here together.
What do you think, my love? An arrangement in a church, perhaps?”

“Oh yeah,” I say blandly. “That thing you did before that everyone famously really liked.”

“Not that it truly was for him,” you add in the same sardonic voice. “The intended recipient was
you.”

“I know it was. You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“Yes, and as a gesture it would admittedly be rather futile.” You pause once more, admiring a
bruise you’ve sucked into my neck before leaning down to give it a light kiss. “After all,” you add
once you’ve finished. “Even Jack could hardly fail to detect the link to yourself.”

“Yeah, I suppose you might as well,” I say. “Seeing how every other batshit thing you do tends to
be my fault.”

“But what other choice do I have?” you reply, opening your eyes very wide. “Should I lie…”

“Oh no,” I interrupt. “Definitely not. God forbid you ever have to lie about something.”

“Should I lie,” you continue, giving me a determined smirk. “And pretend that your mere existence
is not my main source of inspiration?”

Despite my best efforts I end up starting to laugh, and as you smirk even harder I find myself
pulling you towards me so I can kiss the bridge of your nose before burying my face in your hair.
Honestly, I don’t know who’s more fucked up sometimes, me or you. I mean…which is more
fucked up? The fact you did it in the first place, or the way I find you being macabre and smug
about it as something incredibly charming?

“In all seriousness,” you finally add – and which is pretty ambitious of you, considering I’m still
grinning like an idiot and about as far removed from being serious as it’s possible to be. “When I
told you I’d been working on a plan to depart I was speaking the truth.”

“Well, that’d be a first,” I say.

“No, indeed: a few emails are all that’s required. I propose we spend this evening making our
preparations, and then tomorrow – we go.”

“Really? It’s possible to do it so soon?”

“Absolutely it is.”

“Okay then,” I say happily. “That sounds perfect.”

“And speaking of last night’s discussion…” This is punctuated by enough of a gap for you to raise
my hand to your lips to kiss the back of it, at which point I immediately start to smile again. God
knows how you always manage to pull this off with such suitably solemn panache; anyone else
would look unbearably pretentious doing it, including me. Especially me. “I know you were
considering another country in the long-term,” you add. “But for the time being I think it would be
more secure to remain in Italy.”

“Look at you being all safety-conscious,” I say fondly. In fact, I’d been anticipating a minor tussle
over this so it’s a relief to see we’re on the same page about avoiding a border crossing while
attention on you is still so high. To be honest, I’m quite enjoying this new, more cautious version
of you. Admittedly it’s not like you’ve ever been reckless, but your willingness to take risks has
always been breath-takingly extreme.

“Of course,” you say when I put a summary of this observation to you. “It’s because I no longer
live for the moment as much as I once did.” You smile back at me then slowly run your finger
down my cheek. “Carpe diem is a pleasing philosophy beloved, but now I am more invested in the
future.”

I smile too then lean over to cover your hand with mine. “Speaking of which,” I say. “I know
you’re not going to like this, but we really need to start looking at cheaper accommodation. I mean,
a lot cheaper. It could be a while before the dust settles enough for us to get our own place and
there’s no way I’m risking another Matteo.”

As soon as I say this you promptly look smug. I mean you really do. It’s actually rather
remarkable: no matter what you’ve done, it’s like your capacity to remain pleased with yourself
truly has no limits for destruction. The Earth could be a blackened ball of carbon circling the sun
and your smugness would Live Still.

“I confess, I enjoy being lectured by you very much,” you reply as if reading my mind. “And no
doubt it is mostly justified. I would be the first to admit that of the two of us you are the more
pragmatic. You are the proverbial adult in the room.”

“Yeah, well,” I say fondly. “I guess one of us has to be.”

“However, on this occasion…” There’s a slight pause. Here it comes I think, because it’s obvious
this silence is to provide adequate time for unveiling the source of the smugness. “On this
occasion,” you now add, “such caution is unnecessary. We are at no immediate risk of running out
of money.”

“How so?” I ask. I sound genuinely curious, mainly because I am. In fact, my first thought is the
possibility of an inheritance, although given the scarcity of your surviving family members it
seems unlikely you’d have never mentioned it before. “Were you able to find a way to sell your
house,” I add, rather doubtfully.

“Alas not,” you say. “That particular property is in the hands of the government by now and there
is very little I can do about it. No, this is something even better.”

“Better meaning more lucrative…?”

“Precisely so.”

“…Or better as in more convenient?”

“That too. It is better by both your criteria.” There’s another pause where you seem at imminent
risk of a Smug Implosion. “Do you remember returning home a few months ago and discovering a
copy of my will?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “I remember freaking out – I thought there was something wrong with you.”

“You did,” you reply with obvious affection. “Although you seemed to grow marginally more
cheerful once you discovered you were my sole beneficiary. I believe the conclusion of our
conversation was that I had just provided you with an excellent motive to push me down a flight of
stairs.”

I grin at you then give your forehead a small nudge with my own. “So what about it?” I ask.

“Well, I recall explaining that one of the purposes for my will…” You wait a few seconds then
give a mini-smirk in response to ‘my will’ which somehow manages to be equal parts fond, smug
and sardonic all at once. “One of its purposes,” you now add, “was in relation to a series of
investments. As to how that affects our current situation: simply put, some of those investments
have paid off rather better than expected.”

I pause myself then cast you a quick glance. As predicted, your smugness levels are now rising fast
enough to exit the stratosphere and start orbiting the Earth. “So…how much?” I ask cautiously.
“Five figures?” You lie there and silently smirk at me. “Six figures?”

“Add another zero and you will be closer to the true amount.”

“God,” I say incredulously. “Really?”

“Really.” Having reached maximum levels, your smugness now appears to have settled itself and is
just coasting along on cruise control. “And once again, I would advise leaving God out of this. His
interventions had very little to do with it.”

“So you’re like…rich?” I say. I sound a bit dumbfounded, although somehow it’s not the reality of
the money that’s leaving me so speechless as opposed to the fantasy of the type of future it implies.
A freedom from angst and anxiety, multiple shortcuts to ease the burden of a life on the run…not
least a home of our own which we could buy outright with no questions asked. It’s almost too
much to process all at once.

“Correction,” you reply briskly. “We are rich. Everything I have is already yours in spirit – and
once we are married it will also be yours by a matter of law.”

“I probably need a bit of time for this to sink in,” I say. Leaning forward I kiss you very gently on
the temple. “It’s just…it’s amazing news. I can’t believe you’ve managed to pull this off. You’re so
smart. It’s incredibly impressive.”

Of course, this is the point that most people would probably interject with some pretence at
modesty – an appeal to luck, or favourable circumstances – but needless to say you don’t do any of
those things and just lie there instead looking slinkily self-satisfied to bask in the resultant glory.
Yes indeed, I am rather incredible aren’t I? your expression says. You may now offer me your
congratulations.

I smile to myself then lean forward to give you another, longer kiss. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

“For what?”

“For being exceptional. For being you.”

For the first time your smug expression dissolves for long enough to get replaced by something far
more reflective and tender. “You never need to thank me for anything,” you say gently. “Your
gratitude is not something I require. Just give me your love, mano meilė, and I shall be more than
content. On the other hand, give me yourself and my own gratitude will be fathoms wide and
oceans deep.”

“You have both,” I say, my voice just as soft as yours is. “Always.”

“Then we have achieved an understanding,” you reply with another, softer smile. “And speaking of
which, I propose that the first of this evening’s planning activities is for you to begin inspecting a
series of properties I’ve found and decide which of them you wish to consider purchasing. It’s
going to be my wedding gift to you, beloved. Somewhere not too far from a body of water. The
Sele or Volturno Rivers, perhaps, or even the Ionian Sea: lots of opportunities for fishing and
sailing.” I immediately start smiling too, and you smile back for a few moments in affectionate
silence before lifting your finger to run along my cheekbone. “It should not be too hard to find
somewhere to your liking,” you add. “If there is one thing which the Italian countryside does not
lack for then it is decrepit farmhouses surrounded by sufficient qualities of mud for you and your
dogs to roll around in.”

“Dogs?” I repeat.

“Well, naturally dogs,” you say airily. “I have not progressed as far as I have in life without
knowing how to choose my battles. And that is a battle I accepted a long time ago I was destined to
lose.”

“That sounds…incredible,” I reply in a slightly awed voice. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“It’s so generous. You’re really spoiling me.”

“That is the general intention,” you reply in the same fond voice. “However, I do have one request
of my own which I’d be grateful for you to consider.”

“For sure. What is it?”

“That you allow us to purchase a townhouse as well – or at the very least an apartment. Somewhere
for us to spend the weekends amongst a semblance of civilisation. Theatres. Restaurants. Opera
houses.” You pause very fractionally then catch my eye. “All kinds of distractions.”

Of course, when you say ‘distractions’ it’s obvious what you’re really referring to and the fact
you’d care enough for me to consent to it in advance feels incredibly striking. Although what’s
possibly even more striking is my current calm sense of certainty that I could refuse the offer and
you still wouldn’t be angry. Because you wouldn’t, would you? You wouldn’t like it, but you’d be
prepared to accept it: simply through the act of accepting me. Wordlessly I now reach down to
cover you hand with mine, pressing it very gently then stroking across your knuckles with my
thumb.

“I’m glad you asked,” I say quietly. “After everything that’s happened…I’m glad you didn’t just
assume.”

“I did not,” you reply. “Assuming too much about you is an error I intend to avoid repeating.”

“I was wondering if you’d bring it up again,” I add. “What you said last night – that you’d give up
on any kind of violence if I wanted you to.”
“Yes, I remember.” For a few moments you just stare at me as your fingers begin to entwine with
mine. “Your response was that you’d never ask me for that, but I want you to know that the offer is
no least earnest despite it. My connection with you is more important to me, Will – there is no
question of choosing one over the other.”

“I know,” I say slowly. “The thing is, I think I phrased my reply wrong. It sounded like I thought
you might resent me – like it was too big a thing to request. What I should have said is that I don’t
want to ask you for that. Because I don’t, Hannibal. I don’t want you to give it up.” I pause a few
seconds then deliberately catch your eye. “And I don’t want to give it up either.”

It goes without saying that this is what you wanted to hear, but while you must have surely
expected it there’s still no denying the powerful sense of satisfaction – of triumph, even – which
flashes over your face as you watch me expressing it in my own words. It’s the pinnacle of all your
aspirations, isn’t it? To have me lie here beside you, clearly and calmly describing how nothing in
the last few months has changed the fact I’m willing to embrace all the darkness I can accept is
within me – and that there’s still enough of it to want to indulge it with you. Because I do, I can see
that now: I want to exploit my destructive instincts, and I want you to help me do it. Matteo and
that Italian detective were simply sacrificial offerings to an alter in service of both of us – mutual
cases which far exceeded the boundaries I’d originally set for myself, yet both reinforcing how far
I was comfortably ready to go.

All of this is etched very clearly into your expression, yet even now you just continue to stare at me
without speaking. You understand me so well, don’t you? You can tell I’m still not done. “I spent a
lot of time thinking it over,” I finally add. “About how much we’ve been struggling with trying to
find a compromise. Do you want to know what I came up with?”

You immediately start to smile. It’s tender and reflective; very different from your typical ones. I
should start collecting them, shouldn’t I? I could fill an entire album with them. Your smiles. Pages
and pages of the different variations, each of them communicating something slightly unique about
the way you think and feel.

“Naturally I do,” you now say. “How can you even need to ask?”

“I mean, it’s not like I’ve got any great solutions,” I add rather wryly. “I don’t want to get your
hopes up.”

“Noted,” you reply. “My expectations have been adjusted to be suitably low.”

I start smiling too then lean across to give you another nudge with my forehead. “Well, the thing
is…” I say once I’ve settled back down again. “Mostly it centred on how we’re so similar, while
also being incredibly different. I think at one point I ended up comparing us to Narcissus: that both
of us looked at the other and ended up falling in love with our own reflections.”

“Oh yes,” you say thoughtfully. “I like that analogy very much.”

I make an amused sound then promptly bump your forehead again. “Yeah, I thought you would.
What with you being such a narcissist and all.”

“Guilty as charged,” you reply with another smile. “Although in that respect, I should say that our
levels of self-regard also coloured our interpretations of the image. Your gazing was aspirational,
even if you weren’t ready to admit it. You saw something in me which you wanted to emulate –
something that could make you feel more complete. Mine, on the other hand, was far more…”
You pause slightly and I wait with interest to see if you’re going to say ‘egotistical’, although of
course in the end you don’t. “Far more insular,” you continue instead. “I was intensely fascinated
with my own reflection until the day I encountered the mirror image as a living, breathing
adaptation: something so similar to myself that I almost had no choice except to want to possess it.
I can’t deny it worked very well for me for a time, but you have since asserted a desire for
independence – and in doing so obliged me to re-evaluate my own position.”

“Yes, exactly,” I say. I’m smiling again myself now, because this is one of the reasons why talking
with you is so satisfying – and always has been. Not only do you understand me without needing
things explained, but you’ll inevitably then take the idea and refashion into something fresh and
inventive. I press another kiss against your temple as a reward for being an endearingly
insufferable smartass before collapsing back onto the pillows to take hold of your hand.

“It’s that adaptation we need to keep working on,” I add. “The last few months proved how much
easier it is to learn to accept each other the way we are than exhausting and demoralising ourselves
by trying to make the other person change by force. It’s that metaphorical mirror again, y’know?
Where I see you and you see me: two different concepts of two separate ideals…” I sigh very
slightly then tighten my grip on your hand. “Both of us urging the reflection to conform to our
version of the ‘right’ thing until we end up retreating to our separate corners to take refuge in our
beliefs about ourselves. Unable to tolerate the protest from the other side of the glass.”

“I understand,” you reply, equally quietly. “And while it is very magnanimous of you to accept a
portion of the blame, I am willing to admit that the main responsibility lies on my side.”

“No, it was both of us,” I say. “You just used methods that were more…extreme.”

“Which I regret.”

“I know you do. Like I said: we need to keep working at it.” I squeeze your hand again, another
smile already starting to slide across my face. “Which we can do in our decrepit farmhouse
surrounded by mud and dogs.”

“Well, at least for some of the time,” you reply with a smile of your own. “The remainder of the
work can be done in the townhouse with an absence of mud – although I accept that the presence of
your canine entourage remains inevitable.”

“It’s going to be wonderful,” I say rather dreamily. “The sooner we go the better.”

“Of course, mylimasis: as soon as possible.”

I now wait a few moments then turn over until I’m lying on my chest and can prop my chin in my
hands to look at you directly. You slowly run your eyes over me then immediately start to smile
even more. “I like it when you do that,” you say. “It’s so casual. It makes you look like a teenager.”

I grin back at you, followed by the tiniest hint of an eyeroll. I still know what you mean though;
after all, in my entire life I’ve never seen you sprawl around like this yourself. “Yeah, about that,” I
say. “About the preparation to leave…” You raise an eyebrow and I hesitate slightly then stroke
my finger down your arm. “How would you feel if I went into the office first?”

As I watch your face gives a small flicker: it’s obvious you don’t want me to go, although at the
same time are wary of coming off as too controlling me by specifically asking me not to. “It’s your
decision,” you say finally.

“I know it’s my decision. I want you to tell me if it bothers you.”

This time you don’t reply at all, although to be fair I wasn’t really expecting you would. I suppose
it’s partly my fault for phrasing the question that way: of course you’re never going to admit to
being bothered by anything.

“I want to say goodbye to Clarice,” I say now. In fact, even as I’m speaking the admission feels
rather startling; the way I can just sit here and announce it so openly. I can still remember the
lengths I’d go to avoid telling you I was seeing her without outright lying – and while it’s
admittedly a rather trivial issue, I can’t help feeling like it might be a decent opportunity to put my
pledge for compromise into action. “It matters to me,” I add with a touch of firmness. “And I want
to do it. But I’ll tell you what: I won’t see Jack.”

As soon as I say that your head snaps upright. You won’t admit it in as many words, but it’s still
easy to tell how pleased – and possibly relieved – you are to hear me make this concession. I can’t
even really blame you: the symbolism of a fond, lingering farewell with Jack was always going to
be hard for your resentment and possessiveness to tolerate.

“I would have expected you’d want to?” is all you reply. “That it would have been important to
you.”

“Well, it’s not,” I say firmly. “Not anymore. I’m leaving all that behind me.” I smile again then
lean forward to press a gentle kiss against your forehead. Even now I can’t help feeling struck by
this sudden sense of freedom; the power of the contrast to how things were before. I spent so long
with the weight of a darkly deranged world pressing down on my shoulders, didn’t I? The only
time I’ve ever really felt the pressure lift is when we’re together. “For good this time,” I add with
another smile. “Because I want to. And because nothing is as important as you are.”

***

I end up meeting Clarice in a different café than usual – and which, looking back on it, seems like
yet another piece of symbolism that’s small without being totally meaningless. I suppose she’ll
think it’s because I was so uncomfortable when Hunter recognised me the last time we were there,
but while it’s true that might be part of the reason it’s far from being the main one. The thing is,
deep down I know my lingering attachment to him was always a form of projection for how I
wasn’t ready to leave a normal life behind me. Being with him was a grab at the ordinary – a
chance to play pretend – yet while it might have been helpful at the time that’s not the person I am
anymore. Instead, I’ve moved on. I’ve moved onto you; and the calm sense of pride with which I
wear your ring while walking into a roomful of strangers feels like a final pledge of commitment to
it.

Clarice herself seems tired – shadows around the eyes, and a rather dull, unfocussed look –
although despite that is still managing to look infinitely better than I do. As if in agreement she
gives a small wince of sympathy when I sit down then gestures to the smatter of bruises along my
throat and jaw.

“That looks painful,” she says. “Did it happen the other night?”

“It’s fine,” I reply, deliberately casual. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Clarice nods with encouragement so I nod back then begin to slowly stir my coffee (despite the fact
it’s absent cream or sugar and there isn’t really anything much to stir). In fact, I quite want to add
something about having had far worse in the past, only can’t think of a way of doing it that won’t
make me sound like some sort of smug, macho asshole. Not that it matters, I suppose; she already
knows I have. The only thing I really wish is that I could confirm it wasn’t you who did it,
although of course there’s no way it’s possible without raising unnecessary suspicion. But to my
surprise it seems that she’s managed to guess this anyway, seeing how she now frowns with
disapproval before adding: “Mr Crawford said Rossi was being really rough with you.”
At this point my inner macho asshole promptly makes a reappearance, because as much as I don’t
like misattributing the bruises to you I’m not entirely happy with giving that little shit the credit for
them either. In the end I just take a brooding sip of coffee in what’s meant to be silent assent, so
Clarice nods again then lifts her own in what’s clearly a prelude for changing the subject from my
battered neck. Briefly I can see her eyes flitting down to my hand: I know she’s noticed the
engagement ring, but clearly doesn’t want to seem intrusive by bringing it up before I do.

“How’s Robert doing?” she asks instead as she replaces her cup on the table. “Were you able to
contact him before he saw it on the news?”

Once more I just find myself staring at her. You barely even know about the whole Robert thing,
yet somehow have still managed to take him over so completely that I often find myself struggling
to distinguish the two. How exactly would Robert be doing? I suppose he’d probably be consumed
by horror or fear by now wouldn’t he? He’d be scared. Anxious…something like that. His reaction
would have been to sit in his studio and then freak the fuck out – and is therefore so far removed
from any response you’d ever show yourself that’s it hard to summon sufficient interest to even
want to describe it. In the end I just frown slightly, pantomiming discomfort, and Clarice clears her
throat then gives me a rather apologetic glance.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I keep bombarding you with questions. You must be sick of thinking about
it.”

This makes me smile despite myself, because even now her acumen is still on full display: the way
she chose thinking rather than talking, knowing full well that I’d be unlikely to talk about it with
anyone. And I suppose in the past that might have been true, only now it’s not – not anymore –
because now I would talk to you. We’d find a pair of chairs to sit in and you’d listen very intently,
never interrupting and offering exactly as much comfort as was needed or asked for…

Across from me Clarice leans back again in her own chair and I’m beset by a sudden sense of guilt
at how unsociable I’m being. I’m the one who invited her after all, and now I’m just sitting here in
silence being a shifty, cryptic asshole. It’s so different to how I behave when I’m with you and
makes me think all over again how much we seem to alter when speaking with other people: you
still articulate, but far colder and more aloof, and me just grunting out a few syllables before finally
losing interest and shutting down completely halfway through. It’s like we each have a separate
version of ourselves which we save for the other person yet withhold from everyone else.

“I came to say goodbye,” I now blurt out (and thus confirming why I never socialise, because I’m
really fucking bad at it). “I’ll be leaving Italy soon.”

Clarice nods calmly in response, a typical blend of restraint and acceptance. “Yes, I figured you
might,” she says. “Good for you, Will. I’m glad you are. I know you were hoping to leave before…
Well. Before all this happened.”

“Yeah,” I say firmly. “This time it’s for real.”

“It reminds me a bit of that movie line,” adds Clarice wryly. “Just when I thought I was out they
pull me back in.” She smiles very slightly then catches my eye again before continuing in a more
serious voice: “That’s the fear, isn’t it – that we’ll never escape from the demands which get
placed on us. It takes courage to tell them ‘no’. I hope I can do the same if I ever need to.”

“I think you will,” I say, beginning to smile too. “Courage is one thing you don’t seem to be short
of.”

“I appreciate that,” replies Clarice with simple sincerity. “It’s hard sometimes, but yeah…you
know how it is. You’re an inspiration in that respect, Will. You really are. It’s not just me who
feels that way: I know there’re a lot of trainees who look up to the example you set. It’s impossible
not to. I mean the work is just so intense – even for someone without your abilities.”

“You’ll be fine,” I say. I hesitate for a few seconds then reach across the table to briefly put my
hand over hers. “You’re going to have a spectacular career. I can tell.”

“Thank you. It means a lot to me that you’d think that.”

“Of course,” I say lightly. “I mean, you faced off with Hannibal Lecter then walked away
afterwards. Trust me – it doesn’t get more intense than that.”

“I guess not,” replies Clarice in a more thoughtful voice. “All the trainees have been asking me
about that since it happened. You can probably imagine.”

“I can, yeah.”

“Everyone wants to know what he was like. They’d have preferred to ask you or Mr Crawford,
only no one quite dares – so now they ask me instead.”

The reflectiveness of her tone makes it obvious there’s more beneath the words than their rather
bland substance implies, yet while a part of me senses it would be wiser to drop it I’m curious by
now and can’t quite resist the temptation to probe. “Yeah?” I repeat after another pause. “So what
do you tell them?”

“It’s strange,” replies Clarice in the same pensive way. “I almost find myself wanting to embellish
it, you know? To make it a better story. Because the thing is, he wasn’t anything like I’d expected
him to be. Mr Crawford got impatient when I said that, but I could tell you understood what I
meant.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “I got it. Only don’t underestimate your own contribution; it’s not just about
him.” Then despite myself I can’t help pausing again, because of course this doesn’t feel entirely
true. After all, everything is about you. “With someone else he might have been very different,” I
finally add. “But he respected you. That much was obvious.”

Clarice nods then frowns to herself very slightly before taking another sip of coffee. “I understand,”
she says as she replaces the cup on the table. “Most people seem to think I’m lucky I didn’t end up
the way the two Italians did, but I feel like there was never any question of him doing that to me.”

“No, I’d agree with you there. You never gave him a reason to.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mr Crawford so angry,” adds Clarice after another pause. “He said
he’s never come so close to wanting to break protocol as he did that night – that Dr Lecter had no
idea how close Mr Crawford came to just attacking him with his bare hands.”

This time I just nod silently, despite not remotely believe this. Of course you knew: you just didn’t
care. Overestimating Jack is hardly something you’re prone to and if anything you’d have been
disappointed that he didn’t succumb to a primal instinct to want to beat you to death. On the
contrary, I think you’d have been delighted by it. It would have given you exactly the excuse you
were looking for to override my requests for restraint and simply kill him yourself.

“Mr Crawford told me how you’d spotted a pattern in Il Macellaio’s victims,” adds Clarice, who
seems to have taken my silence as agreement. “The fact that they…well, not that they deserved it,
but…”
She hesitates, suddenly looking so flustered I almost feel bad for her. It’s not her fault, is it? She’s
not yet fluent in the same language of immorality that you or I are. “It’s okay,” I say quickly. “I
know what you mean.”

Clarice nods appreciatively then takes another sip of coffee. “Some of the trainees felt that was
inconsistent with Dr Lecter,” she adds. “But I’m not so sure. In fact, after meeting him I think it
makes a certain kind of sense. It’s like he’s mellowed a bit over the years. Or maybe not mellowed,
exactly…” Briefly she glances upwards to catch my eye before her gaze flits downward again as if
she’s looking at the ring. “That now he’s more prepared to follow a moral compass.”

Her tone is so solemn and suggestive that for a few moments I can actually feel my stomach turn
over. Jesus, surely she can’t know? “He always had a moral compass,” I say after a slight pause.
“It’s just not like anyone else’s.”

“Mr Crawford once told me about something Dr Lecter said,” replies Clarice without missing a
beat. “Nothing happened to me: I happened.”

“Yes,” I say with a calmness I’m no longer sure I entirely feel. “I remember.”

“He told me he’d heard similar statements from other offenders in the past, but that was the only
time he ever truly believed it. He thought Dr Lecter had total agency over what he did – full
responsibility.”

“That’s a pretty standard assessment of Hannibal,” I say grimly. “That nothing made him the way
he is. That he made himself.”

“I know,” replies Clarice. “The thing is, I just don’t think it’s true. I don’t think it’s true for
anyone. People are constructed by their life experiences. By their history.” Briefly she lowers her
gaze, determinedly stirring her coffee without looking up at me. “By the people they love.”

There’s another silence. “Yes,” I finally say.

“It makes them who they are.”

“You’re talking about his sister?” I ask in the same calm voice. Of course, this is the default
response when discussing your pathology, although I know I don’t really believe it. It doesn’t
explain you. Not the way it would for someone else – not the way your own existence explains me.

“I’m not sure,” say Clarice, finally glancing up again to catch my eye. “I guess I don’t know
enough about him to say for certain. The only thing I know is that the person I saw in the alleyway
wasn’t the same one from the case files. There was a sense of humanity to him that I really wasn’t
expecting.”

Without even meaning to I immediately find myself remembering your words from last night: After
all, my love: you happened to me. It’s impossible to say for sure if she suspects or not, but either
way I know I can’t prove it from this limited exchange – and neither (far more importantly) can
she. Even so, I have a renewed surge of certainty that from now on the sporadic contact with Jack
needs to end. No more random emails letting him know I’m still out there: from now on as far as
he’s concerned I have to be off the proverbial grid.

“Have you spoken to Mr Crawford yet?” asks Clarice as if reading my mind.

“No,” I say flatly.

For a few seconds she catches my eye again: I think she’s already guessed I’m not going to. “I
probably shouldn’t tell you this,” she adds after another pause, “but he’s thinking of naming one of
the lecture theatres after you at Quantico.” My mouth promptly falls open in dismay and she
immediately smiles then reaches out to briefly press the back of my hand, just the same as I did to
her. “I hope you don’t tell him not to,” she says. “Everything you stand for, Will: the number of
lives you saved. It feels very fitting there’s a tribute to it.”

It's a sign of what a good read she has on me that she didn’t tell me I deserve it, the same way Jack
would if I ever gave him the chance to ask me in person. She knows I’d try to shrug this off, so
instead has gone straight to the symbolism on the grounds it’s far harder to argue with – exactly the
same as you’d do yourself. To be honest it’s probably just as well she’ll never get the chance to
meet you: it’s so easy to imagine the two of you colluding together, beaming at me across the table
with matching wineglasses before subjecting me to God-tier levels of charming manipulation. I
suppose in a different version of events she might have really liked you – just the same way you’d
have liked her – but while it's not that long ago I’d have felt a pang at the impossibility of such a
cosy image, right now I know that I don’t. After all, the main thing about the image is that you’re
still in it: it no longer matters that there’s no room to safely admit someone else.

At the thought of it I find myself pushing back my chair. You’ll be waiting for me, won’t you?
There are things to do; plans to make. “I’m sorry,” I say, “but I have to get going.”

Clarice pushes her own chair back as I’m speaking, but while I gesture at her not to she still does it
anyway. I guess I should probably hug or something, shouldn’t I? Or maybe I shouldn’t…maybe
she wouldn’t like it? I don’t really know; I’ve never been much good at this type of stuff.
Closeness. Intimacy. Not with anyone except you.

“You should get in touch if you need anything,” I say finally. “Forensics. Questions about cases.” I
pause slightly, trying to think of some more examples; I was going to say ‘department politics’, but
have just remembered that I was utterly shit at this myself so am the absolute last person she
should take advice from. In the end I simply shrug. “Y’know,” I add vaguely. “That type of thing.”

“Thank you,” says Clarice with obvious sincerity. “I hope I won’t have to bother you with anything
like that. But I’ll still drop you a message every now and then if that’s okay: holidays and such.
Please don’t ever feel obliged to respond to them though. I won’t be offended.” She smiles then
shrugs herself. “To be honest it’s more for myself. I’ve valued having this connection with you,
Will. I’d like to try and keep it, even if it’s just one-way.”

“We’ll keep in touch,” I say in a softer voice. “I’m only at the end of an email. And the next time
I’m back in the States I’ll look you up.”

This last part makes me feel faintly guilty because there’s no doubt it’ll almost certainly never be
possible. At least she doesn’t know that, I suppose – and which admittedly makes me start
wondering all over again about what else she doesn’t know. It’s impossible that she could have
found out about us for certain, yet somehow I still can’t quite convince myself that she doesn’t
suspect. Or does she? As I watch she runs her eyes over my face then holds out her hand so I can
shake it goodbye.

“I hope you find some peace after all of this,” she says. “You deserve it.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “I hope so too.”

Bizarrely I realise that I’m still holding onto her hand. My phantom Abigail: it’s like I’m not quite
as ready to let her go as I thought I was. I suppose that’s yet another thing she’ll never know, isn’t
it? All the impact she had. The way she helped me to clarify things about myself and how that, in
turn, transformed her into the catalyst that finally made you change your mind.
 “And if you have any more of those doubts, I hope you ignore them,” adds Clarice. “When you
first mentioned leaving the FBI you said it was for the best, and I think you should listen to that. I
don’t know, Will. Whatever you end up doing, I guess…I just trust you to do the right thing.”

She lays an emphasis on the final part which strike me as having a subtle ambiguity to it. It’s like
the words have been chosen with care to convey a particular double-meaning, even though it hardly
seems to fit – after all, could it ever really be possible to do the ‘right’ thing where you’re
concerned? Not that it truly matters, I suppose. I might never know for sure if this is a genuine
deduction on her part or nothing more than my own projections, but in the coldly fact-based realms
of proof and evidence it’s currently impossible to touch us. And then by tomorrow…we’ll be gone.

As I turn around to start walking away I now force myself not to look back. If I’m honest with
myself, I know there’s a part of me who’s looking to read meaning into her words that probably
isn’t there, simply because I want to believe it. I want to believe there might be someone who’d be
willing to see my choices as valid. Someone who wouldn’t be horrified at the idea of it, and instead
consider accepting the reality of me with you: to consider accepting us. Ultimately though, I know
it’s just another thing that doesn’t really matter. Her speculations about you. Jack’s – even my own.
None of it matters at all. Because it doesn’t, does it? Nothing matters now except us. Your past has
always been so much less important than our future.

Chapter End Notes

Hearing from people who enjoy the fic is really helpful at the moment, but definitely
please don’t feel obliged if you’d prefer to read without commenting. Also, sorry that
yet again that there’s no estimated date for the next chapter, although I’m hoping it
won’t take too long to get it posted :-D Lots of love in the meantime and I hope you’re
all having a wonderful weekend xox
 Chapter 54
Chapter Notes

For reasons I’ve already complained about endlessly (so will avoid repeating yet again
;-D) I’ve decided that the best thing at this point would just be to wrap the fic up a
little early. This means the pacing in this chapter might seem a bit disjointed in places
– v.sorry in advance about that – although hopefully all the major story beats should
still feel like they’ve been resolved xox

Also, a huge, big, enormous thanks to DrLecterWillSeeYouNow, who’s made another

fantastic video edit for the fic that you can get all the Hannigram feels for here.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

I like our new house. I mean, I really like it. I’d even go so far as to say I love it – and which
admittedly this isn’t a depth of feeling I’d ever have imagined summoning about a house, but
quickly grows more understandable once I remember I’ve never owned a house with you before
(and is therefore no longer a matter of being a house, as opposed to our house). Because it is, isn’t
it? We own it together. It belongs to us. It’s the house that we viewed together, chose together, then
moved into together. And perhaps most significantly of all, it’s the house where we finally stopped
being only partners together and turned ourselves into a married couple instead.

In this respect it’s been over half a year since the wedding, yet the reality of being married
(literally, actually married) is still enough to make me break into grins of confused delight
whenever the thought occurs to me. It’s like I can’t quite fully believe we achieved it, even though
I know that we did. I was there, after all. So were you. We read our vows, exchanged the rings, and
signed the cetificato di matrimonio with the same pen passed from my hand to yours. We did
everything we were supposed to do, yet somehow it still feels like I need to pinch myself to
confirm that not only were we able to pull it off but that the ceremony itself was memorable for the
simple and surprising reason of how incredibly uneventful it was. To be honest I’m not even sure
what I was really expecting, only that I was convinced something would go terribly wrong. It
seemed as if feeling this joyful would turn out to be a form of jinx or tempting fate, because surely
the Universe would end up conspiring in some way to deny us our happy ending? After all, we’d
been responsible for so much carnage and chaos over the years. Perhaps the only thing to offset
such an enormous moral debt was the damage we’d done to ourselves along the way, although
even that hardly seemed sufficient punishment to earn a lasting form of forgiveness. We didn’t
deserve to be happy, and it was as if the better things were the more cynical I became, to the extent
I almost felt embarrassed to admit it to you. It seemed like such a childish way of viewing the
world: irrational, even, as if I thought there was some celestial set of scales that would be weighing
up all our various misdeeds in a cosmic balance sheet before deciding that we’d had it a bit too
good for a bit too long.

After several weeks of this it was obvious I’d never be able to reason myself out of it, so in the end
I simply coped with the pessimism through distraction instead; namely by flinging all my attention
into wedding preparation with the same grim determination of someone flinging themselves off a
cliff. You looked amused when I told you that (‘Not the best choice of analogy, beloved’) but
regardless of its metaphorical quality the strategy itself still felt pretty sound; not least because
worrying about paperwork and venue bookings was infinitely preferable to torturing myself with
images of the FBI busting in to arrest us halfway through. Although even this only turned out to be
partly successful because the paperwork was so tedious and painstaking – and ultimately provided
a fresh source of angst once I grew convinced the amount of forgery and false names involved
would render it legally meaningless, so what was even the point?

‘I mean, we don’t actually have citizenship,’ I’d protested; at which point you’d smirked slightly
then glanced at the neat stack of papers on the desk. ‘I mean actual citizenship,’ I’d added, ‘the
non-fake kind’, but you still didn’t seem to care. As far as you were concerned the legality was a
secondary consideration; what mattered more was the symbolism it represented between ourselves.
I think you might have even cherished a fantasy of us simply re-marrying each other over and over
again every time we move to a new country, and the more I thought about it the easier it was to
start sharing the same point of view. If anything, it actually seemed quite appropriate: a liminal
space, far beyond the rules and regulations of the everyday world, where nothing could ever be as
real or meaningful as what was happening in the moment between the two of us.

After that I started to calm down a bit and began spending more time simply relaxing with you,
slowly absorbing your calm sense of certainty through osmosis like a plant absorbing sunlight. I
even abandoned the form-filling by deciding my next task should be to buy you a wedding ring
instead – although admittedly even that ended up as bit of a self-inflicted nightmare, because I was
determined to find you something equally thoughtful and unusual as yours was for me (and which I
suppose was a fairly admirable goal but was severely hampered by not having the first fucking
clue where to start). Another thing that felt important was using my own money to buy it rather
than yours, and after puzzling over it for a few more days I’d finally resorted to selling my entire
collection of Locard first editions in exchange for a glamorous silver band that was rather weighty
and Nordic-looking with a raised edge and gracefully curving inlay. Somehow it didn’t feel like
enough by itself though, so I’d ultimately gone even further and paid for a neat line of gemstones
to be inserted on the interior so that they’d always be touching your skin: bloodstone, emerald,
larimar, onyx, verdelite, emerald and a diamond to finish. I knew you’d enjoy decoding the
acrostic, and the expression on your face once you figured out it spelt beloved made every second
of the stress and hassle obtaining it dissolve away in the blink of an eye. I’ll never forget the way
you looked then; it made me feel that I wanted to find ways of making you look like that every day
for the rest of your life.

Because I was still keen on getting married as quickly and quietly as possible, I carried on pushing
you for a small civil ceremony; something simple and stressless with minimal hassle, where we
could pretty much just rock up to sign a few forms before an obliging official would pronounce us
marito e marito. Admittedly you weren’t as sold as me on the quiet aspect but the quick part
definitely appealed, and in the end we did it at a tiny Town Hall just outside Milan with only
registrars to act as witnesses and absolutely no responsibilities to organise beyond whatever applied
to ourselves. I remember being intensely nervous beforehand, despite the fact I was the one who’d
been married before so technically should have taken things more in my stride. You, on the other
hand, weren’t nervous exactly as opposed to intensely possessive and occasionally rather…what?
Actually, I don’t know; I’m not sure what the right word would be to describe it. Surprised,
maybe? I suppose that might come close to it. In a way you’d already admitted as much to me
beforehand: how in the past you’d never imagined yourself in a situation like this, not because you
couldn’t marry someone if you wanted (obviously) but simply because you didn’t think you’d
choose to. I guess the thought of marriage felt too conventional for you – too close to the type of
dull, predictable rituals that normal people enjoy – but also because you never thought you’d meet
anyone you’d even consider wanting to spend the rest of your life with. You were always
surrounded by people, you said, yet until you’d met me were still essentially alone; a life of
splendidly solitary confinement which you’d always assumed was exactly what you wanted. You’d
smiled then, catching my eye for a few moments of fond silence before slowly running a finger
down my cheek. It’s rather extraordinary, isn’t it? your expression was saying. Just look at what
you’ve done to me.

As it turned out, the ceremony itself managed to be simple and speedy enough to satisfy even my
expectations for it, although it’s fair to say our first married kiss was pretty much anything but. I
know I’ll always remember it: you just did it with such incredible care and thoroughness, cupping
my face in your hand to begin with – gazing into my eyes while gently stroking my jaw with your
thumb – until finally moving your lips down to press against mine (and then proceeding to keep
them there so long that the registrar was politely clearing his throat at us in an obvious request to
stop making out in front of him and go get a goddamn room). To be honest my nerves were still
gnawing away for most of it, but afterwards I was so happy I could barely speak. I was just stood
there, clinging onto your hand until I ended up dragging you round like a dog on a lead because I
wasn’t prepared to let go of you for even for the time it would take to sign the register. I remember
almost having a cackling fit at that point once I realised this now made you my civil partner, as
well as sexual partner and partner-in-crime, because it seemed like such an excessive amount of
partnership for one person (and how that was so typical of you, because you always over-do
everything). It was like being drunk on sheer joyfulness, and from the way you kept smiling it was
obvious you were incapable of containing yourself any better than I was. We were like a pair of
children who were dizzily impulsive with our own sense of success; constantly catching each
other’s eye then grinning as if to say Look what we’ve managed to do.

In that respect the wedding itself felt like enough – it was more than enough – with anything
beyond that seeming excess to requirement. I wasn’t even bothered about having a honeymoon
(being far keener to spend some time in our own house first) but while you’d been very patient with
indulging my urge for simplicity, even you must have felt like this was a step too far. As such I left
the Town Hall expecting to drive straight home again, and instead discovered a sleek Rolls Royce
waiting out front for us with a uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel. You wouldn’t tell me where
we were going, and I remember this mounting sense of gleeful excitement each time I peered out
the window until a couple of hours had passed and I finally saw the road signs for Venice. I started
grinning like an idiot then, because it was somehow so perfect while also being completely
unexpected. An obscurer choice would have been more typical for you – a hidden village of
breath-taking beauty filled with winding Medieval streets, incredible food, and virtually not a
tourist in sight – and I loved how you hadn’t even pretended to keep your cool about it and
blatantly opted for one of the most romantic cities in the world instead. It was already easy to
picture what our time there might entail, the images so clichéd and vivid they could have been
plucked straight from a 1950s movie: sipping champagne by moonlight, lying hand-in-hand in a
gondola, or feeding each other spoonsful of gelato from frosted glasses before strolling over the
Bridge of Sighs. Intensely, unabashedly romantic activities that not long ago I would have cringed
at, yet currently couldn’t get enough of simply because they would be done with you. It was
startling to realise that this was the sort of life I had now; something so thrillingly intimate and
almost close to outright fantasy in how opulent and exotic it was. But then of course the opposite
was also true, because I could clearly remember the dispossession I’d spent so long toiling under
when we were still in Florence: that restless, lonely energy which left me feeling so utterly
alienated from everyone around me. Now I could look at the crowds encircling us and realise that I
no longer cared. It was like the whole city was nothing more than a throng of dull, blind,
mechanical people and we were the only ones who were truly alive: two hunters prowling through
a herd of prey.

The hotel you’d chosen was luxurious enough to even make the one in Florence blush, complete
with a staggering view of the skyline and a suite directly facing the Grand Canal. It was so
beautiful – perfect, really – yet I’d still been left feeling a little forlorn at how we wouldn’t be
spending our official wedding night in our own house. It didn’t last very long though, because any
lingering regrets were swiftly obliterated once it was clear this would be some of the most intense
sex we’d ever had in our lives; possibly second only to the very first night we slept together. We
kept gazing into each other’s eyes the entire time, wondrously touching one another’s faces like we
couldn’t quite believe the other person was real. I remember I kept calling your name rather
helplessly, and how long it took me to realise you were doing the same to me and I’d been so
absorbed by your presence I hadn’t even noticed. At one point I almost grew tearful with the
intensity of it, so you’d bundled me into your arms against your chest, stroking my hair very
soothingly while murmuring something tender in Italian. Your voice sounded faintly unsteady, and
I knew then that you were seeking comfort as much as you were giving it. It was almost strange to
realise that: how happiness could be so overwhelming, even for someone as coolly aloof as you
are.

“There is no withstanding or escaping from you, is there?” you said next day once we were
stretched out exhausted across the bed with your legs tangled up in mine. You were a bit drunk by
this point, which was both endearing and unusual; a sign of how relaxed you were that you’d
dropped any pretence of restraint. “Whoever tasted you would hunger for you eternally yet never
hope to be satisfied.”

“Okay, that’s great,” I’d replied. I remember leaning over to kiss your forehead: your eyes were
starting to cross, and I couldn’t decide if it was more adorable or hilarious so had finally settled on
some ungodly combination of the two. “Enough of the cannibal puns.”

“But it’s true,” you’d said. You smiled to yourself at that, very teasing and affectionate, then
reached up to cradle your palm against the base of my skull. “How is satisfaction even possible?
You gratify one craving, only to immediately present another thing for me to crave for. I have
perpetual longings in me, and you are endless appetites and infinite variety.”

“And you are drunk,” I said. “And morbid. And I love you more than I have words to say. So yeah
– please feel free to spend the rest of our honeymoon telling me how you regret not eating me
when you had the chance.”

I was starting to laugh by then, so you’d simply smiled back at me before stretchingyour arms
above your head, basking away in a stray ray of sunlight like a huge jungle cat. You looked so
contented; playfully mischievous in a way that was rather out of character. It was as if all your
sharper edges had been slowly sanded off. Then I remember thinking how even now you still
looked dangerous – all that pulsing energy contained in every coil of muscle – and how I knew I’d
never want you to be anything else.

“You understand me better than I can understand myself,” you’d finally added after another pause.
You were gazing up at the ceiling by then, a bemused little frown flickering over your face like
you couldn’t quite believe we’d ended up here after all the disasters that had overtaken us. “Yet it
would still take a lifetime to fully know you. A lifetime of years, beloved: and if you wished it, you
could spend every one of them binding me to my desire for your heart and mind. To the limitless
views from your imagination.”

The sight of you was continuing to make me smile; just the fact that you were so happy, and drunk,
and how even now you still weren’t done. But there was also something so tender and sincere in
your voice that it was enough to shake me out of my amusement and just quietly lean forward
instead so I could press a kiss against your forehead. For a few moments I remember gazing into
your eyes, so absorbed and intense that briefly I felt like I could have got lost in them. You looked
so perfect, it scarcely seemed possible you could be real. It made me think of those long, lonely
days when I’d thought you’d gone for good: all the times I saw you when you were never truly
there. The way I’d imagine you coming into the empty apartment or hospital room, only to have to
wait for the final agony of watching you walking away and leaving me over and over again.

“That’s okay,” I’d told you. I’d reached my hand up then to touch you: to feel how reassuringly
warm and real you were. “We’ve got time now: we’ve got as long as we need. We’ve got the rest of
our lives.”

***

In addition to the mutual viewing, choosing, and moving, another thing we did together in respect
to the house was to decorate it. And we really did do it together, because if the Florence apartment
was a showcase for your own tastes and preferences then this time the décor is a far more balanced
blend that resembles something a little less elaborate than your old place in America while still
managing to be a little more elegant than mine. In fact, our only genuine point of contrast is in our
respective choice of cars, with me opting for a battered old Jeep (complete with scratched hubcaps
and a manual gear stick) and you favouring a vintage Porsche that’s as sleek and suave as you are
with gleaming paintwork and an engine so soft it sounds as if it’s purring. I always like seeing you
in it: it has a refined, timeless glamour that really suits you. Needless to say this is also a feeling
that’s not remotely mutual, seeing how you despise the Jeep with an absolute passion and aren’t
above giving small, theatrical shudders of distaste whenever you see me getting into it. To be
honest it’s quite amusing, because it’s so obvious you’re torn between wanting me to buy
something more expensive while also enjoying the fact my tastes are so radically opposed to your
own. It’s as if the fondness for a shitty old Jeep is an eccentricity about me which you find
endearing, so while you hate the car itself you love the fact that I like it. In a weird way it feels like
another metaphor for how our actual relationship has started to shift: the growing ability to value
each other’s differences as virtues which make the other person unique rather than irritants that
require altering by force.

In this respect both cars get substantial use in our separate spheres of preference: mine for hauling
around the countryside and yours for our regular trips to the city. My original plan had been to
settle somewhere in the south, but after considering it for several weeks I found myself changing
my mind and opting for Sabina instead – mostly for no better reason than I knew how much you’d
enjoy being so close to Rome. It wasn’t like it was even a difficult compromise because the area is
outright stunning: a quintessentially Italian landscape complete with ancient villages, rolling hills
of olive groves, and even an occasional Roman ruin scattered around the valley. It also has a
climate that’s mild enough to accommodate my constant bitching about sunburn and heatstroke
while remaining warm enough for you to bask in the sun like a big lizard and ensure your tan gets
topped up to suitable levels of flawlessness. I suppose in reality it’s not that much cooler than
Florence was, yet somehow it still always feels like it due to an abundance of open sky and empty
space that tempts me to spend far more time outdoors than I ever did in the past. This, in turn, has
prompted the discovery of a newfound enthusiasm for gardening, which to my total surprise (and I
think yours too) I appear to have some actual skill for. I’m not even sure why, but there’s just
something so satisfying about it: the soothing, rhythmic nature of sifting through soil and tending
to plants, content in a sense of connection to the world while also being removed from all its
demands.

“Freud had an observation about that,” you replied when I tried to explain it you. “Flowers are
restful to look at. They have no emotions or conflicts.” You’d smiled after you said it, staring at me
for a few moments before running your finger rather thoughtfully down the side of my face. “I
think you have found a natural occupation there, beloved. Horticulture provides you with a total
freedom from other people.”

Of course, it was obvious you weren’t including yourself in this equation, but I’ve found I actually
do enjoy it more when you’re somewhere in the background: not speaking necessarily, but just a
quietly comforting presence. Inevitably you’ve also become a favourite source of inspiration for it
too, with one of my proudest achievements so far being the creation of an herb bed which I built for
you by hand from glossy cypress wood before filling with a fragrant riot of Mediterranean staples:
Italian parsley, Genovese basil, oregano, thyme, sage, rosemary and fennel. It’ll take another year
or so to fully come into its own, but in the meantime has still flourished sufficiently for you to
come out in the evenings to select whatever cuttings you might want for that night’s meal.
Unbeknown to you I make a habit of peering out the window whenever you do this, because the
expression on your face makes me happy in a way that’s hard to express. The thing is, I always see
you smile when you look at it – every single time.

In a similar spirit of pleasing you, my most recent project has been building a trellis for grape vines
after hearing you express an interest in learning to make your own wine. To be honest if it was
anyone else I’d probably be fairly sceptical about the success of the scheme, but your ability to
ensure an accomplished job of it seems so certain that it’s possessed me to go into a frenzy of
research to guarantee I come out the other end offering you the most superior set of braces,
brackets and beams that amateur hands can possibly assemble. I suppose if all else fails then at
least it’ll still be a distinguished addition to the garden, given that the brackets are wrought iron
shipped from Genoa and the beams are solid redwood – and were both chosen not only for being so
resilient, but because they were far more attractive than the alternatives and because money is no
longer an issue. I actually found myself hesitating while placing the orders as I sometimes still
struggle to remember that, even though (for the first time ever) it’s actually true.

As I’m thinking this American Girl now comes onto Spotify, and I soon find myself starting to
hammer along in time to it (followed by whistling, then culminating in actual singing) because it’s
reminding me of college vacations while my dad was having a Tom Petty phase. I reach a kind of
screeching crescendo with ‘Oh yeah, all right, take it easy baby, make it last all night,’ when you
walk into the garden just in time for ‘She was an American Girl.’ You’re wearing the shirt that I
bought you last week; olive green, in a light thin cotton, and which follows a similar custom to all
the ones I gave you before it in that it’s far more suitable for rural living than your existing
collection of tailored silks and crêpes. You give every indication of appreciating these gifts for
their own sake, although even if you didn’t I suspect you’d still happily wear them. It’s as if the
clothes themselves are almost an afterthought, with the thing that gives you the greatest pleasure
being the fact I bought them for you in the first place. This one is particularly flattering, and a part
of me wants to tell me how good you look this way before deciding it wouldn’t be accurate
because you look good every way. It’s actually quite distracting (and doesn’t bode at all well for
the progress of the trellis). For efficiency’s sake I suppose I really ought to tell you to go and be
handsome and smouldering someplace else.

You now start to smile when you hear me singing, which promptly makes me smile too (despite
logic dictating that I should, in fact, be deeply mortified at getting caught redheaded bellowing
along to Dad Music). I really can’t help it though. Your satisfaction is so incredibly infectious,
mostly because you’re not smiling just because you think it’s funny: you’re happy for the simple
reason that I’m happy. And in turn, I’m happy because I’m here with you – and because simple,
straightforward happiness with no strings attached still isn’t something I’m entirely used to. I’m
like someone trying alcohol for the first time; not quite knowing how to moderate or adapt to it
while only being certain that they’re craving more. My happiness leads to madcap fits of
exuberance where I’ll suddenly pounce on you, or start cackling over something childishly dumb,
or simply stand there in the sun singing Tom Petty at the top of my voice because I feel like I’m
young again. Although in a way maybe I am. After all, what else is youthfulness if not a new lease
of life? What else if not a second chance.

As American Girl draws to a close you now settle yourself into your sunchair – I also have one of
these, which is admittedly less well used but always positioned directly opposite yours – then
stretch out your long legs in front of you and proceed to watch me assembling the trellis with a
huge smirk on your face (while also dropping multiple hopeful hints about how I’m going to end
up over-heating and would be far more comfortable if I took my shirt off). I take my time fixing the
rafter I’m working on then finally put the down the hammer so I can turn round to smirk back at
you.

“So you can leer at me from a distance?” I ask. “Are you going to catcall me too?”

“Not at all: I intend to keep my leering entirely silent.”

“Well, tough – you’ll have to wait to the evening to leer. If I take my shirt off now I’ll burn.”

“Very true, beloved,” you reply, rolling your eyes heavenward like a martyr tied to a stake. “If only
some enterprising scientist could have invented a lotion to protect from the sun.”

“Enough already. Do you want this trellis finished or not?”

As I watch your face promptly starts arranging itself into one of your favourite ‘well, actually’
expressions: I pause, hammer suspended mid-air, then raise my eyebrows expectantly. “It just so
happens,” you add smugly, “that the correct term is an arbor.”

“Is it now?”

“Indeed it is. Alternatively, one might refer to a ‘pergola’.”

“Look, I’ll tell you what,” I say, stooping down to retrieve the tape measure. “I’ll carry on with this
trellis, and you can build yourself a terminologically-correct arbor.” I pause again then give a small
snort at the image of it. “Or at least, you could try.”

“Nevertheless,” you reply, beginning to smile too. “My point still stands.”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” I say. “Which is more than this trellis will if you cobble it together.”

You give the most godawful smirk at this then stretch out against your chair again, very long and
lithe. “That’s perfectly true mylimasis,” you reply. “I am not as good with my hands as you are.”

Needless to say you still somehow manage to make ‘being good with your hands’ sound like an
insult (and which tends to be your standard response to anything you don’t excel at, mainly on the
basis that if you don’t already know it then it can’t possibly be worth taking the trouble to know at
all). I start to laugh then rummage for a few more screws from my toolbox so I can get started on
the new set of hinges. You immediately lean back a little further in your chair, watching my
progress with interest in a way I find both amusing and endearing.

“You know, I think you’re being a bit hard on yourself there,” I add once I’ve straightened up
again. “You’re good at some things with your hands.”

“I am extremely accomplished at many things,” you reply in the same smug voice. “But the
expression denotes some kind of practical craft.” You pause to give your own hands a look of
intense admiration then wave one of them around as if gesturing to an unspoken multitude of
‘practical crafts’ that it’s far too superior to ever want to learn how to do. “Carpentry and such.”

“I’ve never heard someone sound so pleased with themselves for being incompetent,” I say fondly.
“It’s actually quite impressive.”

“Hands are very fascinating, aren’t they?” is all you reply – and which isn’t remotely surprising,
seeing how you’ll never outright admit to being incompetent at anything (the implication being
that of course you’d be a goddamn prodigy at it if you ever gave it the honour of deciding to learn).
It’s as if as far as you’re concerned the competence isn’t non-existent, merely in a state of
hibernation. “We so often take them for granted,” you now add. “Yet they are very ingenious
devices.”

“Mmm, I guess that’s true.” I pause with hammering the hinge into place then take a quick look to
see if you’re still gazing adoringly at your own (you are). “Very…resourceful.”

“And very protean in how they express it. Hands can paint the Sistine Chapel or demolish the
Alexandria Library: such an infinite capacity for cruelty and kindness.”

“I think that says more about what they’re attached to,” I say. “Wasn’t it Kant who claimed that
hands are the visible part of the brain?”

“Oh yes,” you reply. “Undoubtedly; they are merely tools, when all is said and done.” I nod again
then silently hunt around for some more nails (silence being the most economical option, because
of course there’s no way you’re actually done yourself). “Yet such intricately impressive ones,”
you now add, right on cue. “They have a certain language of their own. And of course, so many
idioms are associated with them. To get out of hand. To be in good hands. To change hands.”

“To kill someone with your bare hands,” I add wryly. “Just as another example.”

It’s only now I remember (somewhat too late) that the last time I said this to you was in the context
of fantasising how I’d kill you – and which as married reminiscences go is admittedly rather…
unfortunate. Needless to say, you don’t look offended though. If anything, you look delighted; at
the very least for you to finally stop flirting with your hands for long enough to lean back in the
chair again instead.

“In that respect fingerprints are extremely resilient,” you say in a thoughtful voice. “I once wrote a
paper about post-mortem exsiccation of the fingertips.”

“Well…okay then,” I reply. “Good for you, I guess.”

“I remember a case where the corpse had been submerged in water for three months and the
impressions were still readable.”

“Oh yeah? The longest I ever saw was less than two – although that was on dry land.”

“During winter, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“Then I wish you better fortune in the future,” you reply with typical smugness. “Perhaps at some
point you shall be able to experience the marvel of fingerprint restoration quite as extensively as I
have.”

“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” I say. Your sole response is to smirk back at me without
elaborating…to which I begin folding my arms across my chest as a sign of battlelines being
drawn, and we proceed to have a truly terrible conversation over which of the two of us has seen
more dead bodies over the years, me or you.

“I mean, obviously it’s me,” I say firmly. “I did this for an actual living. My entire career was based
on finding corpses.”
As I watch you immediately start to smirk again. “You are irritated, aren’t you?” you ask.

“No,” I say. “Not really.”

It’s at this point that one of your hands now makes a reappearance and starts to wave itself round in
front of me in swooningly elegant circles. I stare at it, rather fascinated; it’s like it’s your wingman,
abruptly appearing out of nowhere just to back you up. “I confess, beloved,” you add with another
smirk, “I am tempted to let you sulk for a few moments simply to relish the spectacle of it. These
little flares of anger are so pure and authentic; it’s impossible not to wish to kindle them into even
greater heights. They are also immensely charming. Curious isn’t it? It’s the sort of thing I would
find unbearably ugly in anyone else.”

“Thank you,” I reply with exaggerated patience. “But I still say that it’s me. I’ve seen virtually all
the same ones you have, remember – plus a whole lot more.”

“You seem very certain about that,” is all you reply. “However, as much as it pains me to admit it,
I did have quite a few years of life before meeting you.”

You sound so incredibly pleased with yourself that the full surrealness of the conversation finally
hits me and I end up laughing all over again at how fucked up the whole thing is. You smile back,
suddenly looking so relaxed and playful that I have an uncontrollable urge to go over and kiss you.
I like seeing you this light-hearted, and I know exactly why it is: it’s because you enjoy having
someone close to you who understands you this well. Even as recently as last night I could
recognise it. We’d been to a performance of Aida when one of the locals (appearing to sense a
fellow opera connoisseur) had cornered you in the foyer to gush at tedious and extensive length
about the quality of the tenor playing Radamès. You’d caught my eye from across the room, and
while it was only a single glance it was obvious how much you valued having somebody to
connect with. Someone who can understand things the same way you do. Who can make you
laugh. Who knows the right way to push your buttons – or even recognise that you have buttons to
push. It’s a mistake I always used to make about you, didn’t I? After all, you’re so aloof and self-
sufficient that in many ways it was hard to imagine you ever being capable of feeling lonely. It also
made you more frightening, because it removed you one step further from the realm of typical
human reasoning. You were something unknowable and unrelatable who strolled around humanity
and was fascinated by it, and dependent upon it, and even a little bit in love with it, yet never truly
part of it. The ultimate outsider…a species all of its own. Being with you this last year has finally
proved to me how wrong that assumption was – and always has been.

As if reading my mind your smile now begins to soften – less from amusement and more from
affection – before you reach out a hand towards me. “Come here, beloved,” you say.

As invitations go this is an extremely easy one to accept; I smile back at you, then busy myself
with brushing the worst of the sawdust off my hands so I can stroll over to join you by your chair. I
end up squatting on the grass with my back tucked snugly against your legs, and while it’s the sort
of position that would once have bothered me as being too submissive I genuinely don’t care about
it now. Finally, I’m past that kind of uncertainty; it no longer feels like I have anything to prove to
you. I can sit at your feet, and you can sit at mine, and neither of us has anything left to feel
insecure or threatened over. At the thought of it I start to smile to myself, comfortably stretching
back against you at the same time as your fingers begin to gently slide through my hair.

“You know, I really think you should remove your shirt,” you say, your hands briefly skimming
downwards until they’re stroking the side of my throat instead. “Heatstroke is a terrible thing.”

I make an amused sound then follow it up with a lazy prod to your leg. “Nice try. So now it’s your
medical opinion I take my clothes off?”
“Yes, indeed,” you say. “Doctor’s orders.” I tip my head back to smirk at you, so you smile down
rather wolfishly then wait a few moments before hooking both hands around my shoulders to hoist
me up onto your lap. I make a startled oof noise at the suddenness of it, only to promptly start
laughing instead at the awareness of how incredibly dumb I must look (despite having precisely
zero desire to move again).

“Actually,” I say, giving your forehead an affectionate nudge with my own. “I think you’ll find you
were struck off.”

“And yet my expertise lingers on.” You repeat the previous predatory smile then slowly dip your
fingers down to caress the soft skin at the back of my neck. “How would I forgive myself if you
were to fall ill?”

“You’d be properly punished for it.” I twist round to give you another smirk. “Who do you think’s
the one who’d have to nurse me back to health?”

“Very true,” you say, beginning to flick open the top few buttons of my shirt with your other hand.
“Clearly this is an act which benefits us both.”

“Clearly.” I lean further back until my head is resting fully on your shoulder, deliberately relaxing
my arms to make it easier for you to pull the shirt off entirely before tossing it aside. The only
other thing I’m wearing is a pair of cut-off jeans which have grown progressively shorter over the
summer from where the hem keeps fraying and I’m too lazy to fix them as opposed to just
scissoring off another inch of fabric. As you drop the shirt to the ground you now pause for a few
moments, slowly sliding your fingertips just far enough beneath the waistband to massage my
hipbones until you feel me shiver.

“And now I finally have you,” you say. “I feel as if I have been trying to entice you all morning.”

“Serves you right,” I say smugly. “It’ll do you good to learn to wait for once.”

“How incredibly heartless you are,” you reply with obvious fondness. “Where has all your famous
empathy gone? You are supposed to take pity on how mindlessly captivated I am. You should feel
sorry for your admirers when they lose their heads over you.”

“Not this admirer,” I say. “Cry me a river.”

You make an amused sound at this then pretend to bite my jaw. “Well, I have you now,” you
repeat. “And am feeling suitably triumphant as a result. I can’t deny it, beloved: I still gain a
powerful sense of satisfaction whenever I succeed in making you come to me.”

This makes me laugh despite myself, even though I know what you mean. “I’m not a dog,” I say.

“Indeed you are not: a dog’s confidence would be far easier to win.” You smile again then lean
down slightly to give my hair an affectionate nuzzle with your forehead. “I find it rather irresistible,
Will. The sense that someone like you, so perpetually restrained and reserved, would finally allow
themselves to grow so obedient when in the care of someone they trust.”

“Hmm, maybe,” I say, reaching over myself so I can gently tug at your earlobe with my teeth.
“Although you might want to retract that word ‘obedient’. It sounds a bit too much like wishful
thinking.”

“Yes, no doubt you are right.” You give my hair another nuzzle, then finally lean back again and
let out an exaggerated sighing sound as your hands briefly tighten their grip on my waist. “Besides,
I can’t tame you forever can I? Afterwards I’ll have to let you go again: release you back into the
wilderness. My war deity and warrior. My hunter…my little wild thing. Like a beautiful bird of
prey, Will. Can I trust you to come back again when you’re called, or do I need to find a way to
keep you here?”

You pause a few moments, appearing to wait for an answer, only to abruptly lower your head to
kiss me before I can provide one. You really take your time about it too, even providing a sort of
farewell gesture when it ends by running your tongue along my lower lip, slowly massaging it your
thumb, then finally sliding your finger into my mouth for to me to suck. “I can’t clip your wings,
can I beloved?” you murmur as you pull away again. “You’d always find a way to stop me. No,
force is never going to work on you…I simply need to try and tame you better.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” I say fondly.

“Thank you,” you reply with exaggerated seriousness. “Your good wishes are appreciated.”

I give a snort of laughter. “Although, if I’m going to be fair…”

“Yes, please do.”

“To be fair,” I repeat, giving my hips a suggestive little roll against your groin. “You haven’t done
a bad job so far. I mean, I married you didn’t I? And now I’m sitting here half-naked on your knee
when I’m supposed to be building your grape frame.”

“But it’s your own fault my love.” I can feel your lips skimming against my cheekbone now. It’s
nice; very light and warm. “It’s true that patience is supposed to be a virtue, but I’m afraid mine has
expired. You’ve been flaunting this beautiful body the entire morning: all this lovely skin toiling
away in the sun, damp and flushed and glowing like ivory. How long did you think I could possibly
keep a sense of restraint?” There’s another small pause, this time for you to gently scrape your
teeth along the side of my throat. “I ought to take you inside and punish you for being so
provoking.”

“Ought you?” I ask in an innocent voice. “I’d like to see you try.”

“But how could you stop me, dearest?” you ask, with a smile that (if possible) is even more wicked
than any of the previous ones. “I’m much stronger than you are.”

I make another snorting noise that’s half-amused, half-exasperated, then before you can add
anything else wrench my head round to press my lips against yours. At the same time I fist at your
hair with my fingers to tug your head back; licking into your mouth to fully taste it, then sucking
your upper lip between my teeth until I hear you gasp. I’m being deliberately teasing now, brushing
your jaw with my tongue then sliding it back into your mouth only to make you growl with
frustration when I quickly pull it straight out again. Your response is to scrape along my throat
even harder before seeming to change your mind halfway through and instead providing a tender
lick of apology against the graze your teeth have made.

“Yet you have been provoking me,” you say fondly when you eventually pull away. “It’s a very
reckless habit of yours, beloved. Some would say I am not an especially safe person to attempt to
rouse.”

“I guess some people might say that,” I reply, promptly shifting round again to begin kissing my
way along your cheekbone. “But I learned from the best. Maybe I just like to wind you up and
watch you go? Or maybe I like seeing how you look beneath your person suit.”

You huff out a laugh at this, followed by another light application of teeth. “My beautiful boy,”
you murmur, straight against my skin. “You think I couldn’t punish you if I really wanted to?”

“I don’t think you’d got enough self-control to wait that long,” I say. You’ve got your palm curved
around my throat now, gently gripping it to keep my head in place as your free hand begins to glide
down my chest. Your touch feels so good against my bare skin…I wonder if you can feel how
frantically my heart is beating? “I think you want me right now,” I add rather breathily. “Right here
on the floor.”

You softly hum with agreement then pull back a little so you can admire the bruise you’ve been
busy sucking below my jaw. As you run your finger over it I make a mental note to do the same to
you later, already relishing the way everyone will see it and the sense of ownership of you it would
imply. At thought of it I give another small moan then reach round myself so I can stroke the side
of your cheek, murmuring your name very lovingly as you devotedly lean into the touch. It’s so
weird to realise it, but before meeting you I really don’t think I understood that so many
expressions and varieties of sex could exist; each inviting a different presentation of the
participants as if it’s an idiom all of its own, a language of the body. I wonder what it’s going to be
like this time? With you it could be anything (although to be fair I can be equally unpredictable
myself). For example, it might be the languid tender kind in which you gaze into my eyes and call
me beloved; stroking my face and tangling our fingers together while you tell me how beautiful
you think I am, how desired, how much you want me to enjoy it – how good you want to make me
feel. This kind tends to be softly lit by candles or warmed in the afternoon sun and is always guided
by worshipful, questing touches which seek to read a story in each other’s skin the way a blind
person reads Braille. It’s quiet and yearning in the morning or sweetly peaceful in the evening:
beginning with soft kisses then ending with murmured pledges of how the other is adored and
valued – how they’re essential – before falling asleep entwined in each other’s arms.

On the other hand, there’s also a more turbulent kind that’s fiercely riotous and fiery: the kind
where nails are scraped against shoulders or teeth dug into delicate skin, and that’s furious and
exhilarating and feels as much like opponents in a fight as it does a pair of lovers because neither of
us is ever prepared to submit first. This is a type that’s saturated with bruising tenderness and
vicious intimacy, where I’ll twist your arms to keep you still then drag your head back by the hair
before you pin me down by the wrists and grip my throat until I gasp; the type that scorches and
scalds and is what love would be like if it was set on fire.

And then there’s also another kind entirely; the kind which pushes my boundaries and dismantles
inhibitions I didn’t even realise I had but have thoroughly enjoyed getting rid of. In this respect
you’ve been very busy assisting with this mutual project, mainly by providing a range of gifts
which include (but are not limited to) a collection of plugs of varying dimensions, assorted prostate
massagers, a set of anal beads, two more collars (one leather, one knotted silk), a spreader bar, and
even a headboard restraint that left me trapped on all fours while you knelt behind me and ate me
out for so long I ended up coming completely untouched. I’ve let you film me during all these
things, then lain in your arms afterwards to watch the footage back without a single shred of shame
or self-consciousness. It’s liberating, really; that newfound sense of comfort and confidence both in
you and myself. It’s unexpectedly empowering too, because while you’re ostensibly in control for
most of it there’s never any doubt that the one with the ultimate power is me – that it’s not so much
a question of how much you can take, but how much I’m willing to let you have.

This entire time your lips have been continuing to skim my throat and jaw, but it’s only once your
hand has started dipping lower down my chest that you finally reach out with the other to retrieve a
bottle of suncream from the side of your chair. You still haven’t bothered denying the accusation
about your lack of self-control, and I now have a private smile at the thought of it before letting out
a low moan as warm palms begin to smooth the suncream across my skin. It’s very light and
fragrant – slippery without being greasy – although I think it’s the emotional sense of being
touched so tenderly that’s pushing me closest towards the edge. There’s something worshipful
about it; reverential, almost. It's like you’re trying to memorise my body with your fingertips while
also trying to imprint yourself on it: as if the sheer power of your touch can instil a sense of
yourself right into me. You want to brand me with an ineffable sign of ownership which can ensure
that from now on, whenever people look at me, what they’ll really be seeing is you.

“My plans remain unchanged,” you now murmur, your lips brushing very softly along the side of
my ear. “I shall still take you inside later, mylimasis. I have a new gift for you: something very
special.”

Instinctively I find myself spreading my legs apart, shamelessly arching up against you as your lips
continue their rhythmic, feathery kisses along my face and throat. Your hands are still continuing
their slow exploration, although it’s only when you feel me starting to quiver that you finally move
down far enough downwards to palm the very obvious erection that’s begun to tent the front of the
denim.

“My love,” you murmur, delightedly running your hand across it. “You like the thought of that,
don’t you?”

“Is it something for me?” I ask, then promptly let out another moan as you deftly unfasten the
button to peel the shorts right off. “Or is it…for both of us?”

“For you directly,” you reply in the sort of languid, sensuous tone that always goes straight to my
groin. “And myself by proxy. It’s a new toy for us to amuse ourselves with; a new plug, to be
specific – although somewhat different to your other ones.”

I moan again then quickly twist myself round, pressing rapturous kisses against your face and hair
before gently nipping at your jaw with my teeth. “Different?” I ask. “That sounds rather…
intriguing.”

“It is extremely intriguing,” you say softly. “It has a base that allows it to be fixed in place to the
floor – and is so very, very long and thick. When I take you to bed you’re going to undress for me
beloved, then get on your knees so you can prepare yourself. I shall hold your legs apart for you,
but that’s the only assistance you’ll receive. Otherwise, you will have to acquit yourself; I want to
see those lovely, slim fingers siding in and out of your body for as long as it takes.” You pause to
lean forward again – slowly measured and sensuously menacing – then begin to trace your lips
against my face, interspersing the hint of feather-light kisses with the continuingly crooning words.
“Get yourself soaking wet,” you say. “Enough that the lubricant is glistening all the way down
your thighs when you stand up again. You’re going to need it, my love. Because after that you are
going to get off the bed and walk over to where your plug will be waiting for you. I want to watch
you lower yourself onto it. One inch after another…I want you to show me how much you can
take.”

“Oh fuck, yes.” I groan again, craning my neck into increasingly painful angles so I can scrape my
teeth against any part of you I can reach. “You know I’ll be able to take it. Although it might be a
struggle at first – you should get me to wear my collar at the same time.” Your breath hitches
loudly, which immediately makes me smile; it was easy to guess how much you’d like the thought
of that. “I’ll still do it though,” I murmur into your skin. “Besides, I bet it’s still not as big as you
are.”

As you catch your breath again I leave another longer pause, deliberately letting the tension stretch
out while I drag my tongue in a delicate swipe along the length of your jaw. “What’s my reward
going to be afterwards?” I ask softly. “Are you going to let me have the real thing? You are, aren’t
you; you know you always end up giving me whatever I want. Which hole would you like to fill up
most, do you think: my mouth or my ass? Or are you just going to have both of them, one after the
other?”

The way I’ve been teasing you about self-control means the irony isn’t lost on me now that it’s
looking like mine is about to slip first. In fact, something as simple as hearing you catch your
breath again seems to be enough to make it snap completely, and I now roughly twist myself free
of your grip so I can turn round to straddle you with my knees on either side of your thighs. You
immediately take hold of my waist with one hand; thumb rubbing my hipbone in slowly sensuous
circles as I grind my hips against the hard length of your thigh. Already I’m seriously close to
losing it: frantically scabbling at your chest, stroking along your shoulders, then finally wrapping
both arms around your back to hold you tight.

“Are you going to give it to me?” I repeat. I wait a few moments, catching your eye before slowly
darting out my tongue to moisten my lips. “Or will you make me beg for it first? You can if you
want – you know I’ll always start begging you to let me have your cock in me. I can’t pretend
anymore can I, even if I try to. I can’t hide it at all.”

You let out of your breath in a long exhale – a sigh so low it’s almost a hiss – so I lean further
forward until I can press my lips along your jaw again. You smell so good: I love that sense of
breathing you in. Sometimes I feel as if could get drunk on you, simply by inhaling the scent of
your skin.

“How many years did you fantasize about it?” I murmur in between kisses. “Seeing me spread out
on your bed with my legs wide open…leaking all over myself while I’m begging you to fuck me?”

You promptly repeat the sighing sound, so I quickly catch your lower lip between my teeth and
give it another gentle tug. Even through several layers of clothing I can feel the hard, thick line of
your erection jabbing into me; without breaking eye contact I now slide my hand beneath your
waistband to take hold of it, slowly smearing the pre-come round the head with my thumb until I
hear you gasp.

“Does it feel as good as you imagined?” I ask in the same soft voice. “The way my ass is always so
tight when I’m stretched round this huge cock; how long it sometimes takes you to fit? I know you
love hearing me beg for it…it’s okay to admit it though, because I love it too. God, I love it so
much. I’d beg for hours if you asked me. I’d get down on my knees for you: spread myself open
with both hand and just beg. I’d let you film me while I was doing it and I still wouldn’t care. I
wouldn’t be ashamed. I’d put the tape on afterwards and it would turn me on, seeing myself so
needy and desperate for you. I’d get back on my knees so I could feel your cock in my ass all over
again while we watched ourselves fucking on the screen.” I groan slightly then briefly screw my
eyes closed as I press my forehead against yours. “I’d do all that, and I wouldn’t feel ashamed.”

This time you don’t even try to respond. It’s like you’ve completely lost the capacity for speech,
cradling my face with one hand then possessively clasping my neck with the other because you
can’t quite bear to let me go. Instead of speaking you’re just staring at me intensely, clearly unable
to tear your eyes away. It’s as if you’re hungry to hear more…as if you want to devour each word
as it leaves my lips. To save you the effort of your own speech I now give my hips another hard
thrust then slowly lick along the curve of your cupid’s bow.

“I wouldn’t feel ashamed,” I repeat softly. “Because I love you so much, and because finally I feel
like I’m your equal. Learning to love you has been like learning to love myself. Do you
understand? Needing and wanting you will never be demeaning. It might have felt like that once,
but not anymore. Not now…not ever.”

As soon as I say that you let out a growling noise deep in your throat before your mouth roughly
moves forward again to slam against mine. We crash together wildly in a mess of tongues and
teeth, but even then your impatience is so extreme that it seems like only seconds have passed until
you’re seizing my waist with both hands to tug me down with you onto the grass. I land face first,
then for a few moments simply feel your lips between my shoulder blades before you’re pulling
back again and there’s the sound of you rapidly unfastening your belt. I moan even louder to
encourage you, by now half-crazed with how unhinged I’ve started to feel with the heady,
exhilarated longing of the whole thing. It’s almost like being high: eyes welded shut, breathing
ragged and frantic, my entire body a kaleidoscope of sound and motion that’s deliriously lost in
sensation while suspecting that maybe it’s all too much – except for the awareness that it’s also
nowhere near enough. It’s partly the intimacy, I think; how ferocious and overpowering it is. I love
the way I feel I as if I know your body nearly as well as I know my own: how intensely familiar
your touch is, or the feel and weight and scent of you as you press down on top of me.

“Please,” I hear myself gasping. It’s striking how quickly my mood has shifted; if before was
concerned with a type of meta-begging then there’s no doubt my urgency is now entirely real.
“Please, please, I want you to fuck me.”

You mutter something in Lithuanian then lean down to kiss me again, fingers gliding along my
spine with one hand as the other grasps around for the suncream so you can slick yourself up with
it. As my legs get pushed apart I bite down harder on my lip; eyes falling tightly closed, then
letting out a low whine when a broad thumb begins to massage my hole in long, slow circles. You
work me open with tender precision, testing and teasing the tight clench of muscle – almost
playing with it in the lightness of the strokes – until two fingers are finally pushing deep inside me
while your thumb continues its slippery strokes around the rim. Oh God, it feels good. So good: I
give another moan, arching my back then thrusting up against you in a shameless urge to get the
pressure as deep as possible.

“Again,” you say softly, then let out a long sigh as I repeat the thrusting motion until I cry out
sharply and a long thread of pre-come spills out of my cock to drip onto my thigh. “Perfect,” you
murmur, sounding equally awed and enraptured as you briefly slow the pressure to a series of
shorter, firmer thrusts. “My beautiful boy. Look at you, leaking all over yourself. You want it so
badly don’t you?”

This time I just groan instead of replying. Having my ass explored this thoroughly is getting me
even harder, my body clenching and tightening round the expertly probing fingers until my breath
breaks into a pant…and which itself promptly gets smothered in a choked-off moan as soon as I
feel the thick, blunt head of your cock start to nudge up against me instead. Your pre-come is so
warm and slippery; even through the slickness of the suncream I can tell how wet you are.

“Oh God, Hannibal,” I hiss from between clenched teeth. “Oh my God.”

“Is this what you want mano meilė?” you say softly. “Is it what you’ve been waiting for?”

“Fuck, yes. Please. I need it. I need you.”

You repeat the sighing sound then lean over to drag your tongue along my neck in a hot, wet swipe.
“Spread yourself open for me,” you say. “Use both hands.”

I obey immediately, frantically stretching behind me while continuing to chant an urgent litany of
‘pleases’ until it’s clear you’re going to give me what I’ve asked for. You bear down very slowly
to begin with, lowering your weight in what feels like barely an inch at a time until finally you’re
pushing into the hot, slippery tightness of my body – pushing in deep – and my initial grip of
resistance has absolutely no choice but to give way and make room for you. Oh fuck, you’re
almost unbelievably hard; I already feel so full and you’re not even halfway in. Behind me you let
out your breath in a noisy exhale then bury your face in my hair, your arm wrapped tightly round
my chest to help me stay balanced as I draw a few laboured breathes and struggle to get myself
under control. The initial sense of being penetrated always makes me lose it slightly; just the
awareness of you pushing into me, opening me up, so utterly hard and unrelenting. My own cock
is already starting to spasm, and as another rush of pre-come leaks out the slit I shudder then cry
out again almost helplessly. Immediately your fingers appear to rub around the head, quickly
followed by a deep sigh of pleasure as you feel it too.

“You’re so tight,” you say. You make another sighing sound, spreading my legs even wider apart
then briefly holding my hips still so you can watch the long, thick slide of your cock as it pushes in
and out my ass. “Mylimasis. Beloved. Aš tave labai myliu. You take it so well. It’s as if your body
was made for me.”

“Oh God, Hannibal,” I gasp out, my voice very strained and soft. “I like that. Oh fuck, fuck, I really
like it. God…I can’t…I love it so much. I love the way you fuck me.”

You pause very quickly to stroke the curve of my spine before seizing hold of my waist again,
rocking me back and forwards onto the thickness of your cock until I’m starting to tremble and
make small mewling noises. My chest is visibly heaving by now, pre-come dripping in a steady
stream as I buck downwards while you push up; your voice murmuring constant words of praise
and encouragement as you give it to me in a series of rhythmic, powerful thrusts that I can really
feel.

“Oh yes,” I say, sounding almost shocked. “Just like that.” You promptly pivot your hips even
harder, pistoning into me over and over as I make a sound that’s embarrassingly close to a wail.
“Fuck, Hannibal, you feel so good,” I hear myself chanting. “Oh God, it’s you, it’s you…” I sound
a bit wild now; I’m not even fully sure what I’m saying. “Everything’s for you. It was always you.
Always.”

Once more your reply is sharp and Slavic-sounding – a sure sign you’re so overwhelmed you’ve
forgotten to speak English – before you lean back on your heels again to deliver a stinging slap
right against my ass. The first time you did that was almost by accident on our wedding night and
you looked a bit shocked straight afterwards; it was like you couldn’t believe you’d lost control of
yourself so much you’d have touched me in a way that could be considered even slightly
aggressive. It was one of the few times you’ve ever apologised unironically, but now that you’ve
realised I like it you’ll actually do it quite often. In turn, I’ve always understood without being told
that there’s never any intention to hurt me. Admittedly there’s more than a bit of possessiveness to
it, but the main reason is simply because of the way the impact makes my muscles clench to grow
tighter and firmer round your cock. Right on cue I now give a small whimpering noise then
ecstatically spread my legs even wider apart.

“It’s so good,” I gasp out. “Oh God, God, please, it feels so good. Fuck me harder, please...”
Glancing down I can see the way my cock is swaying between my legs – how heavy and swollen it
looks, another glistening thread of pre-come spilling out the slit – and let out a breathy moan. “I’m
not going to touch myself,” I somehow manage to add. “But I won’t let you do it either; I want you
to make me come just from fucking my ass.”

Behind me you repeat the growling sound then take hold of my neck with one hand and my hip
with the other to delivering a deeper series of thrusts. I can hear you gasping “You’re mine Will.
You’re mine,” in the same heady, reckless way I was previously chanting ‘you’ and it’s obvious
you’ve lost control of yourself just as much as I have – possibly even more. In this respect, the
stuttering motion of your hips shows you’re also equally close to coming, but I’m so desperate for
it not to be over that it’s almost a relief when you pull out for a few moments to drape yourself
across my back. I can feel your breath on my neck – how hot and rapid it is as you pant against me
– until you’re seizing hold of my waist again to flip me round mid-air before tenderly laying me
flat across the grass. I give a startled yelp of surprise, so you smile at me then settle down to press
a kiss onto my forehead. Your body seems so powerful like this; I remember the sheer force of you
used to make me feel small or weak by comparison, but not anymore. Now the weight of your
muscles feels very grounding. Comforting, almost, in how containing it is.

“Forgive me, my love,” you now say. “That was incredibly rude of me. But I need to see this
beautiful face.”

I smile back at you, hauling in a few ragged breaths before reaching up to cradle your cheek in my
hand. “Same,” I reply.

Your sole response to this is to pounce down again to kiss me properly; and while it starts off slow
and tender, still manages to spin out of control pretty quickly until we’ve reached a tussle of
scraping teeth and panting breath that’s outright savage in how passionate and unrestrained it is. I
moan frantically into your mouth the entire time, almost dizzy with the sensation of how you seem
to be trying to steal the air right out of my lungs. At one point you even get perilously close to
biting me, pressing your teeth deep into my the side of my throat before finally realising what
you’re doing and managing to pull away before there’s a risk you’ll break the skin. In fact, it’s only
now that I really grow aware of how much I’ve already been covered by similar imprints from your
tongue and teeth. I mean, I really am: there’s even a large suck bruise on my inner thigh that’s still
gleaming wet with your saliva.

“It’s all right, little wild thing,” you murmur as you hear my breath catch. “Don’t be afraid.” As
you’re speaking you wrap one arm around my back, just beneath my shoulders, then tenderly
stroke my hair with the other hand. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

It’s striking how you’ll make these kinds of statements quite often now; far more frequently than
you ever did in the past. There’s also no doubt how sincere they are, yet I still always get the sense
that it’s more for your own sake than for mine; not least because you know I’m no longer
concerned that you’d harm me. I’m not wary of you in the way I once was – you could bite me for
real and nothing more extreme would happen then I’d probably just call you a dick and bite you
back again. Really, they’re much more about the past than the future: a kind of ongoing pledge to
yourself that you recognise what you did was wrong, even if you’re not at the point where you
could concede as much out loud. In the end I just pull you towards me again as proof that I don’t
mind and am not afraid, gasping out your name as I do it in a helpless admission that even if I was
you’re so addictive that it’s impossible to resist you when you act like this.

“I love you so much,” you finally add in the same low voice. “And I understand. I understand,
mano meilė: what you said before, about how loving me was like loving yourself. It’s the same as
the way I used to yearn to know you better, despite the fact it hurt us both. And how it hurt…”
You’re stroking my face again now, letting me moan against your skin as you continue sliding in
and out of me with a gentle roll of your hips. “Didn’t it Will? Closeness to another person can do
that. It requires a level of discomfort, even of pain. All the different heights and depths of intimacy
– the intellectual, the emotional, the physical…”

As you pause to let out another gasp I wrap my legs around your waist to pull you closer, taking
you as deep as possible while our damp skin slides together and I feel myself tightening round your
cock as my own grows slicker and heavier against my stomach. Oh God we’re both getting so
close, I can tell. Any moment now we’re going to come, and it’s a sign of how profound this feels
to you that you’re somehow able to keep talking through it. It’s obvious how much effort it’s
causing: even for you, the willpower required is clearly a struggle. I’m far past the point of
coherent speech myself, yet even now I can still force myself to focus on yours. You need me to
hear it, don’t you? It matters to you that I know.

“The unwelcome insights it can bring,” you add after another pause. Your movement is growing
much more restrained by now: sliding your cock so slowly that I can feel every hot, swollen inch
of it as it drags in and out. “The way the Other reflects back oneself. How uncontainable and
overwhelming it can be: surrendering control then suffering the loss of self-deception…”

As you give your hips a final grind I’m vaguely aware of you calling my name, your tone filled
with such longing and urgency it’s as if I’m far away from you and you’re desperate to summon
me back again. The whole thing is incredibly intense, and when you start to come I barely have
time to even suck in a stuttering breath before I’m following right behind you. The force of it is so
powerful it’s like it’s ripping me apart, my entire body trembling as you make me keep riding your
cock long after the thick ropes of come have started spattering over you one after another. Oh fuck,
fuck, your cock is still so hard in my ass: you haven’t pulled out yet but are still pumping me with
so much of your own that I can feel it trickling out of me even as I’m desperately clenching to try
to keep it inside.

The way you fuck me it always feels as if you could keep going for hours, and I now wrench my
head round rather wildly, licking a bead of sweat from your forearm before you’re plunging your
tongue into my mouth again then sucking at my lower lip. My eyes are actually rolling back in my
head, the sense of intimacy so profound between us that it’s close to overwhelming. It’s like I don’t
fully know where I end and you begin. Although I suppose that’s the difference now, isn’t it? It
doesn’t matter anymore because I no longer need to decide.

I’ve got my eyes closed but I can still hear you panting right above me, your breath very hoarse and
ragged from a blend of exertion and emotion. I’m so wrung out I can barely move, yet it’s just
another thing which doesn’t matter because the strength of your arms is holding me steady and
secure. Our faces are still very close – only centimetres apart – so I now reach out to trace my
thumb across your lips until finally opening my eyes again so I can gaze straight into yours.

“Never stop showing me yourself,” I say softly. “And never stop letting me see myself in you.”

***

It’s getting late in the day by now, yet the sun is still so bright – and your body feels so warm and
inviting – that I can’t think of a single good reason to not simply stay where we are stretched out
across the grass. This, in fact, is one of several benefits I didn’t fully factor for when choosing the
house although it’s certainly one we’ve taken full advantage of ever since: namely the ability to
have long loud sex in the garden, secure in a total sense of privacy and all the resulting freedom it
brings. I suppose having favoured such remote living in my previous life then this perk should
maybe have occurred to me sooner; although then again, I also never had someone like you to
share it with, so perhaps it’s not that surprising after all? I smile to myself at the thought of it then
settle down a little more snugly against you, trying to resist a powerful urge to nap. It’s actually
quite a struggle: I’m currently resting my head across your stomach, and while it’s possibly not
very comfortable for you I still really like it because of how firm and smooth your muscles feel.

“I hope no deliveries arrive,” I say sleepily, because even now my ability to be the Voice of Doom
isn’t fully extinguished. “Just imagine if the GLS guy walked in.”

Above me you make a contented sound and slowly stretch your arms behind your head. “Then I
would have to kill him,” you reply.

“Yeah, I guess you would,” I say wryly. “And I guess I’d have to help you. Share the load, as it
were.”

“Alternatively, you could take the entire load.” You reach down to catch my chin between your
fingers then smile at me rather beatifically. “It is, after all, somewhat hot.”

Even though I know you’re joking (at least…I think you are), I don’t actually believe this for a
second: it would, after all, take far more than extreme heat and nakedness to stop you from
murdering someone if you really wanted to. Let’s face it, you could probably murder people during
floods, hurricanes, Biblical plagues of locusts, the zombie apocalypse, and assorted disasters of
land, air, and sea if the situation demanded it. Saying it’s too hot to murder anyone is probably just
your idea of being modest.

At this point I start to laugh rather manically before hitching myself upwards so I can bury my face
in your neck. “Oh God,” I say. “We’re both so twisted.”

Instead of replying you just smile again then haul me a bit closer to you – possibly because you
think I’m joking as well, or (far more likely) because you think it’s too obvious to require
confirmation. “Sei talmente bello così,” you say. “I enjoy seeing you this way. Happiness suits
you, my love.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Grazie. I think so too.”

You smile a bit more at this, then spend a few moments simply watching me in silence while I
amuse myself with the Extremely Intellectual pursuit of winding strands of your hair round my
finger. “I have a request,” you finally add.

“Sure,” I reply without looking up. In fact, I’m still staring at your hair; God knows why I’m
suddenly so fascinated with it, but I can’t seem to help myself. It’s just so soft. Far more than mine
is, with the sunlight bringing out all sorts of interesting shades that are normally concealed in
dimmer light: rich bands of chestnut, an occasional coppery strand of auburn, and even one or two
faint traces of blond entwined with the more prominent sable and chocolate tones. Then I realise
I’ve got so preoccupied with it I’ve completely forgotten to respond, so now have to force myself
to add rather sheepishly: “What do you want?”

“I want you to pose for me,” you say. “Now. Like this.”

“Pose?” I repeat, temporarily confused. “What, you mean…like for a sketch?”

“Exactly so.” As you’re speaking you lean forward a little further, your breath very warm against
my skin as you begin to kiss the side of my throat. “I want to capture how you look when you’ve
just been made love to.”

“Oh, okay then,” I reply, without even thinking about it. “Sure. If you like.”

As soon as you hear that your entire face lights up. I mean it really does; and it’s only when you’ve
kissed my forehead in silent appreciation and are moving away to retrieve your sketchbook that I
finally remember how this was yet another thing that I never used to let you do. You asked me so
many times didn’t you, but I always kept refusing you permission. I’d dismiss it with words like
‘cringey’ or ‘awkward’, only to end up resenting myself for being so self-conscious (then taking
the frustration out on you instead for making me feel that way by asking). You haven’t suggested it
for so long it’s as if you’d given up on the idea, and once again it’s striking how well you
understand me that this time you knew without being told that I’d have changed my mind.

I’m expecting you to sit in the chair when you return, but instead you just settle yourself on the
grass with your pencils arranged next to you by grade in a neat little row. The scalpel inevitably
comes too, and there’s something about the deftness with which you wield it that turns me on in a
way I realise I’m now increasingly comfortable admitting to. In this respect you also tell me to pose
whatever way I’d prefer, but I already know you won’t be able to help yourself; and sure enough,
you only manage to last for a couple of minutes before leaning over to manoeuvre me into a
position that’s more to your liking. I end up flat on my back with my legs spread open, intensely
aware of how all the dried sweat and semen on my stomach are currently getting recorded for
posterity (along with the mad sex hair which you won’t let me swipe out my eyes) yet completely
unable to care about either. Fuck, I’ve literally still got your come oozing out of me and there’s no
doubt you’ll be able to see it too. In fact I’m about as far on display as it’s physically possible to be
– there are very likely porn shoots in existence which are less explicit than this – but even that is
somehow still less intense than the emotional rawness of it. It’s the sheer sense of exposure, I
think; the fact I’m stretched out like this for your scrutiny without any capacity to disguise or
conceal. It’s also a degree of vulnerability that I’d never share with anyone else, and the fact I’m
allowing this at all is my way of letting you know that I want you to have it.

As if reading my mind, you now briefly lean over to run your finger down my cheek. “Are you
comfortable?” you ask.

Briefly I screw my nose up to think about it. “I think so, yeah,” I say. “I’ll be okay for about
another half hour.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. I’ll tell you if I need to move.”

“You look rather cramped: stretch yourself out if you want to. Then open your legs a little wider for
me; you’ve started pushing your knees together.” I comply immediately and you make a low
rumbling sound of satisfaction. “Perfect,” you murmur. “Very lovely and sensuous.”

I give a small sigh of my own in response then arch my back towards you, lips slightly parted as I
bask contentedly in the combined warmth of the sun and your obvious admiration. God, I can
actually see you starting to get hard again while you’re drawing: your cock very thick and heavy,
already gleaming wet at the tip.

“It feels so good doing this,” I say softly, spreading my legs a little further apart. “I like you
watching me.”

“I like it too – and I like to hear you enjoy it.” You fall silent for a few moments, eyebrows
furrowing slightly as you apply a few deft pencil strokes, then finally glance up at me again from
over the top of your sketchbook. “You’d never have felt that way previously, would you?”

“No.” I catch your eye then give a rather wry smile. “Absolutely not.”

“Imagine if I’d asked you when we were still in America,” you add – and which is unexpectedly
tactful of you, seeing that you’re deliberately backdating it enough to spare me from having to
interrogate my far more recent reservations. “How shocked you would have been.”

“God, yes,” I agree with another smile. “I would have been mortified.”

“Of course you would have been: you didn’t understand how beautiful you are. You’d have been
flushing with resentment and humiliation, insisting that you didn’t want to.” You pause then smile
to yourself, clearly relishing the image. “I can’t deny it, my love: your discomfort would have been
very pleasing. I would have had you entirely at my disposal, knowing you were anxious just for
me.”

“Mmm, yes,” I say, giving my back another luxurious stretch. “Just for you.”

“Yet now we’d have had an interesting situation on our hands,” you add, beginning to smile too.
“Because no matter how hard I tried to hide it, you’d still have known my interest was far from
purely artistic. You’re so perceptive beloved, you’d have noticed straight away. And you’d have
liked it, wouldn’t you? It would have excited you: you yearned so badly in those days to be
celebrated and accepted. So even though you’d have been glaring at me for the suggestion, I would
have known that the rather charming flush on your cheekbones was no longer from embarrassment
alone, but also from the first stirrings of desire.”

Immediately I can feel my own smile start to widen; I think we both know this isn’t entirely true,
but I like the image of it so much that I still don’t want to contradict you. Instead I just sigh again
then let my legs fall even further apart until I hear you catch your breath. “Some time I want to
draw you,” I say.

My eyes have briefly slipped closed, but as soon as I ask that I’m aware of the scratch of your
pencil abruptly going silent. You’re intrigued by this, aren’t you: I knew you would be. “I wasn’t
aware you had an interest in sketching?” you eventually reply.

“A little,” I say, opening my eyes again. “Nowhere near your standard, obviously. But I studied it a
bit in high school. I could probably be semi-competent with some practice.”

By this point the expression on your face is extremely predictable: namely annoyance that there’s
turned out to be something about me you didn’t already know, combined with intense satisfaction
that at least you’re discovering it now. “I would like that very much,” you say.

“Then it’s a deal.”

“It is indeed – and I hope you’re able to derive even a fraction of the pleasure from it as you’re
currently giving me.”

I quickly catch your eye to smile at you again. “I don’t think that would be very difficult.”

“Well, let us hope not,” you say lightly. “Because my degree of pleasure is extreme. You’re so
beautiful this way, mano meilė: like the favourite model of Raphael or Michelangelo. So
sculptured and loose-limbed with all that pale skin and coils of hair. The heat and humidity. The
quiet yearning and outspoken passion. Ferociously adorable while fiercely and passionately
adored…” You pause for a few more moments, thoughtfully inspecting the sketchbook before
retrieving a new pencil to deliver some shorter, firmer strokes. “A tangle of limbs, languor, and
longing with a breathless capacity to fascinate, captivate and inspire.”

I clear my throat rather awkwardly in response to this speech then slowly stretch my arms out
behind me, doing my absolute best to graciously absorb the praise instead of simply swatting it
away from me like I normally do. You immediately start to smile at the sight of it, then finally put
the sketchbook aside so you can lie down too, your body neatly propped up on one elbow with your
face cupped in your palm. I raise my eyebrows at you questioningly, so you smile again then lean
over to press your lips against my forehead.

“You are very stoical,” you say. “And I am having to remind myself not to take too much
advantage of it. You’ve been lying still for too long; you require some rest.”

“Look at you, being so conscientious,” I say with a smile of my own. “I could probably get used to
this.”

“Yes, indeed.” You’re also continuing to smile, although this time it’s noticeably more pensive
than it was before; less playful and more lovingly sincere. “To be candid, I still need to get used to
it myself. Other people’s discomfort – even their pain – is not something I’m particularly inclined
to take much notice of.”

I give a tiny smirk then stretch my arms further out behind my head. “Really?” I ask. “You don’t
say.”

“I do say,” you reply in a thoughtful voice. “Yet I still observe a wave of tenderness within myself
that only you are ever truly capable of bringing out. It’s so familiar by now while also so foreign,
the same way a reflection is distorted in a broken mirror. On one hand there’s my wish to see what
depths of dark artistry and depravity you might be encouraged to descend to, yet on the other is
simply a desire to take care of you. You see? Possession one moment, protection the next.”

Once more you fall quiet, and I immediately get the same sense as before that you’re still not done
and require further silence to encourage you. In fact, these moments of confession and
contemplation are increasingly common now, and I sometimes think they might carry on for years
as you continue unravelling our shred tapestry of trauma and terror one thread after another. It’s a
form of penance – probably the closest you’ll ever get to saying I’m sorry – but also of concession.
In this respect you’ve already implied that if you could change yourself for me then you would, but
ultimately both of us know that it's impossible for you to truly alter who and what you are. And
likewise, we both understand that you don’t entirely regret what you did to me. You regret the pain
and the damage, perhaps, but never the actions themselves, because to deny your behaviour would
be to deny all the outcomes it finally brought us. After all, the only version of our lives in which
you wouldn’t have harmed me is the one in which we never crossed paths at all.

“The desire to discover another human being in this way,” you finally add. “The fervency of it; and
to do so from a spirit of pleasure and appreciation rather than desecration or destruction. It’s yet
one more thing that’s unfamiliar.” There’s another beat of silence as you slowly turn round to look
at me, eyes skimming across my face with an almost forensic amount of intensity. “I can still
remember the sense of foreboding I had when I first met you,” you add in a softer voice. “You with
your sad eyes and anxious hands and stunningly dark mind; it was obvious you were a trap just
waiting to be fallen into. You were the type of speculation I would normally have avoided,
beloved, because such entanglements are a dangerous waste of time – and squandering time is
something to which I am, on principle, very strongly opposed. Yet the situation exists as it is. It is
irrefutable. Elemental, even. To claim anything else would likewise be a waste of time.”

“Yes,” I say simply after a few more moments have passed and it seems like you’re not going to
continue. “Yet here we are anyway.”

“Here we are.” You smile at me again then finally lean back down to brush the edge of my cheek
with your thumb. “You’ve brought me so much beautiful chaos, Will. You challenge me very
profoundly – and it’s taken me far longer than it should have to appreciate how much I need that
kind of unpredictability in my life. You have managed to subvert every expectation I have about
myself simply by existing.”

“I know,” I say gently. “I understand that. And you don’t have to worry about getting things wrong
again in the future.” Immediately I see your mouth start to open: it’s obvious you want to point out
how you never actually worry about anything (worrying being the sort of neurotic, pointless
activity reserved for mere mortals and generally lesser minds) so I give you a fond little eyeroll
then press my finger over your lips to stop you.
“At some point you’ll screw up,” I add. “You can’t change what you are – and as we’ve finally
established, I wouldn’t even want you to. But that means you’ll misjudge me again and make
mistakes. And let’s be honest: I will too. At some point I’ll end up doing my own version of it. I’ll
retreat. I’ll shut you out.” A faint frown line promptly appears between your eyebrows, so I move
my hand from your mouth to cradle the side of your face instead. “I’m not going to lie to you,” I
say. “My old habits die hard, same as yours do. But you need to know that whatever happens I’ll
always come back to you again.”

For a few moments you just stare in silence, eyes boring into me with that blend of scrutiny that’s
uniquely your own and always makes it seem like you’re deciphering every emotional nuance and
flicker of expression. You’re so incredibly intense, and it’s easy to tell simply from looking how
powerful this pledge still feels to you. As if reading my mind, you now wordlessly lift my hand to
your lips to kiss the wedding ring before settling back down again so you can press our faces
together. Immediately I reach out with my other hand to cover yours: tightly entwining our fingers
as I gaze up at you gazing down at me. Your eyes are very soft and dark, almost glistening, and in
that moment I can feel my breath hitch as I’m overcome with a renewed sense of how you’re really
seeing me right now: stripping back the layers and artifice and truly seeing me for everything that I
am – everything that’s flawed and fucked-up and fatally damaged, everything I used to hate – as if
it’s endlessly artful and fascinating. As if it’s something beautiful: your life endeavour and
masterpiece…your personal work of art. I swallow audibly at the thought of it, aware of how
suspiciously damp my eyelashes are starting to feel. Oh Christ, surely there can’t be tears there? I
blink a few times, briefly overwhelmed, and you lean down to place another kiss against my
forehead.

“Yes, my love,” you say quietly. “Come back and be somewhere I can always find you; and that
you’ll always know where to find me. Will. Mano meilė. If you only knew how vital you are then
you would not dare to roam away from me ever again. You would never leave, never stray. You
would allow yourself to be as attached to me as my own shadow, and you would remain by my side
for as long as we both have life in us.”

I quickly open my mouth to agree, only to find myself hesitating slightly then slowly starting to
close it again. Instinctively it feels like what you need from me most right now is the silence to let
you express yourself, because this isn’t so much a conversation as it is a declaration: something to
be listened to rather than engaged in. In this respect your expression is remains very animated,
somehow communicating far more than your actual words are. This is yet another thing about you
that’s relatively new, isn’t it? You used to have such a repertoire of eerie, blank intensity that at
times it could border on frightening. There was almost something inhuman about it: that total
refusal to ever give anything away. You’d reveal so little of yourself, but then even when you
finally deigned to there was still a sense of it being cultivated – your approximation of what a
genuine human emotion would look like, selected from your mental stash then adorned as casually
as a suit of clothes. They were expertly done, yet there was always something slightly unnerving
about them. You don’t do that anymore. Now you don’t merely show me what you want me to see;
instead, you show me what I most need you to reveal.

“Come back,” you now repeat in the same quiet voice. Your eyes, gazing straight into mine, are as
ardent and hypnotic as burning flints. “Come back wild and untameable yet provocative and
playful, come back grave and enigmatic – come back entirely yourself. Bring all your thoughts and
memories with you, all your darkness and your brilliance, all your lethal beauty, every outlawed
thought and forbidden feeling: every day and every hour for the rest of your life.”

As I continue to gaze at you I now reach up to cup your cheek in my hand, smiling slightly when
you cover it with your own until our wedding rings are pressed together. Then I tilt my head to the
side to get a better view of your face; and while I’m only intending it to be for a few moments I
briefly find it impossible to tear my eyes away, because – just a few seconds more, just a few. Just
a few more enraptured, agonised moments to simply gaze at…this. At you. The living, breathing
paradox. Light and life, problem and solution, all sin yet entirely soul; capable of deciphering all
manner of mourning and misfortune while remaining beautiful and terrible and knowing and
oblivious – and belonging entirely to me while simultaneously free and unfettered and impossible
to fully take possession of. The sublime energy, sense, and sensuality: a voltage that thrums and
pulses, and which deserves (demands) to be wrestled and deconstructed before breathed in and
savoured. As if thinking the same, you now smile back then move your face until our foreheads are
touching, your breath very warm and soft as it ruffles against my eyelashes.

“Come back,” you repeat, so solemn and reverent as it’s as if it’s the words of a prayer. “Come
back like you did in the old days; lean against my desk with your hands in your pockets then run
your fingers through your hair and smile and sigh and let me possess you. Come back while you’re
young and beautiful and gradually grow old in front of me; let me watch you do it, let me watch
you for a lifetime. Let me console, complete and transform you, let me see what you can become.
Come back, come back…come back to me. Always, Will. Come back and be mine. Come back;
and let me love you.”

***

For the next hour or so we now proceed to do absolutely nothing except lie around in each other’s
arms; catching each other’s eye and exchanging secret smiles while you murmur to me in Italian
and I drift in and out of a mellow sort of half-sleep (then jolt awake at intervals to inform you of
my increasingly paranoid fantasies that someone’s going to walk in and see us) before gradually
dozing off again. In fact there seems a very real chance that I could stay like this indefinitely, and
in the end the only thing that’s enough to finally get me moving again is when there’s a flurry of
barking from the back door and the dogs come bounding over to start licking my hands as an
announcement they’ve completed their daily siesta and are enthusiastically ready for dinner. Right
now there are currently four of these (my ambition is six), all of whom are rescues from the local
shelter with the exception of the youngest one: a pedigree Italian greyhound, bought by you as a
gift in the very first week we moved in. I can still remember his arrival very vividly, because I’d
just got back from grocery shopping one day and there he was in the kitchen with a huge silk bow
round his neck: a graceful, slender, supple little thing with enormous eyes and legs far too long for
his tiny body. Looking back on it my reaction to him was actually pretty mortifying, because it was
so long since I’d even seen a dog that I reverted into this almost childlike sense of glee and ended
up flinging my arms around you then smothering your face with kisses.

“Greyhounds are very affectionate,” I told you later once I’d finally calmed down and the puppy
was the one who’d got hyper instead and was attempting to jump on your knee for the third time in
a row. “He’s going to want a lot of attention.”

“Well, he has you to provide it for him,” you replied. You were smiling when you said it though,
then still reached down straight afterwards so you could stroke the puppy’s ears. His reaction to
you was immediate and also rather touching; practically quivering with delight then letting out a
series of joyful little yips until you did it again.

“They do that to establish dominance,” I’d said innocently as soon as he took another flying leap
towards your knee. “He wants to show you who’s Top Dog.”

“Does he?” You’d paused, then glanced down at the puppy rather doubtfully as if taking in its tiny
size. “That’s very ambitious of him.”

“You might want to put down a few boundaries,” I’d added in the same innocent voice. “Y’know –
in case he ends up running all over you.”

“I suppose I must admire his determination,” you’d replied, glancing back to where the puppy was
starting to forlornly paw your thigh. “What are you going to name him?”

At that point I’d waited a few moments, watching with growing amusement until you finally gave
in and lifted him onto your lap so he could cover your hands in tiny licks. “How about Scipio?” I’d
said.

“Oh yes, very good – the defeater of Hannibal at Carthage. What a comedian you are.”

“Well to be fair,” I said. “He has kind of got the better of you, hasn’t he?”

In fact, I was a bit of a dick about it and was fully prepared to settle on Scipio until a few days had
passed and I’d decided it didn’t really suit him after all so wanted to choose something else instead.
My inspiration for Italian names was embarrassing limited to various Ninja Turtles and assorted
male acquaintances (and there was no way I was naming him after any of those bastards) but then I
remembered your fondness for La Divina Commedia so now his new name is Dante. By this point
he’s getting close to fully-grown – although still with all his madcap puppy exuberance – and
while it would be impossible for me to ever have a favourite, I know if I did then it would be him
simply because he came from you.

As it’s turned out your own attitude towards the dogs is pretty much exactly as predicted; right
from suggesting pretentious names for them, which I reject equally quickly (“Hephaistos? My God,
are you kidding me?”) to pretending to find them an irritant while clearly doting on them in private.
To be honest, it’s fair to say that you’re hardly as enamoured of them as I am, although I still think
you enjoy having them around. In your eyes the main point in their favour is that they make me
happy, as well as the fact they love me so much, which in your opinion shows good judgement
(and which, because they’re not human, they’re allowed to express in passionately enthusiastic
ways without you losing your shit). In this respect, you probably would have killed a human
intruder – or at the very least seriously considered it – but because this interruption is canine you
now content yourself to a tiny long-suffering sigh before wearily getting dressed yourself so you
can help me feed them. For some reason you always talk to them in Lithuanian whenever you’re
completing this task, and the sight and sound of it never fails to be incredibly endearing.

“You know they’re not human right?” I say now, just like I always do. “You can’t force them to be
bilingual.”

Your response, in turn, is to do what you always do: namely to stare at me unblinkingly with your
eyebrows raised before turning round to solemnly resume your conversation with the dogs in a way
that makes it clear you’re bitching to them about me without it being possible to understand what
you’re saying. I know you only do it because of the way it makes me start grinning, but I honestly
can’t help it; it’s not just the fact you’re making an effort to engage with them, but because I’m also
a bit addicted to these playfully dumb couple’s rituals and can’t ever to seem to quite get enough of
them.

I now proceed to lean back against the counter with my arms folded, beaming away like an idiot
while you pretend not to notice and begin preparations for our own meal (and which is another
thing that’s typical, given that you’ve finally accepted the new house rule which states the dogs
always get to eat first). This evening it’s your turn to cook, and you end up going for something
that’s become a custom every month or so in terms of an entirely American themed meal. At first I
was concerned you were only doing it because you thought I was homesick, but it’s clear by now
that you know I’m not – it’s simply because you enjoy finding ways to make me happy. Tonight,
the menu is grilled asparagus and blackened fish steaks (Cajun-style, with garlic and oregano fresh
from your herb garden), followed by butter sheet cake served in dainty porcelain ramekins (and
which you describe as a tarte à la bouilli, but which to me is basically custard pie). In the past I’ve
heard British people refer to ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ to indicate inferior objects masquerading as
something better, but if applied as a culinary metaphor then your attempts at Creole cuisine are
more like mutton dressed as Lamborghini compared to the types of meals my dad would prepare
for me growing up. There’s still enough resemblance to the original to make it familiar, yet in your
hands is so intensely refined it somehow elevates itself above the source material to become
something entirely unique. My favourite so far is the jambalaya, which you brew up with Turkish
bay leaves and your own homemade chicken broth, but anything you do is always pretty much
perfect.

The fish itself is predictably spicy and delicious and gets eaten at the kitchen table by candlelight,
which is how we tend to have most of our meals now. Sometimes you’ll want to indulge in the full
formality of the dining room with its elegant ceremonies and elaborate tableware, but most of the
time you seem happy to dispense with it in favour of basking in the kitchen’s cosy, informal
intimacy instead. As such we end up leaning over the table to feed creamy forkfuls of cake to each
other (interspersed with sugary vanilla-flavoured kisses) before leaving all the crockery behind
unwashed and simply ambling into the living room so we can slump on the sofa in a tangle of
limbs. As part of the Cajun theme you’ve even made me some pecan cookies, and I now happily
begin to munch on one, quickly followed by two more (then realise I’ve got the crumbs in your
hair so have to spend several minutes picking them out). It’s far too early to go to bed, but already I
feel like I want to. Although I suppose there’s no real reason why we shouldn’t – I might suggest it
to you later. In this respect my warning about married sex (or lack thereof) has also proven
spectacularly misplaced, because if anything we’re even more passionate with each other than we
were while merely living together.

Beside me you make a contented noise then brush your lips against my forehead, your breath
gently ruffling my hair as I tuck myself even more snugly against you. Your fingers feel almost
absurdly sensuous as they stroke my neck; pressed so tightly together it’s obvious you’ve noticed
how hard I’m getting. “Beloved,” you murmur, straight into my skin. “What are you thinking of?”

“Mmm, what do you think I’m thinking of?” I smile again then reach round myself to wind my
fingers into your own hair. “I’m thinking how much I want to jump you.”

“I beg your pardon?” you say.

This promptly makes me smile even harder: for someone so sophisticated your woeful ignorance of
slang never fails to be amusing. “Oh, excuse me,” I reply. “I’m thinking how much I want to have
lawfully wedded intercourse with my spectacularly attractive spouse.”

As soon as I’ve said that you start smiling too, because if there’s one thing you absolutely love
then it’s hearing me refer to us being married. The context itself doesn’t even matter. Sincere and
serious or offhand and flippant, all are guaranteed to make you happy – although the one thing you
admittedly seem to like better than anything else is when I do it in front of other people. Only
yesterday a guy got in touch to arrange delivering some more materials for the trellis (or the arbor,
or whatever) and asked me if I’d be interested in a deal they had on for fencing. ‘Can I call you
back?’ I’d asked him. ‘I’ll need to discuss it with my husband first.’ You were stood nearby when I
said it and the look of satisfaction on your face was priceless. It made me realise that I really ought
to make an effort to let you hear it more often.

“Well, that sounds entirely reasonable,” you now reply, beginning to kiss your way along my jaw.
“I’m sure it can be arranged. I propose an early night…although there is something I would like to
show you beforehand.”
“Hmm, okay,” I say, tipping my head back to give you better access. I’m already so tired again,
which is admittedly pretty feeble. Even so, there’s still something rather enjoyable about it, not
least because of the contrast it offers to how I used to feel before: that awful, deadened lethargy
which always seemed to surpass normal drowsiness and reach a pitch of fretfully restless
exhaustion that excluded actual asleep. “In a minute though,” I add with a contented yawn. “I want
to stay here a bit longer.”

You laugh slightly then gently nuzzle my face with yours. “You have two speeds, don’t you
beloved? Full throttle or aspiring sloth.”

“Well, you shouldn’t stuff me with so much food,” I say. “I’m in a carb coma.”

“Mano meilė. Where do get these ludicrous expressions?”

“Okay, I have postprandial somnolence. Better?”

“Not particularly,” you reply, beginning to wind a strand of my hair round your finger. “Just
because they are ludicrous does not make them unwelcome. They are very you, which is why I like
them so much. Very American.”

“And you are very racist,” I say with another huge yawn. “Ipso facto, American equals ludicrous.”
This time you neither confirm nor deny, instead merely resuming the series of kisses along my jaw.
“You should be grateful to America,” I add, “Seeing how you’re now taking refuge behind our
Fifth Amendment. And speaking of which…”

“Of what?” you ask, shifting round to begin kissing my ear instead. “America in general, or the
Fifth Amendment in particular?”

“Both, I suppose. I had an email from Clarice.”

“And what did she have to say?” There’s a tickling sensation behind my ear (a sure sign you’re
tugging at one of the curls just so you can watch it bounce into shape again once you let it go)
before you add rather sardonically: “I hope it was to confirm your Uncle Jack carried out his threat
of naming a lecture theatre after you.”

“Oh come on,” I say, equal parts amused and annoyed. “Seriously?”

“Indeed, I am entirely serious.” Having reached the outer limits of my ear you now reverse again
and begin working your way back down my jaw. “I like the idea very much: the paradox of it
pleases me. Such an apt dichotomy of the moral and the immoral; of the very good and the very
bad. It’s an appropriate legacy for you, my love. It captures your complexity.” You sigh again then
briefly fall silent, eyes closed as if privately relishing the image of it. “That beautiful face with
crimson splashes of blood, fiercely resilient and always resolute. Ecstasy and agony. Triumphant.
‘William,’ from the Old German Wilhelm…a war deity and warrior. And the name of artists and
wordsmiths and kings – of Blake and Shakespeare and William the Conqueror – but you most of
all, who manages to be infinitely more fascinating than any of the others.”

“Well, she didn’t mention it,” I reply, struggling with a sudden urge to laugh. You’re always so
fulsome: I honestly don’t know how you manage it. “From the way I reacted she probably thinks I
don’t want to know. I guess I could ask her though – if you’re interested.”

“Yes, do.” You pause again then give a rather eerie little smile. “Only imagine if he asked you to
come and officiate its opening.”

“He won’t,” I say firmly.

“He might. Not that it’s worth our while to speculate, I suppose – you can cross that bridge when
you come to it.”

“I’d rather jump off the bridge.”

“You are too premature, beloved. After all, just imagine how cross you’d be while you were doing
it. You love being cross: I think you would enjoy yourself immensely.”

“Oh shut up,” I say, giving your arm an affectionate shove. In fact, a part of me is already
squirming at the idea of Jack actually going through with this, although I suppose you’re right and
it’s ultimately a problem for my future self to deal with (in this respect I have a tendency to defer
quite a lot of problems for my future self…no wonder it hates me).

“Anyway,” I say briskly, as a sign that the subject has officially been changed. “She was writing to
tell me they’re working on a new case. A big one.”

“Aren’t they all. A serial killer, I suppose?”

“Of course,” I reply. “Although this one admittedly sounds quite…extreme. All the victims were
found with their skin removed. I mean, we’re talking actual honest-to-God flaying. The press is
already calling him Buffalo Bill.”

“They do so love their non-de-plumes,” you say with amusement. “Theatrical. Suitably
alliterative.” You wait a few moments then lean forward to nuzzle my hair again. “You sound
rather intrigued, my love. Are you?”

I nuzzle you back then promptly bury my face in your neck so you can’t see the way I’m starting to
blush at being so predictable. “Maybe a little,” I mutter.

“Of course you are,” you reply with obvious fondness. “How could you be anything else? Truly,
beloved, you have such a unique and delightful mind. It’s mesmerizing: I wish to examine it from
all angles and in all possible conditions.”

“Mmm, believe it or not I’d kind of picked up on that already.”

“I often used to think that in the old days,” you add almost dreamily. “Watching the way you’d tear
yourself into tatters…it was a great shame no means existed of levering your skull open to inspect
the various thoughts and impulses existing in it. A chance to sort through skeins of nerves and
tissue like a jeweller categorising precious gems.”

“Oh Jesus, enough,” I say. “I can’t take much more romanticism.”

“But it’s true,” you reply in an innocent voice. “I had a constant sense of regret to be denied the
opportunity. I would have been so gentle, beloved – I only wished to know you better. To possess
you so completely it dismantled and remade you.”

I lean over and give you a deliberate prod. “Well, you should be careful what you wish for,
shouldn’t you?” I say. “Just look at you now – your possession has left you stuck in the middle of
nowhere surrounded by mud and dog hair.”

“Yes, indeed: I am submerged in both these things.” You give another of your more Sphinxy
smiles then resettle yourself on the sofa so you can start kissing your way up my jaw again.
“Nevertheless, if you did ever want to arrange a brief return to America to assist her…well, I’m
sure it could be arranged.”
You sound so incredibly pleased with yourself that I find myself laughing out loud before the full
reality of it finally hits me and I end up falling silent again, visibly growing more serious as I slide
my hand away from your hair to gently cradle your cheek instead. “God, you really mean it don’t
you?” I say. “We’ve got a bit of security at last, and you want to go straight back into the eye of the
storm.”

My voice carries a note of weary stoicism that’s kind but firm – the sort of tone I might use with
the dogs – and which I’m entirely aware of doing on purpose, simply because I get such a kick out
of the fact you’d never tolerate being spoken to that way by anyone else except me. Right on cue
you now give a long, slow smile then glance up at me from beneath your eyelashes.

“I wouldn’t express it in quite those terms,” you reply. Your tone is notably smug and immediately
proves that my attempts to lecture you have (as usual) bounced off without any obvious effect.
“But I liked your Agent Starling quite a bit; she is a person of unusual perception. I like the sense
of purpose and comfort she gave you – and I like seeing you cross wits with a challenging
adversary. Although who knows, perhaps he’s yet another one who would develop a certain
fascination with you? All these degenerates, Will: you’re like catnip for them aren’t you. How do
you manage to attract such very sinister suitors?”

“You mean like you?” I ask, trying not to roll my eyes. Of course what’s unspoken (yet entirely
obvious) is that you want another opportunity to fuck with Jack, but in the end I just smile again
then press another kiss to the side of your cheek. Admittedly the case does sound interesting –
extremely so – but what’s absorbing me most of all is how different our attitudes are towards it
compared to how things were before. There’s something so liberating about you encouraging me to
explore this more ethical aspect of myself, completely free of any sense of anger or resentment
because you’re finally content in the knowledge that my first loyalty will always be to you. And in
turn, I can’t deny there’s something incredibly appealing about the image of it: hiding out in
Baltimore, with a chance for me to see Clarice again while you and I delve into the details behind
the scenes to solve the case in secret. Even my wildest flights of imagination can’t quite go so far
as Clarice seeing us together and accepting it, but in general the whole scheme has a thrilling air of
daring that’s hard not to be tempted by, even though I know I shouldn’t. I guess it’s always been
that way, hasn’t it? I mark out my boundaries with painstaking care while you just lounge around
on the opposite side, whispering in my ear then watching and waiting until I finally break them one
after another, all the time still clutching to my tattered little phantoms of morality.

“I suppose Freddie Lounds will be pleased,” you say tactfully once it’s obvious I’m not ready to
reply. “At least it will provide a distraction from us. And her readership will certainly be grateful:
finally, something new from a steady diet of dramatic articles full of adjectives and bad grammar
about how I tried to kill you again.”

“Have you checked it recently?”

“No,” you reply. “I have no interest at all in what she thinks.” You glance down at me then
immediately start to smirk. “It would appear that the same cannot be said of you.”

I smirk back then start kissing your throat again to distract you, because of course the truth is that I
have checked. Admittedly it’s not like I care that much either, but if I’m honest I think I just like
the contrast; the way things are so different now compared to those lonely, hopeless days of
trolling the Tattlecrime when I still didn’t know where you were or if you were ever coming back.
In this respect the Virtual Grahams were also still out in full force, and it was unexpectedly
comforting to realise it: like a vast, invisible army of unknown allies, all working away in the
world on my behalf.
“Speaking of unsolved crimes…” I now add. As I’m speaking I take hold of your hand, delicately
kissing the tip of each finger one after the other. “Why don’t we go to Rome this Friday? Enzo
D’Amico is going to be there for the economics summit. Do you remember – that banker I told you
about?”

Almost immediately your eyes begin to gleam. “I remember,” you say.

“Apparently he always stays at the Hotel de Russie…”

“He has commendable taste.”

“…and aways requests a drive to the Poppea Club while his wife is in the spa. So far, so
predictable.” I pause very briefly, gently sucking on your index finger then swirling my tongue
across the pad. “But if someone were to distract the chauffeur….”

“Oh yes,” you say. “Someone might very well do that.”

“…Then it might turn out to be quite an eventful weekend.”

“Yes it might,” you say, beginning to delicately untuck my shirt from my jeans. “It’s an itinerary
precisely planned to appeal. You’re still quite the fisherman, aren’t you my love – always selecting
the most suitable bait. Even so, while it would appear Saturday is accounted for I do find that a
little variety in one’s amusements never goes amiss.”

“I guess not,” I say, arching rather luxuriously into your touch. “Did you have anything particular
in mind?”

“Indeed I do – I want to take you to the Teatro dell’Opera. Directly afterwards, perhaps: to
celebrate our success. And as an added incentive, my patience has been rewarded because I have
managed to secure a private box for us to use for the season.”

“Hmm, a private box,” I repeat. “Is that your way of telling me you want us to bang during the
performance?”

“I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with the verb ‘to bang’.” Having finished untucking my shirt you now
bury your way underneath it until firm, warm palms are starting to smooth their way across bare
skin. “But I can guess your meaning – and I said no such thing.”

“Then I’ll say it for you. Anyway, you might not have a choice: you know I can never resist you in
a suit.” I smile to myself then run my finger down your cheekbone. “I can never resist you at all.”

“Is that so? Then it’s very fortunate for you that resistance is not required.”

“I know,” I say. “When did you become so easy? I married a man of loose virtue and low morals.”

“In response to your first question: upon meeting you.” You wait a few moments then give the
most godawful smirk. “And in terms of the second – apparently so.”

“Apparently so. And speaking of which, weren’t we going to have an early night?” I hesitate then
glance down at my watch: it’s not even 9.30. “A very early night. Or no, didn’t you want to show
me something first?”

“I do; although I’m afraid it will require going outside.”

“O-h-h,” I reply. “Okay then.” I’m trying not to sound too long-suffering about it but I’m not sure
how successful is (it’s not): an observer would think you’d just asked me to hike overland to India
as opposed to hauling my lazy ass several metres beyond the front door. “I needed to go out
anyway,” I add, attempting to rally a bit. “I left my toolbox in the yard. I’ll have to bring it in.”

“You could just as well leave it out – there’s no rain forecast.” You pause then give me a rather
fond look. “I assume you are planning to be outdoors all day tomorrow as well?”

“Yes, pretty much.”

“You know, I was remiss with that particular prediction,” you reply in a thoughtful voice. “I should
never have expected you to grow so fond of gardening, yet here you are. It’s rather philosophical of
you, beloved; at least if viewed in a certain light. A space for regeneration: of decay and renewal.
The giving and taking of life.”

“Hmm,” I say, pretending to consider this. “Well, I don’t want to be rude…”

“On the contrary, you horror: I think you would very much enjoy being rude.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” I repeat with another grin. “But is there even a slight chance you’re
overthinking that analogy?” Naturally your only response to this is a faint smirk, clearly suggestive
of the utter impossibility of you ever overthinking anything. “Well, on the plus side,” I add,
struggling with a renewed urge to laugh, “by the end of the week I’ll have finished your arbor.
Actually, I forgot to ask – did you have a chance to buy those decking screws I wanted?”

“Regrettably, no,” you say. “Sabini’s didn’t stock the right length.” I give a distinctly theatrical
sigh and you smirk again then make a pretence of ruffling my hair. “I was planning to seek them
out further afield tomorrow. And you’ll at least you have the satisfaction of knowing I’ll be
punished for it, because I shall have to drive that appalling car of yours.”

I narrow my eyes at you from beneath my hair. “Did you just diss my car?”

“I did indeed,” you say briskly. “It runs like a horse with its legs tied together.”

“It does not.”

“I’m afraid I have to contradict you there, beloved; if you had any mercy in you at all then you’d
have put it out of its misery by now.”

“Well, you could always just get a cab,” I say with amusement. “Seeing how it’s not good enough
for you. Anyway, I thought yours would be ready to pick up in the morning?”

“So did I,” you reply. “Only it turns out the parts required are still unavailable. It’s tedious, but
unfortunately inevitable – one of several hazards of driving a vintage car.”

“I mean, I did warn you,” I say. I sound almost as smug as you now, but I can’t really help it
because I did warn you (using, I believe, an admittedly unfortunate metaphor involving an organ
donation scheme). “They’ll probably have to send to Germany for them.”

“Austria, to be precise.”

“Hmm,” I say, then repeat the I told you so glance; not least because it’s actually pretty rare to be
able to tell you anything and it seems a shame not to make the most of the opportunity while I’ve
got the chance. “That means we’ll have to take mine to Rome instead.”

At the thought of this you give a little wince of distaste (which was expected) although also don’t
suggest postponing the trip (which was not), and overall suggests that you’re far more enthusiastic
about going than I even gave you credit for. In this respect it seems your initial offer of “Fuck the
Rudes, now I have a husband (mongoose/shew/boy/whore) instead” was entirely sincere, because
despite me not asking you to give it up there’s no denying you’re far more mellow now than you
ever used to be in the past. Although having said that you’re undoubtedly still you, so perhaps it’s
not surprising that you’d still rather drive my Public Mortification Mobile to go on a hunt than to
not go at all.

As I’m thinking this you continue to sit there smiling at me, and the general look of you is so sultry
and mischievous that I promptly start smiling too before obediently heaving myself off the sofa to
take hold of your hand so you can lead me into the garden. It’s approaching twilight by now, which
I think is one of my favourite times since living here; just a soft buttery glow bathing everything in
streaks of pinkish gold, with nothing to break the silence beyond a sleepy rustle of leaves or the
occasional hum of bees returning from their final forage of the day. I should maybe build us a
beehive, shouldn’t I? Yeah, maybe I should do that: it’s not too difficult and there’re so many
flowers round here that a colony would establish itself in no time. There’d be a peaceful sense of
novelty to it, and I think you’d enjoy using honey that I’d collected myself…

The entire time you’re still holding onto my hand, so I now give yours a squeeze in return then turn
round again to smile at you. Behind us the house seems as if it’s slumbering in the evening sun, the
reflection glancing off the bricks at certain angles to turn them the same pale yellow as Labrador
puppies. At moments like this the mere sight of it is enough to make me happy, simply because it’s
so secure and safe and beautiful, and – most importantly of all – it’s ours.

As you carry on smiling at me I now find myself hesitating slightly, hand still gripped tightly in
yours as my eyes drift upwards to the second storey window. There’s a faint gleaming through the
glass, and I already know it’s from where the sun is catching the kintsugi I gave you on the first
day we moved in. Of course, that means it’s also been there for a while, yet even now I still always
like to look at it; it’s as if my eyes will automatically stray in its direction whenever I’m close by.
Sometimes I’ll even just wander into your study to view it in person (never bothering to knock,
because you’ve made it so clear that you prefer it when I simply walk in). In fact, that’s probably
become part of the pleasure of visiting it: the total certainty that my presence is never an irritant
and your welcome will always be unreserved.

The kintsugi itself is a teacup (of course) and I made it myself from a piece of vintage Doccia that
cost every last cent from selling the Locard books; smashed into careful shards with a little
hammer, then lovingly reassembled with golden lacquer one piece at a time. It’s extremely rare for
me to ever see you as visibly moved as you were when you took it out of its box: for a few surreal
seconds, I actually thought you might cry. ‘Should time reverse,’ you’d said very quietly. ‘And
teacups come together…’ You were gazing at the kintsugi as you were speaking and when you
finally glanced up again I could see the extent of the emotion on your face. It’s likely you were
thinking about your sister – possibly Abigail – but there was no doubt that the full extent of your
focus was on me. ‘There is no attempt to hide the damage’ you’d quoted softly. ‘The repair is
literally illuminated. You see, beloved? Sometimes it’s possible to break something and make it
even more beautiful.’ I remember you spent nearly the entire evening tenderly holding onto it, but
today you keep it on the windowsill of your study because you say you like it to be the first thing
you see when you walk down the driveway: a lasting reminder of what we’ve managed to make
together.

“I love you,” I say quietly and immediately feel you tighten your grip on my hand. In the past you
used to remark on these announcements, but now you’ll accept them in contented silence because
the commentary is no longer needed. It isn’t a rarity in the way it once was, is it? Now I say it all
the time. “So go on then,” I add. “What do you want to show me?”
“It’s around the side of the house,” you say, only this time I find myself simply gazing at you
instead of replying. This shadowy half-light really suits you, I think: somehow making you look
even taller and broader while highlighting all the planes and angles of your face in a way that
showcases your sinister glamor to perfection. To be honest it’s enough to make me want to shove
you up against the wall, although I suppose we’re going to bed soon anyway and as a location
that’s undeniably more appealing. Ultimately I just give your hand another squeeze then gently
stroke my thumb across your knuckles.

“You know, you’ve really built this up now,” I say. “I hope it’s…” But then before I’ve even had a
chance to describe what I’m hoping for we’ve turned the corner and I can see for myself: an
enormous Thruxton motorbike, black and glossy as a panther and gleaming slightly in the last of
the sun with a haze of metal and chrome.

“Oh God,” I say, beginning to laugh. “You didn’t.”

“Yet I did,” you reply.

You look so colossally pleased with yourself that I start to laugh again before leaning up to plant a
kiss on the side of your cheek. You smile too, neatly positioning yourself behind me so you can
wrap both arms around my chest while your face presses snugly against mine. In fact, I’m already
starting to remember the first time the subject came up, and it now feels deeply uncomfortable to
realise how awkward I must have seemed when you mentioned it. How hard it was to admit that I
found the thought of you riding it attractive. Or how I didn’t want to ride it with you because the
image of sitting behind you and clinging on seemed demeaning. There’s almost something sad
about it, really: the number of limits I was imposing on myself from a sense of pride and self-
preservation that was always entirely misplaced.

I now twist round slightly in your arms so I can nudge your forehead with mine. “You better get the
full leather outfit,” I say. “I’m serious: consider this an official warning. Don’t make me end up
having to buy it for you.”

“Would that be so bad?” you reply, gently nudging me back. “You have excellent taste.”

“Hmm, maybe,” I say. “But I assume the main purchasing principles should be safety and comfort
– not what you think your husband would look most hot in.”

You promptly look so happy I find myself smiling all over again like an idiot before putting my
hand over yours. “Do you think we can get as far as Rome on that?” I ask.

“That was the general idea.”

“No luggage?”

“No need. I shall buy you anything you require when we get there.”

“Then it sounds like we’ve got a plan,” I say. “The dogs will be okay for a couple of nights. I’ll
arrange for that service in Ciampino to send a sitter.”

“You’re sure?” you ask rather doubtfully. “You won’t miss them too much?”

I consider this for a few seconds then give you another nudge. “Yeah,” I say. “I will. But they’ll be
well looked after. Besides, the main thing is that you’ll be there.”

The look of pleasure on your face when you hear that is undeniable: even with non-human rivals,
nothing ever seems to give you greater satisfaction than having proof that I need you more than
 anything else. At the sight of it I start smiling again too, then finally let go of you for long enough
to walk over and inspect the bike more closely. As a piece of design, it’s genuinely rather stunning:
sleekly compact, and almost muscular in how study it is. I can’t believe I didn’t have the sense to
encourage you to get one before.

“I’ve never actually ridden one of these,” I say now, running an admiring hand along the fender.
“Not even as a passenger. It’s a long way to Rome: I’ll probably need a few test-drives to get used
to it.”

“Of course,” you reply. “I would have recommended the same myself. It can feel rather
disorientating to begin with.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I can hold on.”

This immediately makes you start smiling yourself. “You’ll need to practice leaning into me,” is all
you say. “It’s important for our movements to be synchronised.”

“Sounds good,” I reply. “That’s not generally something we have much trouble with.”

As I watch your smile begins to soften and turn into something deeply tender and reflective. “No,
indeed not,” you say. “And rest assured, my caution shall be excessive. I will be mindful of having
an extremely precious cargo.” You give me another smile, and as I smile back you suddenly take a
step forward then hold out your hand. “So, how about it,” you say. “An impromptu lesson right
now?”

I laugh again then glance down rather uncertainly at the bike – at the sheer size and power of it –
trying to imagine what it might be like to sit on the pillion and place myself so utterly in your care.
It would require absolute confidence to allow it: almost a leap of faith. That I could take life and
limb and pass them to you for safekeeping, knowing that you’ll protect both of them just as
thoroughly as you would your own. Possibly you can guess what I’m thinking because you now
take another step closer, your expression about as tender as I’ve possibly ever seen it.

“Trust me?” you ask with another smile.

Immediately I smile back as I catch your eye. Reach out. Take your hand.

“I trust you,” I say. “Always.”

Chapter End Notes

The quote about kintsugi is from Christy Bartlett’s essay ‘A Tearoom View of Mended
Ceramics.’

The reference to Buffalo Bill is from ‘The Silence of the Lambs’ - sorry to anyone
who’s unfamiliar with the book/film and might have been wondering about it!
 Many thanks also to Esoo, whose thoughtful feedback on a previous chapter inspired
the dialogue about ‘Learning to love you has been like learning to love myself’.

It’s always very bittersweet to get to the end of a long story like this; partly relief that
it’s finally finished, but also a certain sadness that the journey’s come to an end :’-)
Despite the considerable ups and downs of posting on AO3, I’ve genuinely enjoyed
writing this fic and have *loved* interacting with all the amazing Fannibals. Huge,
huge thanks to everyone for reading, for the kudos and lovely comments, and to the
artists who were so generous with their incredible work. I’ll really miss you all, and
thank you so much again for your amazing support and encouragement xox

Works inspired by this The

one Sassy Will Gallery by MrsSteampunk, Book Covers for 'The Seventh
Sense' by MissDisoriental by sparklingjoy, The Seventh Sense Fanart by
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'The Seventh Sense' Cover Art by neon_fox, Cover for MissDisoriental's
"The Seventh Sense" by Patties92, Book Cover: The Seventh Sense by
ExitThroughTheGiftShop, the weirdest fan art you ever saw by nonGMO,
fanart for missdisoriental's 'seventh sense' by MissCoates, Hannigram Fan
Videos by DrLecterWillSeeYouNow, Theseus and the Minotaur (Fanart for
‘The Seventh Sense’) by DD_cookmelonger, Fanart for MissDisoriental by
Pufosenie23, Fanart for MissDisoriental's 'The Seventh Sense' by
Radosevic, Fanart for MissDisoriental by DD_cookmelonger, Rainbow Riot
by unsernameinuse, Imago by orphan_account, Fanart for ‘The Seventh
Sense’ by DD_cookmelonger, Hannigram Playlist for "The Seventh Sense"
by MissDisoriental by faintestblush, The Seventh Sense: Fanart by
LaMonstre, "I want you to dance with me" - Fanart for The Seventh Sense
by Head_Full_Of_Hannigram, Love Crime Series [FANART MASTERPOST]
by AgentPink, Fanart ‘Our (L)awful Murder Husbands’ For MissDisoriental by
DD_cookmelonger

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