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Chapter Text

To hide being ten feet tall at full height (Wolf height, he should probably call it. He's getting far too comfortable with his attributes and features after that sickly night in a Floridian bayou with bloody alligator scales floating in the water and pathetically small dog-ish bite marks all up his legs.) Will managed to scrounge himself up an apartment with tall ceilings.

He's in love with its details. Soft square shaped adobe tiles everywhere he goes, clean and neat palest-of-pale yellow walls, shuddering black window blinds that always let white or gold light in to warm up small strips of the floor. The rooms are small and covetous, perfectly fitting Will's tastes for something that would accommodate one person. The only way two people could live in one of these apartments is if they were very close friends or lovers, and he thankfully has neither.

Distasteful memories of boarding school in Virginia leech in at the thought of lovers, the hellish way Matthew Brown would pester him selfishly and adamantly try to force himself into Will's pants simply because he let it slip that he was secretly gay. The feeling of blackmail hanging over his head at the fiasco that would happen if he tried to tell school staff about the absolute bitch-in-heat sleeping across the room from him, and the fact he was terrified of potentially even getting raped in the middle of the night spoke fucking volumes.

Eventually it blew over, and then he just had to room with Brian Zeller. Even when Matthew snarlingly told Zeller in the hallway how he was sleeping in the same room as a fag, his new roommate seemed completely unphased and even offered Will an edible for his troubles.

“ I used to room with Abel and Frederick, and they'd fuck for like… three hours, every day exactly after midnight. “ Zeller drawled, texting someone (probably his friend Beverly) as he spoke, “ I'm glad I'm rooming with you instead of Matthew, just ‘cause we're all secretly faggots around this end of the hallway doesn't mean we have to start gettin’ freaky with our roomies. “ 

“ Everyone's queer on this side of the dorms? “ Will asked, honestly quite shocked at the reveal. It probably wasn't supposed to be what he was focusing on, but Abel Gideon and Frederick Chilton having sex wasn't entirely unexpected given the suspicious aura around their bully-victim routine.

“ Yeah, it's an open secret. Kiss ‘n tell to one person, and they go around spewing to their friends who are also probably gay, and it spreads throughout the top-secret highway of gay boarding school gossip. “ Zeller explained, rendering a fourteen year old Will Graham amazed and ever so slightly delighted.

Either way, he has his tall ceilings and large bed with lemon yellow sheets, and he has the honey-trap city of Florence at his feet.

Err, paws, technically.

He came to Italy fresh out of his sixteenth birthday, funded by FBI forensic trainees Zeller, Price and Beverly who desperately covered his every murder, lying right through their - straight, sharp and cigar-stained - teeth to FBI and Police alike.

Usually law enforcement didn't take on animal attack cases, but the victim list shared very obvious similarities. Rich, bigoted blustering fools in bespoke yet tasteless suits and Gucci wristwatches. All of them with open secrets covered up by their money: lecherous sexual predators, incompetent crime bosses, far-right wrinkly Christians cutting the fundings of nature preserves and wiring them directly to megachurches that were slipping the money out of foolish conservative senior citizens' hands.

They were not victims, they were prey that just didn't make the cut for predator status on the food chain. Killing them was only natural, though he made quite sure that he had stripped all of them of their clothes and belongings lest he get gaudy silk or jewellery in his digestive tract.

Quite literally, the only things left of them were rags, blood, and a few bones. Oh, and chunks of heavily gelled hair that didn't agree with his stomach.

So while the FBI was still out of their minds with confusion at how the actual fuck this was happening - it was almost supernatural, one might say. Hah. -, he waddled his wolf ass down to Italy. Initially he was going to aim for Rome or Venice, but Florence felt the most homey to him.

So now he is here, seventeen years old sitting crisscross applesauce on the tiles next to the floor-length windows covered with aforementioned slat blinds, using a nail file to scrape motor grease from out under his fingernails with a small clear plastic tub of water and dish soap to help.

If he went hunting with dirty nails it'd ruin the flavour of the meat, as he's learned. It is like eating fried chicken made with expired or burnt oil, leaving a horrible bitter aftertaste.

In his mild contemplations he doesn't expect anything, therefore he nearly flings backwards when his apartment landline begins ringing, the dirt-crusted white phone attached by a curling wire shuddering in its place on the wall.

Scrabbling up onto his hands and knees and eventually feet, he pads over wet red tile to answer the phone, mildly drying his hands on cheap flannel booty shorts and flinching when his fingertips meet the vibrating phone.

“ …Hello? “ Will answers nervously, his clientèle mostly consists of boat and jetski drivers— joyriders who sail around on their days off. All of the calls he receives are on Sundays and Saturdays, occasionally Fridays. The only time there are calls on a day that isn't one of those three is when he's finished fixing something and wants to let his customer know that they could come pick it up.

It is a Wednesday.

“ Hello, is this Signor Graham? “ A thick accented voice comes through, calm and uncrackable in tone. He can hear whirring and a distant beeping that sounds like the unloading of cargo from a construction truck. What the fuck.

“ Yes? that's me.. “ He trails off, “ Who am I speaking with right now..? “ 

“ My apologies if I have startled you, you may call me Signor Lecter. I am in a rather unfortunate predicament. “ The.. man? Boy? Boy says, sounding rather flummoxed.

“ Oh? What can I help you with, Signor? “ Will queries, recalling distantly that he did apply and register for emergency handyman services. 

“ My motorbike has decided that it's up to its teeth in petulance, and has randomly broken down on the side of a street. “ Lecter says, theatrically dreary despite the undertone of honesty running through his voice. Will can't help but raise an amused eyebrow and nod to himself.

“ No problem, no problem at all, where are you? “ He asks, hooking the phone against his shoulder and ear as he snatches his notepad off of the dresser next to him, awaiting Signor Lecter's response.

“ Borgo San Frediano street, near the Chiesa di Frediano. “ He murmurs, voice a little distant from the phone like he's looking up at the parish in question as he's describing where he is.

“ Alright I'll be there in a hot second, “ Will scribbles the address down and rips the paper off of the pad, holding it between his teeth as he re-places his notepad on the dresser and moves to hold the phone in his hands again.

“ I cannot thank you enough, Signor Graham. “ The boy says, charming him over the phone with what can only be described as his… cutesy manners.

“ You're welcome. “ He echoes back, and firmly and quickly stuffs the receiver back onto the wall. He rips the note out of his teeth and rushes down the apartment complex stairwell, toolbox in hand, in flip flops and barely any clothes to begin with.

His landlord - a broad-bodied Catholic Mexican woman who will never stop wearing floral pattern dresses and frilly skirts - appraises him on his way down the stairs with a scandalised look at his tank top and shorts, but otherwise doesn't stop him when she sees his toolbox in hand. Huffing and stomping back inside her own plot to gossip to her sweet but nervous wreck of a spindly husband. Will smiles when he sees her itch a finger over an ear missing an earring, knowing it's safe in the palms of a pawnbroker who paid him handsomely for it.

As he sprints over the bridge, he can hear a distant argument between a known day-drinker and some guy with a tortured expression on his face, letting it wash over him like the wind and the hot pavement warming the undersides of his clopping flip-flops. 

Finally, he turns a corner and finds himself at the start of the road Signor Lecter is on. He sighs, hand dragging over a vined wall, and continues running down the road up until he reaches the church.

When he finally gets there, he's only a little winded.

Assessing the situation at hand, he finds himself completely winded.

Motorbike propped up against a wall, Signor Lecter seems to be standing idly in a full leather get-up. Under his arm is his helmet, and his feet crossed as he leans back against the same wall his bike is on as if in sympathy.

His hair is nearly matching the wall in the shade of a light chestnut, save for the white dyed tips fanning over his forehead. Signor Lecter is leaning back and smoking. 

By Gods if it isn't the most sultry thing Will Graham has ever witnessed.

“ Ciao. “ Will says, stunned.

Lecter perks up with a small polite smile, “ Ciao, thank you for coming. “ 

Chapter Text

She was covered in blood and algae, when he first met Beverly. Zeller had called him on the phone in a panic from all the way out at some seaside pub in Pompano Beach with wooden docks and a woven palm tree straw roof, Will had never heard Brian Zeller sound so affected in his two years of knowing him that he immediately hopped to do whatever his friend asked of him, which apparently included a search and rescue on one Beverly Katz.

He instantly knew, somehow, that she was in the nearby bayou. For the rest of his life he will never know how he knew, but he did.

Beverly had been limping, covered in bloody scratches and bleeding from the nail beds like she'd been bashing them against something. Her black hair was soaked through and there were bits of saltwater kelp slung over her shoulders.

For a bit he had stared, and then asked her what happened. She refused to say a word for a whole thirty minutes, no matter how patiently he prodded.

Just their luck then, that they were not going to be out of the metaphorical woods for a few more hours, beginning with the hysterically surprising appearance of an eight foot tall wolf from thin fucking air.

Looking up from his current task - hovering and fretting over a broken bike -, the existence of gargoyles is in the process of being added to his list of real supernatural fauna.

But Signor Lecter is well-tanned in a shade of gold, not stone grey, and if Will really taps in to his empathy disorder he has a feeling the guy tans every other day; perhaps he does it butt-ass naked, perhaps not. He'll never know.

Either way: not a gargoyle, despite having the aura of one.

“ It's the heat, “ Will murmurs as he works, using a tiny pair of scissors to separate melted-together colourful wires, holding them apart with a bit of plastic akin to a PVC jacket. “ You've got an air cooling system rather than a liquid one, that's why your wires are broiling. “

“ I see. Are you able to modify it, or..? ”

“ Oh no, I can't modify designs. I'm no good at that, Signor. Apologies. “ Will snorts, amused at the thought. “ For now I can just keep the wires separated so that they don't melt together. Aside from that and one of the fans busting, there's nothing else in need of fixing. Your bike is quite well kept. “

Signor Lecter smiles at the praise, thanking him profusely and offering much more money than Will is able to accept. Sweat tickling at his back at the grand wad of cash the boy practically shoves down his throat.

“ Please, Signor Graham, “ Lecter pouts, “ It's the least I can do for your troubles, seriously. “ 

“ Wh– have you never been to a mechanic or something? That was basic work, I promise— “

“ Ah-ah, I'm meeting with my aunt in an hour or two, you saved me from being late to a special dinner. I insist. “ He beseeches, firmly tucking the money into Will's rather skimpy flannel pockets with a sweet smile and a wrist showing shadows of tattoos under his driving gloves.

Will - thoroughly bullied - reluctantly accepts. Flushed, embarrassed, and secretly pleased, he stares as Signor Lecter wheels his motorbike up to the centre of the road and flamboyantly speeds away down the street with a resounding 'Ciao!' In goodbye echoing over the bricks.

He looks up at the Chiesa di Frediano and stumbles in, ignoring the wary gazes of the clergymen as he splits the thick stack of cash in half and sets one half down on the altar leading up to the crucifix on the wall. Quickly hustling himself out under utterly befuddled looks.

Seeing a random and completely unfamiliar teenage boy covered in scars come in after mass hour with a pocket bulging with cash and a mechanics toolbox is probably not something those old preachers see everyday. He won't blame them if they begin gossiping about it, even if gossip is probably something sacrilegious— he isn't religious in the slightest, he wouldn't know.

He trots back the same way he came, this time with one stuffed pocket and slightly reddened cheeks. Signora Soldano - Catholic Mexican Landlord - has her hands on her fat hips when he returns, fiercely and almost comically glaring at him, tapping her heeled blue velvet loafers on the ant covered terracotta tiles outside of the apartment complex.

“ Ay, boy! Dress yourself more modestly, ah? It's rude to be walking around almost naked– you look like a right finocchio with those shorts! Cut your hair, too, you might as well be wearing it up in ponytails and painting your nails! “ She blabs, wagging her finger and poking her shiny Santorini-blue nail polish at his red cheeks.

“ Signora.. “ He trails off, ignoring the sting of her words, ashamed at being downright gaydar-ed by a woman he's spoken to only four times thus far. Five, now.

“ Don't signora me, young man! I'll send my husband up there with a pair of scissors and a bag of pure, modest clothes for you if I have to!!! Ay, the things I have to do to keep my residents classy! “ Signora Soldano bemoans, at one point her voice sweetens over the word husband, but otherwise it's scalding like a beer bottle left too long out in the sun. 

“ What??? Your husband can barely lift a carton of small tomatoes! “ He scoffs, walking up the stairs and ignoring the woman's ferocity at having her beloved husband insulted. He can hear her apartment door slam shut when she realises he isn't listening anymore, and he smiles the remainder of the way up. The other residents raise amused eyebrows in his wake.

Finally having returned to his apartment, he groans when he realises he has to restart his nail cleaning process over again, having reinstated oil and diesel under his nails after helping Signor Lecter.

He finds that he really, really doesn't mind. Fully opening the blinds to let the slowly-turning-on street lamp light in so he can clean his nails peacefully in the dark. Sunset has passed, and he is preparing himself for dinner.

In a different spot in the city of Florence, Hannibal Lecter wonders over his plate of home-made Amatriciana if he's just found his muse. Aunt Murasaki doesn't notice it when he fiddles with the tiny stolen screwdriver in his pocket.

Chapter Text

A week passes normally.

He knows something's up on one random evening when he starts smelling cooked fish through his front door and half-open windows.

“ Bev, I'm gonna have to hang up I think– I think someone's.. having a house party? “ He concludes uncertainly, nose skyward as he catches a whiff of beer and champagne.

“ Oh? Where are you going? “ She asks, confused. Will Graham isn't known to attend parties, ever.

“ I'm going to investigate, uh. Yeah. I'll– I'm gonna go now.. bye, Bev. “ He concludes, letting her return a mildly confused goodbye and hanging up before she can get out a ‘ We love you! ‘.

Dragging his hand from the phone, he pads softly over to his door, cracking it open and sliding on a pair of sandals to go see what all of the fuss suddenly coming from downstairs is; hearing voices and hearty traditional music pulsating from below. He's greeted to the sight of a mixed-age group flowing like the entrance to a football stadium from a random neighbours door, he can hear Signora Soldano somewhere in the crowd with her stomping blue loafer heels and all-too-cheery voice.

Nobody really notices or minds when he slinks in, keeping his head low and not attracting any attention. This apartment complex has never had house parties before, and someone somehow managed to get Signora Soldano jolly without having to bring up her husband and her immense love for him. Or at least, Will hopes she's jolly without his presence, though he wouldn't be surprised if Signor Soldano were pressed right up against his wife's pendulous bosom like a treasured show-cat.

What really catches his attention is the small portable TV in the corner on a speckled marble kitchen counter, old fashioned and large and boxy, playing the local news.

As he inches closer to the hazy technicolor screen, it becomes increasingly clear that the man talking in Italian at the station is broadcasting a long-dead victim of Will's. That is normal, sometimes he doesn't want to finish his food and only snaffles up arms or legs and leaves the rest of the body behind and the police get to it and—

He's never dressed his victims up in a fashion akin to paintings, though.

That, right there on the screen with bundles of flowers bouncing out of Mr. Zanell's rotting chest, is not his design.

His thoughts scramble for hold, confusion overtaking him for a hot minute, and then anger and possessiveness. Someone has cocked their nasty leg up like a dog and marked their territory right on top of his work.

Firmly, he marches right out of the house party, ignoring the whinging and startled annoyance of the guests he forcefully pushes past and walks his way down the house steps. He knows exactly where he left that corpse, and if the back alley wall it's posted up on in the photo is the same as the one he left the body by, then he's right on his way.

He's studied this, he knows that for hours the body will be sat there, undisturbed by anyone so that the forensic team on hand can filter through and pick anything up from the alleged killer. 

He has plenty of time.

Having caught a ride and been driven as close as possible without warranting suspicion, he stumbles his way into the forest and easily hooks himself up onto a nearby roof, finding his way with vague memories.

He manages to find exactly what he's looking for, an open view of the alley he left his third most recent victim in.

The first species of flower that catch his eye amidst the clueless flurry of forensic scientists are bold magenta Heartsease. Remembrance, thoughts, mending a broken heart, famously used in William Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream as a love potion. Represent forbidden love.

He learned as much from his years at boarding school, when all his botany teacher and English teacher - both caught up in a very obvious salacious affair with one another - wanted to talk about was love and romance and the language of flowers. He can tell whoever did this is smart, the position of the corpse with Mr. Zanell's hands pinned up to look like he's tearing his chest open to expose what's within. This was intended for Will, he is the audience. He is who this mystery person has metaphorically ripped their chest open for.

The next are burgundy Sweet Williams, a very obvious and startling play on his own name– William. Gallantry and chivalry, admiration, a gentleman's courteous affection. A man has done this, then. A gentleman.

Will realises by the third species – slowly dying Queen of The Night flowers representing ephemeral and fleeting beauty, preciousness, and if Will had to give another meaning to the list he'd say possessiveness - that this is not a street dog pissing on another mutt's spot, this is a bold worshipful love letter.

Even more so when he finds out that this killer has claimed Will's victim in an act of protection against the law, tipped off by the fierce mix of thin white tulips and rotund purple hyacinths spread on the concrete below in a shower. Asking for forgiveness for stealing, clearly.

The last species, spittling out just under the Queen of The Night's and spilling all over Mr. Zanell's lap, are Sweet Violets. Blooming thickly in, well, shades of the colour violet. Faithfulness.

He can hardly be mad when whoever did this did so with beauty and reverence. Turned his violent bloody mess into a violet - and still bloody - mess.

He scrubs a hand over his eyes, stalking away back through the perimeter and sneaking back over to his apartment complex where the party is still banging— in fact, it might have even gotten wilder. He rightfully sequesters himself in his room after having been offered one of six different clinking ominous radioactive-looking shot glasses clumsily stuffed into the arms of some drunk girl on his way up the stairwell.

He changes into a less sweat-ridden shirt and flannel pyjama pants, lumbering under the margarine yellow covers of his bed. He's lulled to sleep by distant reggae music coming from speakers in an entirely different apartment and the yellow of the street lamps beaming light through the downcast slats of his window blinds.

When he wakes up, he finds out firstly that there's an envelope he's never seen before on his bedside table, and secondly that he accidentally left his apartment door unlocked the night before.

He looks through his drawers and manages to find an old blue polaroid Beverly gave to him on his mockery of a sweet sixteen, because the most bespokenly arranged flower bouquets line his terracotta kitchen floors— and so do large splatters of fresh human blood.

Will Graham is being courted.