𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞: A Hannigram Love Story

Chapter Twelve

Trepidation built itself up in the ventricles of Hannibal's racing heart, his sight taken from him by another cloth thrown carelessly over his head. The only noise that he could hear was the sound of the rubber tires of the van rolling along the road. When they'd left, it'd been dark out, so dark that he could barely see his hand held out in front of his face. It was an odd, unexplained tarnished image, thinking about the events that had so studiously led to this point. In these moments, it felt like his life with Will's were all an act in a Shakespearean tragedy, all their words lines ripped from a script written through the hand of another.

Given Hannibal's past, he was sure of one thing: this would not end well for this man.

Personally, Hannibal did not believe in fairy tales. There was no such thing as happy endings, there were no princes and princesses, no fairy godmothers that would aid in a time of need. He was much more aware of the undoubtably fact that the world was cruel. It had teeth sharper than any blade in the world, and its fangs were covered in deadly venom that would not hesitate to mutilate its victims. Children needed to be told hopeful stories to shield their fragile psyche from being shattered; but the end was inevitable. One day, they'd be tainted. And so would their formerly fragile minds.

"We're here," the man said gruffly as the vehicle comes to a complete stop. "Try not to bleed again, I don't want to clean up your bloody mess again."

The rear doors of the van open, and Hannibal could feel a calloused pair of hands gripping onto the sleeve of his shirt. It was odd, the way he cleaned Hannibal up before they departed from the home. His hair was combed neatly, and he was ordered to dress in a comfortable pair of jeans, along with a burgundy long sleeved shirt. His wound had even been cleaned, medical ointment soon being lathered onto it so the scar would be faint. Never once did he say anything, didn't complain, only complied willingly. The cunning psychiatrist was playing his cards just right, so this would go as smoothly as possible.

You know, deep down, that this will only end in absolute chaos, Hannibal thought to himself. When Will arrives, we will both lose our heads, and the hunter deep within us will overcome all rationalities. I hope we weren't birthed together in vain.

"Try anything funny," the man says as he pushes him along, snatching off his cloth, "and I won't hesitate to slit your throat out in front of Will."

Hannibal nods in acknowledgment, not offering up any utterances.

The walk to the cliff was short, their footsteps crunching on the ground underneath of their boots. As observant as he was, Hannibal made a mental note of how far the path was from the van to the cliff's edge. He could hear the waves of the ocean crash against the bottom of the shore, the scent of saltwater so strong it almost burned his nostrils. Cool breezes of air waft against his high cheekbones, though he didn't shiver, didn't form any goosebumps on his skin. It wasn't particularly cold tonight, which he was thankful for.

It's harder to kill someone if you're a shivering mess.

And someone would die tonight, but he'd make damn sure it wouldn't be either of the star crossed lovers.

--*--

"He's late," the man growled, glancing down at his watch.

While they'd been waiting, Hannibal took a seat atop the surface of a rock, his knees bent and his hands still bound behind his back. "William has never been one to show up at the time he's meant to," Hannibal says thoughtfully. "Not when it matters. His brain eats itself from the inside out, the neurons firing too rapidly. He'll be here. I know he will."

No other words were shared between the two of them for a long while, leaving Hannibal to his own devices.

Five minutes passed.