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Hannibal awakened to a chilly draft carrying with it the sound of music. It was a bleary moment before he realized he was not in fact dreaming. Someone… a man was singing quite heartily outside of his window.
He shrugged on his robe and wandered over to the window sill, the sounds of morning around Lac Pipmuacan joining the clarion voice below. He peered down to see Will, out some distance on the pier with tools scattered around him and a boat motor resting half in his lap. And he was merrily singing a tune, utterly oblivious to all else.
“Whiskey is the life of man
Whiskey Johnny
Whiskey is the life of man
Whiskey for my Johnny-O!
Thought I heard the old man say
Whiskey Johnny
I treat my crew in a decent way
Whiskey for my Johnny-O!
A glass of grog for every man
Whiskey Johnny
And a bottle for the shanty man
Whiskey for my Johnny-O!”
Hannibal was dumbstruck as he listened, with a smile spreading over his face like oil over water. Aside from the old, frightfully out of tune piano in his house in Wolf Trap, Will had never shown the slightest interest in music. Never once asked about or even gave a second glance to the myriad of esoteric instruments on display in Hannibal’s office and home. Never inquired about the opera or other events Hannibal talked about. He’d never even heard Will do so much as hum a tune. But there he was, singing with the gusto of a professional opera singer on opening night… and with no small amount of innate skill.
But of course… Hannibal thought to himself, as the fog of sleep dissipated from his mind. Will had talked at length about his father’s work in boat yards on Lake Erie. No doubt a young Will was exposed to many an old nautical tradition and superstition. Often in their sessions he’d expressed to Hannibal a deeply held desire to return to that life. Nothing deeper than the water. And nothing scarier than a particularly toothy pike in the murky depths. Simple problems and simple fixes. And simple music to go with it, apparently.
And probably a little whiskey too, since he’d brought it up. Though, less than he’d been inclined to consume while working for the FBI. But certainly of no better quality.
Hannibal lingered at the window, reveling in the sound of Will’s unguarded voice. They’d hardly spoken more than the necessities since crawling from the sea almost a month ago. Their survival seemed to shock them both into hard-minded instinct. They’d stolen a boat and Will, who was in much better condition than Hannibal, had sailed north to tuck them away in the wide open spaces of Canada. They’d seen to wounds, and kept each other fed and warm, but rarely spoke more than a few words.
Hannibal wanted to ask him how he’d come by the song. Why he was singing it. What memories clung to the verses, like barnacles on the bottom of a boat.
But he knew that such directness would be a mistake. Whatever bit of personal truth that song held was wrapped up tight. Perhaps conversation and excavation were not called for here. Perhaps its treasures could be freely given if presented with a puzzle all their own.
Hannibal pondered this as he went downstairs to start on breakfast.
***
That night, Will sat out on the south-facing side of their porch, staring across the water to where Scorpio scuttled low across the horizon, with Mars held fast in its pincers. He could hear Hannibal shuffling about the house, putting the kitchen to rights after dinner. Part of Will felt useless for not offering to help, but that would have meant talking. Or worse… not talking.
The space and silence Hannibal had allowed Will had been welcome at first. Everything involving words hurt, be it physically due to the wound on his cheek, or mentally. But now, they both bore the stilted severance like an ill-fitting sweater of scratchy wool. All the unsaid things were gathering and collecting like dirty laundry. It would need to be cleaned and aired sooner or later. Maybe sooner would be better...
Will heard music coming from deeper inside their little shack. Of course a rustic hideaway for Hannibal would include a piano, even if it was just a rickety upright. It had held pitch though, through many years of disuse, so the craftsmanship must’ve been more than met the eye.
Tonight’s music was different than the usual fare, Will noticed after a moment. Often it was Bach that drifted out to accompany his sullen stargazing, or occasionally the busy, fretful sounds of Chopin. But even to Will’s untrained and unsophisticated ear, he could tell something was different tonight. New harmonies and progressions floated through the chilly air, far more lavish than even the most filigreed Baroque compositions. Will abandoned Scorpio to his meal of the God of War and went inside to investigate.
The only light on in the front room was the lamp on the piano, its shade of amber glass casting all the room in shadow but for Hannibal’s hands as they crawled around the keyboard. Even his face held pools of darkness, giving his visage what Will thought was an appropriately grim cast. If he’d heard Will’s approach, he gave no sign of it, fingers still busy on the keys. He painted a rich landscape of sound, and Will felt utterly transported by it. After several minutes, Will realized that it sounded familiar…
Hannibal eventually wound the music down… not so much finishing as letting the composition play itself out, like a candle guttering out into darkness.
“I’ve heard that before.” Will said, his own voice loud from the darkness of the doorway. “But I don’t know where.”
Hannibal turned over his shoulder, not quite looking at him. “You would be familiar with it, after a fashion.”
Will snorted at his evasive pretension. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“Listen again.” Hannibal instructed, draping his hands over the keys. He played a passage for Will again, and then again, and yet again. Each time he pared back a layer of the harmony and ornamentation, until he had laid bare the melody of a simple sea shanty.
“Where have you heard that before?” Will asked, his brow pinching. “English shanties can’t be commonly sung in opera houses.”
“I heard you singing it today.” Came the soft-spoken confession, though he still didn’t look up.
“While I was fixing the boat motor? You…” Will scruffed a hand over his face in bewilderment. “Just like that? You heard me singing it once. Badly. And you can make… “ he gestured wildly towards the piano. “That out of it?”
Hannibal pouted his lips a little in lieu of a shrug. “The tune is simple enough. Not even a tonality change or modulation to speak of, though that’s by design. The purpose of a sea shanty, like any working song, is not to artistically enthrall or challenge, but to get work done more expediently and with a bit less drudgery. Though in this case, there’s no reason it can’t do both.” Hannibal swallowed, still not looking up at Will. Only watching him out of the corner of his eye. “And your voice is quite lovely, by the way. You clearly have a good ear that might have developed into something extraordinary with some training.”
Will snorted at that, turning to go but pausing and returning his hand to the doorframe. “Is… is that what you’ve wanted to do to me all this time? To take something useful and make it beautiful?”
Hannibal stilled, clearly measuring his next words very carefully. “My input was not required to make you beautiful.” He answered finally. “Any more than I was needed to show you the value of singing a song. But I thought I could make you see something you missed. Or were hiding from. That was my only goal.”
Will nodded thoughtfully. “Ethics become aesthetics. I suppose in something like music, it’s harmless.”
“Depends on the composer.” Hannibal dared to look up at him now, a wry smile painting his lips.
Will actually laughed, surprising both of them with the unfamiliar sound. “Yeah… yeah I suppose it does.” He scruffed his hand over his face again and took a step into the room. “I… uh… Will you show me what you were doing? I don’t know much about music, but… Will you show me what you saw?“
“Of course.” Hannibal slid to the left side of the bench to make room for Will. “What if I taught you the melody and I played the harmony? I could show you all the ways it could be changed.”
Will nodded and felt his face stretch in a smile, pulling on muscles that hadn’t seen use in weeks. “Last time I touched a piano was… probably before I learned that song.” He took the offered seat, smoothing his hands down the front of his pants for want of a better use for them.
“The last time we sat like this, the Primavera was before us, and I thought all animosity was behind us.” Hannibal said softly. “I was wrong then.”
“I was the one in the wrong. I should have run away with you. Saved us all a great deal of… everything.” Will replied, eyes fixed at C7 and refusing to look anywhere else.
“I still expect to wake up and find you gone.” Hannibal sighed. Confessions seemed to be flowing like water tonight. “Now that we’re both more or less mended.”
“I’ll never be mended as far as you are concerned.” Will said. “But…” and here he finally looked up. “Maybe that really is just fine.”
Hannibal regarded him, much as he had that day in Florence. The first time all over again. Will smiled again, a strained but earnest expression. His cheek still ached, though it had healed over cleanly. More or less.
“Shall we begin?” Hannibal asked, placing one hand over an octave of keys. They’d both had enough of painful admissions for the evening.
“Please.” Will replied doing likewise, prepared to mimic and learn. Their elbows brushed, and Hannibal had to resist the urge to wrap an arm around his waist. There would be time. Time to navigate the hitherto uncharted waters of their relationship. And in that time, perhaps Will would teach him a few more sailing songs.