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Will leaned back in the large porch chair, sunning himself almost like a lazy cat in the warm orange glow of the late afternoon sun. Hannibal should really be getting dinner started, but he couldn’t look away. Will just cut too lovely a figure, content and happy in Hannibal’s presence, safe and at peace in their home. Plus, there was an abundance of cheese and fruit he could pair with the leftover crackers. Break out that bottle of rose Mrs. Marlowe had given them at their last luncheon…
Hannibal wandered out to join Will, curling himself under and around the shorter man in order to hold him close. It was a comfortable fit (thus why he’d bought the chair) and there truly was nothing in the world better than to sit here - Will a warm and inviting presence in his arms - close his eyes and listen to the sea. Not even their hunting together compared, despite the fact that Will was never more beautiful than when he was cloaked in crimson.
Will hummed in contentment, nuzzling into Hannibal’s embrace and letting his nose rest in the crook of his neck. Moments passed before Will breached the silence. “We could grow old here,” he murmured softly. “Just us and the sea.”
“Integrate fully into the small upper class community,” Hannibal continued the thought. “Grow into our turn as elders the usual way.”
“Tourists go missing all the time,” Will added. “And when we get bored we could just - stop. Retire without moving.”
It certainly held its own charm. They’d been hunting the next town over, blonds this time. Mostly men. They hid behind a new pattern every time they moved, becoming a slew of serial killers up and down the European coast. It was Will who had thought of it - his beautiful, glorious Will - as Will was the one who truly held no rules as to why death should be delivered. As long as they weren’t a child - and occasionally he’d spare a thought or two to sparring an innocent - Will wanted nothing more than pain and blood. How it happened didn’t matter, not to this creature of destruction. Who it was mattered even less, to this heavenly angel of death.
So every place they lived, they created a new MO and killed the rude that fit those qualifications. Sometimes even those who weren’t rude - Hannibal found that the simple fact that Will had chosen them was just as powerful a motivator as the most appalling rudeness. As time went on the how became less and less important than the simple matter of it being. They hadn’t even been displaying their kills recently, although part of that was due to Will’s tendency to reduce his victims to little more than puddles of blood and flesh.
It wouldn’t be hard. They were both of them growing content in inactivity, Will’s small business fixing boat motors and Hannibal’s small store front of flower arrangements enough to keep them active. Their kills were fewer and farther between, glances of love no stronger shared over a body than over an afternoon cup of tea, the single beat of two hearts moving as one as easy in walking down the street as it was with knives hooked into skin.
They’d actually begun to grow roots here as they interacted more and more with the local community. Their house was one of several old-money houses by the sea, this portion of the coast not a coast that was full of beaches or heavily populated and therefore making it a less desirable venue for the nouveau rich. There was a small coastal town fifteen miles away where Hannibal had his little shop and went for lunch with his neighbors. Will took work at the shed out back, orders coming over the phone and motors delivered by neighbors with cars. It was a small town, full of stationary patrons and ever-cycling youngsters out to discover the world either visiting home once more or just making this another stop on their backpack tour of Europe.
Emilia was hosting a ball for her 60th birthday next weekend in her mansion up the coast, Stephanie and her new husband Allendro were expecting a child any day, and Will’s book club met every Wednesday. This week was their turn to host the party of older scholars and voracious readers, and Hannibal made a mental note to pick up some spinach for tea sandwiches. He should dig out the blue flower patterned plates as well. He believed it was in the curio, as Will much preferred the simple white plates scavenged at a flea market on their second move.
Their home was full of furniture picked more for comfort than style (even though everything did indeed match and was of much higher quality than Will would have owned before) and Hannibal found himself putting more flowers in his centerpieces than animal skulls. He should switch the daisies in their sun room to lilacs - it would look better against their pale sunshine yellow and ivory couches now that they’d added some pale blue accent pillows and that horrid flannel blanket Will was so fond of had taken up residence on one of the chairs.
Hannibal was brought out of his musings by Will poking him gently in the nose. “You’re re-flowering the house again,” Will accused with a smile.
“It is a season of change,” Hannibal gave the old protest. “One should always cycle the floral accents to keep things fresh and bright, especially since you won’t allow me to redecorate the house.”
Will rolled his eyes. “I like my chairs worn in. We can look at replacing the study and parlor next month though - they are looking a little close to death.”
Hannibal smiled, and leaned down to kiss his love just because he could. The setting sun caught on the shine of Will’s wedding band and it never failed to make his heart swell. A deep, rich copper for Will, white gold for Hannibal. Each inscribed with the words that had been their rebirth - it’s beautiful on Hannibal’s ring, for both of us on Will’s. Hannibal had thought he’d never be happier than the moment Will had placed the ring on him and allowed the same in return, but this sudden and startling domestic bliss had proved him wrong.
The kiss was soft and slow, but they pulled apart with ease and returned their gaze to the sea - that vast entity which had given them this wonderful rebirth. “We can walk right back into it, when the time comes,” Will stated softly. “Place stones in our pockets and return to the arms that gifted us this life.”
“You stole the thought from my mind,” Hannibal murmured in kind. “We can lash ourselves together with twine, breath our last into each other.” They’d already written in their wills to be buried at sea in a single coffin, but Hannibal found the voluntary relinquishing of life to be far more poetic.
Will hummed again, burrowing further into Hannibal’s embrace. Together, they watched the sea gently rise and fall and moved on into this next stage of their lives. It took no words to agree upon retiring here, no vocalizations for two halves of one whole. It was time to retire the packed bags, to place them in the back mud room and nowhere else. No more moves, no more running. They’d let this quiet place root them down and make them a part of its base organic matter. And if the law managed to find them, managed to persevere in the face of a small, tight-knit community that had welcomed them as age-old members no less dear than those who had been born here and never left, well. They could grab their bags and move, or they could run into the loving arms of the harsh sea. They would decide when the time came. Till then they would sit, content merely to be.