#annewrites
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— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐦 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬
[masterlist]
gen, henri clément x augustin lambert
tags - canon compliant, character study, vignettes, mental health issues
rated m - 2.7k words
warnings - referenced/implied csa (not explicit but can be interpreted that way)
— snapshots of henri’s life before and during the war.
(Please rb + read on ao3 if possible 🫀)
[banner by reveriesources]
“He’s beautiful,” murmurs a mother, cradling her newborn child in her arms. He’s red and chubby, a light dusting of blonde hair across his crown. She has hair of the same hue, and it falls messily around her shoulders in two disheveled plaits. The child looks more like his mother than like his father, long face and tired eyes like a painting. Thin and lithe and gangly.
“You’re beautiful, aren’t you, my sweet boy?” The mother giggles, overwhelmed with joy. Her name is Cèline, but most call her Cece, for her initials being the same letter. She taps her child once on the nose, who giggles in turn.
“Have you chosen a name?” Speaks a man, the father, voice low and booming. It comforts the baby as if his voice is wrapping him in strong arms and keeping him safe.
“That I have,” Céline replies with a smile. “Hush, now. He needs to sleep, okay?”
—-
The newborn turns into the infant turns into the boy. And the boy doesn’t do well with other children.
Céline has a friend, Claudette, who lives in the countryside with her husband and daughter. They’re in the backyard of her extravagant estate, which is more of a field fenced in with white picket. The land is expansive, though, stretching all the way to a lone oak tree in the corner. The children are sitting under it, playing with toy soldiers of dubious nationality. The boy is curled up under the table on the patio, holding onto Céline’s dress. She affectionately ruffles his short crop of blonde-ish hair and tries to coax him out, but he doesn’t want to leave her.
The boy knows she uttered his name, but he can’t remember what it was. He can only remember a firm command to play with the other children. A firm command to leave her alone, as the boy heard it.
As he walks across the field to the shade under the tree, where some children are already casting him cautious stares, he feels it stretch for miles in front of him. He tries not to cry. He stands at the edge of the shade, in the sunlight, and feels it burn his back. It’s a fine day. The grass is green and lush and the birds are singing. The boy is the only one who notices.
The children murmur and giggle amongst themselves. Looking back and forth between their friends and the boy. They let him play with them, or rather, be in their presence, but he more or less lingers on the outskirts of the group. Picks at grass and wonders for the first time, but certainly not the last: what’s wrong with me?
He was the only one in school who could not only read, but enjoyed it, too. He read books about left out children, cast aside by the world, smiling for the first time when one child would come sit with them even though nobody else would.
That does not happen to the boy. One of the children, Claudette’s daughter, insults his overalls, the ones his mother had sewed, and he runs all the way back to the patio. He never sees Claudette again. Or her bastard daughter.
—-
Gerard, the father, is in over his head with disappointment. His son is five years old and has not made a single friend. Other parents on the lane are asking them when their son is going to be more social, and they are humiliated.
There is a girl they know named Charlotte. She is a daughter of a once-influential family in Paris. One day, her parents took her, left Paris, and never returned. The boy and his family know, though, where they went.
Charlotte lives in a small homestead in the woods. Charlotte told the boy about how her parents thought that, one day, Europe would go to shit and only the people living off the grid would survive. People living in cities would all die in fires, horrible fires. Weapons we have never seen before. Weapons that should not exist. The boy cried in fear, but this time, he wiped away his tears. He didn’t want to disappoint his father.
Charlotte’s backyard didn’t have grass perfectly trimmed to a quarter-inch with ornate fences. Charlottes backyard was a dense brake of trees. Charlotte took the boy by the hand and lead him through it, weaving through thick and thin trunks, bushes and shrubs, and they were spat out beside a little creek. That was its name, Petit Ruisseau. Sunlight dappled the ground in little specks where it peeked through the canopy. Thin streams of water flow over rocks that jut out from the riverbed, and everything glistens and shines.
The boy likes Charlotte. She has dark skin with thick, curly hair bouncing around her shoulders and a gap in her two front teeth. Her parents had made him lunch and told him what a polite guest he was. When they smiled it didn’t feel fake and perfunctory. The boy likes her, so when she pushes him into the creek, which is so shallow he only gets the front of his clothes wet, he laughs and pushes her in too. Damp, they run back home, and suddenly the boy is very afraid. He’s made a mess.
But, somehow, Charlotte’s parents don’t mind. They give him a new set of clothes to wear. It’s a knitted green sweater and brown shorts, and they’re a little bit too big because Charlotte is a year or two older than him, but he doesn’t mind. They smell like her home. Her parents hang up his clothes with clothespins and when they dry he’s sent home. His mother sees him with the widest smile she’s ever seen.
—-
Christmas comes fast and soon there’s snow blanketing every surface of Paris. Lights are lit up in shops and on corners, and everything seems to sing. The boy wants to get a gift for his new friend Charlotte. She’s the only thing he loves. She’s the only person besides his mother and sometimes his father who was nice to him. The boy liked playing with her. He didn’t want her to grow bored or disappointed if he didn’t get her a gift.
Céline asks the boy if he wants to spend Christmas with Charlotte and her little family. He and his father go the morning of Christmas Eve, and his father repairs their roof, damaged by the snow, and reinforces the support beams of their home, and then leaves. Charlotte has a sister, Carina. They’re laughing and the boy remembers when his mother announced he would have a baby sister, and then a few weeks later, she cried for an entire day straight, and he never got to have one.
It makes him sad, seeing them, and thinking about what could have been, and of everything that’s been stolen from him. But he smiles despite. There is so much pain inside of him, but none in this room.
—-
The boy has turned into the man and the man is named Henri Clément, and he looks just like his mother, and he has one best friend, and his name is Augustin Lambert, but Henri has other friends, too.
He appreciates violence more than ever for how it brings people together. They’ve got no choice but to be friends, if not just amicable, with one another, and Henri has gotten good at pretending to be human. At knowing what to say when what he wants to say wouldn’t work.
He cannot tell you what is his favorite color, or what is his most cherished memory, he doesn’t know— he cannot envision his own face in his head. It’s all a watercolor blur of shapes and colors. Concepts rather than images. But he knows Augustin. Knows his height, his weight, all his favorite things and all of his fears. He knows what makes him human.
He likes Augustin. And what’s better is Augustin likes him back. Likes him enough to where he’ll prank him, crawl into his bunk with him, laugh with him, kiss him. Henri doesn’t see him doing that with anybody else. He feels special.
Henri respects Augustin, though, and Augustin has a wife, and he has a child with that wife, and Henri is not his wife and he is not bound to him in any way, by no band of metal. They romp because that is all they can do in this manmade hell of theirs. Henri is tormented by his thoughts. If they had met under different circumstance, would Augustin have liked him as much?
—-
Henri has a shoebox he keeps under his bunk, buried under all manner of things.
It’s filled with photos. He makes frequent trips to the darkroom when everybody else is asleep, and develops them. They’re all of Augustin. In most of them, he’s aware the photo is being taken. They’re out on patrol, or they’re having lunch, or they’re playing cards. In others, he isn’t. He’s sleeping with Henri’s arm wrapped around his shoulder. Or he’s across the room, facing away from him, but Henri felt compelled to record the moment anyway.
Photos are all he has. He cannot remember the events of last week, or the week before that. Not his mother’s name, nor fathers, not even that little girl with the curly hair he used to play with. Teasingly did Noyer call him a stalker, but there was sincerity laced in it. Henri can only hope Augustin does not think him the same way. Henri can only hope Augustin does not come to fear him for things he already fears about himself.
—-
Henri loves nobody but himself.
This is his own decision. He cannot love his mother, he doesn’t remember her. He cannot love his father, he cannot remember him either. He cannot love Augustin, for he cannot love someone to whom he is not the first love of. He definitely cannot love himself, in much the same way you cannot love someone you’ve never met.
You can, though, because Henri dreams about it. Dreams about a world where he stayed and met a woman. Camille, maybe, that nurse who worked with his mother. She was always so kind to him. He thinks about a moment that never happened. He thinks about his children. He thinks about how he’d guide them, how he’d tell them never to apologize for being them. And he weeps. He curls into a ball and he weeps. Like he did when he was a boy. He can remember that much.
Someone can love a stranger, Henri realizes, but Henri is not someone. Henri is something else entirely.
—-
He hates Augustin.
He hates him. He wants to kiss his eyelids, and hold him while he sleeps, and he wants to hear Augustin speak to him, hear all the things he hopes he’s keeping in, but he cannot. And he hates him for it. And he knows it is not Augustin’s fault, and he hates him anyway. And for that, he hates himself.
Hate is special like that. It is less infectious than a smile or a yawn but more dangerous because we do not notice until we find ourselves thinking vile things. Vile things like wishing you didn’t exist. Vile things like wishing someone else didn’t exist.
He thinks of things that haven’t happened yet, thinks of possible situations where Augustin shuns him, or pushes him away, and he hates Augustin for those, too, and hates him so much he weeps again, and wonders why he’s like this.
Augustin is just a kid, though. His face retains its baby fat, where Henri’s has been stripped hollow. He’s just a kid. They are both just kids.
They shouldn’t be here. But they are.
—-
Lonely little boys never stop being lonely.
Charlotte had a brother. His name was Aimé and he was a foot taller than Henri. He was tall and broad and wore a comforting smile. He had dinner with him and Charlotte’s family on Christmas. When Henri returned home, though, he never saw Charlotte again, or Aimé, who was strangely ravenous as he ate. He never learned why. He just knew that, for some reason, everything he loved would be taken from him, every last shred until he was bare, and Henri was okay with that.
He took pride in how many times he had to make peace with something he wasn’t truly content with in order to survive.
—-
He had a teacher in grade school. Her name was Professor Beaufort, and she was a demon sent from Hell.
Everybody hated her class. Everybody’s bones ached by the end of them, and yet everybody respected her, because she was a good teacher.
Is that what it is to be good? To make people hurt? And is it any different from the kind of hurt that Henri’s been causing?
Augustin had a teacher, too, who was also a priest, because he grew up in such a small village near the border of Belgium. His name was Father Bernard, and he held food drives at the church for any student who was struggling, but none of them were. They shared everything they had among themselves and they were all happy that way.
Henri smiled quizzically. “Isn’t that the type of person we’re fighting?”
Augustin seems to think for a moment, eyes going unfocused where they rested on Henri. Then, he looks back to face the endless wasteland in front of them. “I suppose it is,” he confirms. “Then, maybe we are not the saints we thought ourselves to be.”
“I never thought myself a saint,” Henri blurts.
The soldiers are all self righteous. It’s why they’ve lived so long. They think they’re serving a higher purpose, but Henri does not, and maybe that makes him worse, to fight without a clear direction.
Augustin looks confused, and intrigued, and maybe a bit proud. “You don’t?”
Henri shakes his head.
Augustin clasps his hand on his shoulder and it’s so novel to make him shudder. “Then you are the best of all of us, mon ami.”
—-
The garrison is gathered in the mess hall, playing poker and drinking. Last night, Henri put human shit in Augustin’s pillowcase. Tonight, he will find it.
The men are crowded around the table, some playing, but most are just talking. About home, about life after the war or about life during. One of them, Delisle, looks at Henri.
“And you, Clément?” He probes. “Have you any regrets?”
Henri snorts. “You speak as though I am already dead, brother.”
The group shares a laugh and Delisle shrugs. “We are all dead men walking. It is good to sort your demons out while you have the chance, yes?”
Henri hums and looks down at his drink, golden liquid swishing in its glass. And thinks. He cannot remember anything. He just knows he feels guilt. He wants to be different, and he regrets that, too. He feels all of the eyes of the world on him. Watching him. Waiting.
Always waiting.
“I have no regrets,” he says with confidence, looking back up at Delisle. “I just wish the world had been a better place.”
Somewhere, distantly, Augustin yells in horror.
There is so much pain in the world. But not in this room.
—-
A strange feeling overcomes Henri in the last stretch of his life. Melancholy. And spiritual. As if he is realizing all at once every realization he will not have the chance to make naturally. Like his life is trying to account for everything he’ll miss out on.
Everything changes, everything ends. He doesn’t feel guilt anymore. He doesn’t try to smile when he doesn’t feel like it. He doesn’t stop himself smiling just because he feels like it. He doesn’t feel shame for how his heart feels. Sometimes, he looks into the nothingness for hours and hours and doesn’t think a single thought.
It is a wonderful gift, to have nothing going on inside you.
There is a death rattle. Henri hears it resounding in the universe. He hears it when dice are thrown against a table. He hears it when lightning crashes. He hears it in laughter. He hears it in everything. He sees infinity stretch out before him, wide and inviting. The universe is slowly dying around him.
What a beautiful thing it is, then. To live in spite of, rather than in fear of.
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"Stand high Stand tall In the end everyone will look up Coz You are above of them all" -A . . . #californiaadventure #california #love #happiness #instapic #instapost #ig #igers #nature #hiking #awesomeearth #naturephoto #welivetoexplore #bestvacations #travel #travelgram #worlderlust #annewrites #poem (at Sequoia National Park, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bw56ajdh9qs/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=151iibb3zl5t9
#californiaadventure#california#love#happiness#instapic#instapost#ig#igers#nature#hiking#awesomeearth#naturephoto#welivetoexplore#bestvacations#travel#travelgram#worlderlust#annewrites#poem
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P.S. About writing
Hey y’all! I know I can’t write, but I really want to practice as I have a great idea for the Good Omens Big Bang, (@goodomensbigbang) so I want to practice in order to do the story justice. If you don’t want to read it, please block #annewrites. If you have any feedback on how I can improve, please let me know! Thanks for listening!
-Anne
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— 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲
[masterlist]
hannibal lecter x will graham
rated t - 4k words
tags - au, age-re, developing relationship, hannibal loves will, little will, cg hannibal, bathtime
warnings - none!
— will slips into an unfamiliar mindset. he knows nothing except for how bad he needs hannibal, and how bad he fucking loves forests.
(pls read on ao3 if possible 🫀)
[banner by reveriesources]
Will Graham did not grow up in Michigan.
Not like that was any sort of consensus or widely held belief, though, because it wasn’t. Many times, the subject of Will’s origins either sparked passionate debates, or merely circulated as rumors. A woman from the intelligence branch vehemently asserted that his accent was distinctly ubiquitous; thus, he grew up across several states and developed the default American lilt. A man from the services branch said he carried himself in such a way that connoted what he dubbed as white-trash DNA (even though Will swore to God he heard that line used in Joe Dirt). Clad in thrift store aesthetics, with fishing as his sole hobby, he surely came from a state with far different culture than Virginia.
Curiously, nobody ever bothered to ask, which was the remarkable thing. They figured Will wouldn’t tell them if they tried, and they were right. He absolutely would not. The matter of his background was entirely too intimate and entirely too personal. He might as well tell them his exact address and then paint targets on his vital organs.
For the record, though, he did not grow up in Michigan, New York, or Idaho. His formative years were spent in many places but he was born in and spent the bulk of his childhood in the backwoods of Louisiana, with the snakes and ‘gators and muskrats and loblolly pines that made bushes in Heaven (as his father used to say).
He lived in a ramshackle shack in Hammond with his father and the few friends he made at school (those friends being the only friends he’d make across all schools he would ever attend. He left his social life sitting in the boatyards somewhere in Wisconsin). He got to school by seven in the morning, and class started at eight. There were three classrooms, one for ‘stories’, one for ‘letters’, and one for ‘numbers’, which was their equivalent of history, English, and mathematics. Will was what they would consider a sufficiently educated student. He could read Oliver Twist sooner than any of his classmates could, but he couldn’t socialize as well, couldn’t play rugby or kiss a girl (or a boy, for that matter).
After one lethargic and muggy night, hotwiring cars and chugging beer, he had retreated to the sticks behind his house to decompress, a moment of sheer desperation and experimentation. He found it was the last place he’d ever felt he belonged in.
It didn’t take him long to teach himself the names and classifications of all the remarkable flora and fauna of the bayou, but that was before he went into criminal science. Crawfish, bluegill, the elusive nutria, and the stately American alligator all became members of his zoological repertoire. The blue herons who pierced the northern sky with their elegant wings and pointed beaks. The boars who squealed and thundered across the brush. Will could identify and spell each of their names, tell you their unique behaviors, along with at least one assorted fact about them— he couldn’t make a career off of that, though, so he dropped it. Grew out of it like a ratty hand-me-down cardigan.
The bayou, for all of its danger, made Will feel safe and childish. Childish . That was the kicker, because he didn’t need those support mechanisms in his adult life. A hefty dose of Klonopin, sure, but that was it. Forever. He no longer needed all the things he might have needed as a boy. He ignored the urge to drive down to Louisiana and- he dared not to say it- play . He especially neglected the playful tug at his wading pants while he was river-fishing. He didn’t need those things. He didn’t. He smothered them with a pillow until they stopped struggling.
(He came to learn that his brain had no jurisdiction over his heart, and when his heart was telling his legs to move in the direction of the secluded forest that hugged the riverbanks, well, that’s a far greater force than any gross motor skill).
His father used to berate him for his filth when he returned home after his little outings, but it was always with a degree of fondness and was nothing compared to the prejudice he faced at school, even from his friends. Smelling of bog water and humidity. His father, probably, was used to the aroma. It was his house too, after all. Now, though, Will was bigger. He could take a shower and wash his clothes and it would all be fine, even if that didn’t ring true during his younger years. He didn’t need somebody else to do those basic things for him, to lead him by his hand until he could walk on his own; to run through the forest was enough, to laugh like he did when he was eight and thriving and ignorant to his plight, even if he did feel it creeping in.
You can only ignore your heart for so long. The strange instincts you didn’t know you had.
He was putrid, for a lack of better words. Dirt caked his pants and face and tangled in his hair, strands plastered to his forehead with sweat. He could , theoretically, clean himself up. Go right home and handle this like a big boy, like an adult, which is (ironically) exactly the same sentiment that landed him on Hannibal Lecter’s doorstep like a stray dog.
“Will?” Hannibal says, dressed in one of his more casual suits (casual being a comparative word. He is always done up in his most impeccable dress). It’s three in the afternoon and the sun is sizzling above, only accentuating Will’s musk; Hannibal notices as well, and his nose scrunches unpleasantly despite himself. Will briefly notices that Hannibal seldom emotes so vividly, but the observation seems as though it’s only being broadcasted to him, rather than conjured up in his own mind
“Is everything alright?”
Will only hums and rocks back and forth on his heels, hands wringing the bottom of his shirt anxiously, beads of sweat sweltering on his temples. Hannibal watches him with a sort of knowingness that feels contemplative, experimental. Will is only able to tell this by the way Hannibal’s eyes glaze over and he seems to look straight through Will as if he were a specter. This isn’t the first of these occurrences, either; Will has slipped into a more youthful mindset accidentally only twice before, once at a crime scene and once at Hannibal’s office. Where the world seems bigger and Will seems far, far smaller. In a way, it comforts him. In that same way, he is terrified.
“You look disheveled,” Hannibal says, and his tone is less chastising and more alarmed, perhaps impressed at the absurdity, perhaps concerned. “Why don’t you come in?”
Will nods and ambles past Hannibal into the foyer, immediately intimidated by the openness. Simple, compact spaces always brought Will comfort. He’d feel enclosed like each wall was an angel extending to him their protection. In a space as grand and vast as this, he feels exposed. Hannibal comes up beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders, as unexpected as it is grounding.
“Come,” he soothes, guiding him into the considerably smaller dining room- it’s still magnificent, but the ceiling is lower and there’s more to fill the negative space. Chairs and fireplaces and vases lined along the wall, paintings dotting the space above. Hannibal leads him to a seat at the end of the table and sits him down; Will breathes a sigh of relief at not having to decide where to sit, or what is appropriate, trivial a matter as it is.
“‘M makin’ your chair all dirty,” mumbles a displeased Will once he’s squirmed into being comfortable. Hannibal leans over him, producing a handkerchief and wiping away a smudge of mud from Will’s cheek.
“Chairs can be cleaned. Besides, you seem distressed. Do you care to tell me what happened?” He takes a seat perpendicular to Will, arms folded on the table, back straight. Ever so perfect is the good doctor.
“Was… in the forest,” Will says, tip-toeing around the word play because people like Will simply do not play. What was I doing, then? “And, and I don’t… I can’t-”
“Would you like me to help you clean up?”
Will gnaws an angry bruise into his lip, his green eyes boring apprehensive holes into his lap. One part of him- one that’s big and broad- says that he’s wasting Hannibal’s time, this is unprofessional, this is embarrassing, and a perversion of his time. The other- much smaller and meek- just wants to be clean, and for a bygone reason, wants Hannibal to be the one to assist. Maybe it’s Hannibal’s professional status as a therapist that exudes an impression of compassion and care, something parallel to paternity. Instead, maybe it was Hannibal’s unique understanding of Will that invited him to bare his throat, his mind, his insides. He nods, and Hannibal returns it. His fate is sealed.
“Very well. Come with me. Have you a change of clothes?” Hannibal asks, letting Will trail behind him up the tall, curling flight of stairs. A red and golden carpet is sprawled down the length of the stairwell, following its curve. Will shakes his head and grabs a handful of Hannibal’s blazer rather than the railing, surely wrinkling the expensive wool. If Hannibal minds, he doesn’t show it.
The space between his mind and the world is where he has curled up and built his temporary solace. It’s blurry inside, and Will has to hang on tight to his surroundings in reality; ornate light fixtures hanging from the ceiling and antique paintings with macabre themes, boasting opulent golden frames. His penchant for music seeping into his interior design, with sheet music scattered about in a decidedly orderly manner as if he had purposefully tried to replicate the chaos of a mess.
The observation is gone as soon as it comes, like second nature, and Will can let it be washed away by the calm stream of his thoughts, for it is too hazy in this depersonalized state of his but hazy like a sauna. Warm and bare.
The bathroom door flings— no, is gently pushed— open and Will is relieved to not be immediately blinded by fluorescent lamps and bright tile. It’s paved in dark marble, while Victorian-style arches and moldings adorn the walls and ceiling, as intricate as their counterparts in the foyer. The fixtures seem vintage, gold and shining, and the countertop is a deep mahogany. A freestanding clawfoot bathtub sits at the end like the fountain of youth. A receptacle for indulgence.
He’s especially grateful for the dim, gentle lighting as if he is having his cheek tenderly caressed rather than battered and bruised. A lavish robe hangs from a hook beside the counter.
“Come now,” prods Hannibal, coaxing Will into the bathroom. Will saunters in nervously, and Hannibal brushes past him, retrieving a towel from the cabinet and laying it on the counter, smoothing it over with his hands. Will collapses onto the toilet seat— he’s overheating in his clothes, the fabric is too thick and heavy, and his skin oppresses his bones, threatening to rend him to the ground. His breathing picks up pace and he squirms uncomfortably, beginning to punch at his arms weakly.
Hannibal’s voice pierces through the fray. “Do you need help getting undressed?”
Will whines and curls in on himself; his hair is too dirty, unpleasant and sticky on his head, he feels too big for his skin, he isn’t used to the smell in here, and his head is caving in on itself– he fears his bones may bulge through his skin and tear free. He thinks he may die. He’s pretty sure he’s dying.
Suddenly, though, he isn’t, and instead he’s having his wrists restrained by either of Hannibal’s hands and he’s crouching beside him, careful not to make eye contact. Like a dam, keeping everything in, gentle yet formidable. He keeps it all in . Hannibal is taller than Will, if not just by an inch or two, but the slight difference in proportion is just enough to make Will feel small. Or maybe he’s imagining that. Right now, it doesn’t matter which.
“I know you are nervous, Will,” Hannibal hushes, thoughtful to control his tone of voice. “But I need you to use your words, alright? I cannot help you if you do not tell me what you need.”
Will nods, and Hannibal wipes away the tears that Will hadn’t even noticed had ever formed.
“I need help,” Will mumbles, hardly even audible. Hannibal graciously settles for this answer with nary a frown and slots his hands under Will’s armpits, pulling him to his feet. The green field jacket is shucked off first and falls stiff to the floor. Then comes his olive button-up, carefully unbuttoned and discarded along with his coat. Will begins to fidget when Hannibal unclasps his belt.
“No need to be anxious,” Hannibal says. “You are safe here. Nobody is going to judge you. We’re going to get you cleaned up, alright?” He places a careful palm against Will’s cheek. He’s testing the waters– has been all night. Drawing the line in the sand a bit closer each time the waves wipe the last one away. Will isn't sure where he stands. He can only hope Hannibal will help him figure it out. “Won't that feel nice?”
“Yeah,” Will easily agrees, and lets Hannibal remove the rest of his clothes (he catches a subdued sneer at the khaki color of his chinos, and doesn’t quite blame him. He isn’t known for being the best-dressed man in the world).
“There you are,” Hannibal remarks, and deposits the pile into a nearby hamper. “We can clean those later, alright? Wait here while I run the water and find something for you to wear.”
“You’re leaving?”
Hannibal smiles reassuringly. “I am, but only for a moment. Should you require me, you need only call. I’ll be here.”
Will is left alone with the bubbling, dated sound of the faucet as it fills the ceramic to its brim. He hears the distant creaking of old floorboards, the hum of the water heater. For such an extravagant house, it has touches of real, common humanism in its walls. A thin thread that connects Hannibal to every other person on the planet, as detached and withdrawn as he sometimes likes to act. Will’s hands are folded in between his knees, and he’s leaned forward a bit as he waits for Hannibal to return. He feels warm, peaceful, cared for, and a trifle exhausted. Discontent. What is it that’s holding him back?
When Hannibal returns, a pair of ambiguous silk pajamas are draped over his arm, and he places them atop the towel delicately. They’re a muted beige and capture all of the light in the room, little as that quantity is. Nicer than anything Will would choose to wear. Hannibal turns off the faucet and the warm water falls still, steaming gently billowing in the air. Droplets of water periodically drip from the faucet.
“Do you need me to help you in?”
Will doesn’t think his legs would support him if he so much as tried to stand on his own. He runs the heel of his palm over his eye tiredly and stretches his arms expectantly towards Hannibal. Hannibal gives him an affectionate smile and guides him into the bath.
Will is used to the thrumming of high-pressure water against a tile basin. Will is used to heavy, exerted breathing as the heat fogs up the space, and suddenly enclosed areas aren’t as comforting as they are entrapping. Here, though, he is being tenderly delivered into the warm water and sinks into it, fighting the beckoning pull on his eyelids. It’s like he’s being lulled by a soothing, benign god of luxury and sleep.
“There you are,” Hannibal muses, and takes a seat on a stool beside Will’s head. “Just relax. You’re alright.”
He retrieves a red loofah and onto it squirts a quarter-sized dollop of body wash, an unobtrusive fragrance of pine. It’s nothing like Hannibal’s own scent, but Will isn’t in the right mindset to be suspicious about why Hannibal already owned soap that was so uniquely Will, tailored to his likeness. Curious, maybe. Is it okay to be curious? As he’s about to bring the loofah to Will’s skin, he hesitates.
“Loofahs encourage circulation and exfoliation on the skin,” he explains after a brief moment of silence. Will tilts his head. “Alternatively, they’re breeding grounds for bacteria. That’s why I replace mine regularly.” He extends it to Will, who touches it tentatively.
“However, the material can be very scratchy and harsh. Do you feel?”
Will rubs a leaf between his fingers and immediately recoils, scrunching his nose. Hannibal removes it at once, but not before he submerges it under the water to rid it of its contents.
“Very well.” He leaves it on the rim of the tub. “Would you like me to find something else?”
They cycle through rags and sponges, different textures and materials, until they settle on a washcloth that's just plush enough to not irritate him, but stimulating enough to remind him of where he is.
Pleased to have pleased Will, Hannibal runs the cloth up and down the length of Will’s left arm, then the right, asks him to prop his right leg up on the rim of the bath, and then the left. Drags it about his stomach, his thighs, and the sensitive parts of his neck that make Will need to suppress a giggle.
Will doesn’t feel like talking about why he was playing in the woods in the first place, why he keeps whining instead of speaking clearly, why he feels so spoiled and idle, all in the body of a grown man; Will Graham, to be exact, to whom life did not afford such luxuries. He especially did not want to discuss why he sought out Hannibal specifically, or why Hannibal was so immediately receptive. And so he didn’t, because he didn’t need to. For once, by God, he didn’t need to.
“I know it’s uncomfortable for you,” Hannibal says as he tilts Will’s head back and pushes his hair away from his face, letting a glass of water cascade through it. (He always had a special way of reading Will’s mind, and it’s always impressive before it becomes just short of uncanny). “Being dirty, and then wet, all in somewhere unfamiliar. Clothes you’ve never worn, scents you’ve never smelled. But I assure you, you’ve got nothing to worry about here. There is nobody that needs saving. Nothing that exists outside of this room.”
He rakes his hands through Will’s curls, fingers catching on dense locks and tight knots. Will leans into his grasp, shoulders resting against the back of the tub. He doesn’t register Hannibal rinsing out the shampoo and then the conditioner, nor a gentle tapping at his bicep.
“It’s time to get out now, Will.”
Will whines.
“Don’t be petulant. Come now, let’s get out.”
“Don’t wanna leave,” Will says tiredly, hardly pronouncing his vowels.
“The tub or the house?”
“House,” he yawns.
“You can stay in my home for as long as you’d like, Will. I just need you out of here, okay? Could you do that for me?”
Will nods slowly, wishing he could fall asleep here and be done with it. But Hannibal is making a request of him, and he’s already burdened him so greatly, both in this night and in generally dragging him into his own issues; he shouldn’t reject him. He doesn’t know why, but he knows he shouldn’t, either out of moral obligation or out of fear of slipping further into whatever this was. He never cared before about whether he came off as rude or impolite.
Granted, though, that was before, and before he wasn’t being bathed by his psychiatrist while he had mini-meltdowns.
He allows himself to be assisted into standing and then dried off from head to toe with a plush microfiber towel, exquisite and soft. Will could drown in the sensation. The water in the tub is murky and brown as it swirls down the drain. Hannibal doesn’t bother to ask Will if he needs help dressing himself— he needed help the last several times, after all— and takes the liberty of doing it for him, buttoning up his top and slipping on his bottoms, long and loose and airy. Cold against his skin. They're a bit big on him— Will wonders if this was on purpose— and hang off of his frame, giving the impression of a child playing dress-up rather than an adult clad in their own bedtime garb.
Hannibal meticulously dries his hair, pausing occasionally to comb through it with his fingers and fluff it back into place. Unnecessary, time-consuming. Will basks in the strange sensation of being worthy of such attention.
He remembers very little of the rest of the night, save for Hannibal leading him down the hall and into a room with a large bed in the center, being sat on the edge, feeling as if he craved something he could not yet have. Feeling the exhausted arms of his heart reach for Hannibal as he bid him good night and disappeared. He left the door cracked and a sliver of light spilled through. Will had never been so afraid of the dark before.
When he wakes, his clothes are folded neatly on the nightstand and his shoes are waiting beside the front door, all impeccably cleaned as if he had bought them brand new. He gets dressed and leaves before he can smell breakfast wafting through the many rooms and it’s midnight when he returns home, for he had spent several hours driving in a straight line. He’d stop for gas, keep driving, run out of gas, and the cycle would repeat until the large Tennessee Welcomes You sign bid him back to reality.
His dogs sniff him curiously, his feet and his legs. He no longer smells of fish and offensive cologne; rather, soft pine and woodland, something that would sit on the highest, highest shelf at Bath & Body Works. Something Will likely wouldn’t choose for himself but suited him anyway.
Will almost doesn't recognize his scent either, feeling foreign in his own home. He does notice, however, how his clothes and body are as clean as they had ever been. Not that Will is unkempt, reeks every day, or doesn’t take care of himself. He, most days, simply isn’t as on top of it as his peers, and especially not Hannibal. (He also seems to attract the brunt of dirt and grime like flies to a glue trap; perhaps that is why everybody around him is so well kept in comparison to him, there’s no dirt left to sully them).
He removes his work boots in a daze, hangs his coat on the hanger, and takes a seat in the center of his couch, as he absentmindedly scratches Winston’s head, or perhaps Buster, or another dog he’d (regrettably) forgotten the name of. As he lays in bed, splayed on his back and covers thrown off, he briefly remembers he has an appointment scheduled tomorrow evening with Hannibal. Dragging a hand over his face seems to be the only appropriate reaction.
They can discuss the events of the night then. Of course they can. And Hannibal will have all the answers for him and then things can go back to the way they’ve been. He can tell him he needs to get his behavior in check, stop snapping at people, and keep a handle on his sense of reality. Hannibal can tell him, and he will listen. He always does.
That comes later, though. Tonight, Will is fatigued beyond the point of comprehension and doesn’t fall asleep so much as pass out, the feeling of being pampered never quite wearing off.
#tiredmother#hannigram#murder husbands#fandom agere#age regression#cg/l#little will graham#caregiver hannibal lecter#hannigram fanfiction#will graham age regression#regressor will graham#fanfiction#annewrites
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— 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞
[masterlist]
hannibal lecter x will graham
rated t - 4.1k words
tags - au, age-re, developing relationship, hannibal loves will, little will, cg hannibal, car rides, stuffed animals
warnings - none!
— will and hannibal speak several months later. they go for a car ride.
(pls read on ao3 if possible 🫀)
[banner by reveriesources]
Snow crunching beneath his braced snow boots, threatening to pile up to his knees. Rain in the clouds above, slowly creeping over the vast expanse of countryside sky, something wicked rolling in. Two months have passed and it’s mid-October; the humidity has been put to rest and a bitter chill begins to nip at Will’s ears each time he leaves a window open. Somehow, he’s never been more grateful for the cold. Everything seems more silent, more manageable.
His blithe dogs romp around in circles, curling their tails over their backs and tugging at one another’s scruffs. They love the snow like a camellia loves the moon, and he’ll find Winston pulling Buster out of its icy depths when it begins to swallow him whole. That’s Will’s second favorite part of Winter, the pure and unbridled joy from his pack.
The spot of First Favorite Thing About Winter is reserved for the fact that nobody dares to brave the surmounting snow in his driveway, meaning he’s less likely to have his solitude interrupted. Will never bothers to shovel it or to sprinkle snow salt over the pavement, he doesn’t need to; he has a four-wheel drive, and if a matter is pressing enough that it requires a trip to Will’s house, well, then they can simply deal. Which is why he’s surprised to see a familiar Bentley rolling over the white hills without hesitation. A rare and unbidden dedication, given that it’s completely unnecessary (and poses a disgusting amount of danger to his vehicle).
Will– as he often does– pretends not to notice, even as he feels the warmth of the running machine radiating from the engine several yards away. Rounding his dogs up and ushering them into the house, he feels much more like the cur in this situation. Tail tucked between his legs, silently waiting, waiting, always waiting. After his dogs file into the comfort of his home, he closes the door behind them, and the storm door loudly rattles shut. Behind him, the engine dies and Will feels more weak than usual, as if he was struck by a sudden sickness.
He isn’t afraid; there is nothing to run from, no imminent danger, so why does he feel gooseflesh spread like a plague across his arms, footsteps crunching behind him? They stop at the steps to his porch, and Will turns and faces them in much the same way that a very unstable man mimics the behavior of the sane.
Hannibal’s smile seems genuine, thin and pulling at his lips. The sky is empty and the scene around him has a limited color palette of white, brown, black, and sky blue. Susurrus wind gently whips his hair, threading long fingers through it in a familiar manner. Will has been here before, he feels. He was in Hannibal’s place, though, and it was far hotter. His eyes appear brighter than normal, but perhaps that’s an illusion from the reflecting snow. His wool trench coat threatens to drag against the ice and is already wet at the edges.
“Will,” he greets, “we meet again.” His tone falls just short of sarcastic, and sounds almost ironic, as if Will didn’t expect them to see each other again, but Hannibal certainly, certainly did.
There was no good reason for Will’s avoidance, really, nor any apparent alarms in it. The only person who asked about his sudden celibacy from Hannibal’s treatment was Beverly, for she was the only person who knew that his and Hannibal’s relationship extended any deeper than the surface. How deep that truly was, Will didn’t know, but not for lack of intelligence; rather comprehension, or his own mental barriers. In any case, Will hadn’t been showing up to his appointments (without warning!) and he was sure Hannibal found that terribly rude.
He grimaces at Hannibal’s address. “What, are we strangers again?” He remarks defensively, sarcastically. As if he’s hurt by something.
Hannibal’s smile doesn’t falter. “Not unless you want us to be.” He scuffs his boot against the ice. “I wanted to discuss with you the matter of your therapy.” He pauses. “I assumed we were back to a professional relationship again.”
Will shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t think we’ll ever be quite professional.”
Will falls silent, nervously cupping the back of his neck and shuffling on his feet, idly shoving his hands in his pockets, looking around at nothing. Hannibal moves forward onto the step. He’s still looking up at Will, eyes round.
“May I come in?” He asks, like a vampire from the stories Will’s teachers used to frighten him with.
Will nods and lets his own death enter. “Sure.”
He’s embarrassed by the state of his unusual, one-room home, currently as cramped as his mind is. Books and clothing littered about, strewn on chairs and tables. Drenched sheets thrown off of the mattress, which is surrounded by a moat of dog beds coming in various sizes and colors. Speaking of dogs, various toys and bags of treats bestrew the counter. His makeshift dining table is a nightstand, his couch is two chairs. He barely fiddled with the concept of furniture when he moved in, and preferred to keep to the first floor; he felt safer there.
Hannibal doesn’t mention it, scanning over the mess only once before resigning himself to silence in lieu of anything he may have wanted to say. Like in his own home, he approaches the coffee table, retrieving a loose novel and running his palm over the cool hardcover. “You haven’t been showing up to your appointments.”
Will chuckles dryly. “Haven’t been showing up much to work, either.”
Hannibal is piqued by this, and turns his head to Will, who has taken his place across the room, back leaned against the countertop. “You’ve paused your investigations?”
“Paused,” Will contemplatively repeats on a shrug. “If there’s anything that needs urgent investigation, I’ll go, but I mostly… avoid the headquarters. I basically work freelance, anyway.” He laughs dryly again.
Hannibal hums. “Like an artist.”
“Mm. A very, very starving one.”
Hannibal ambles towards his bookshelves that tower over either side of his television, dust accumulating about their pages. He runs his hand over the bumps and ridges over the spines, his other thumb hooked in his pocket. “Do you read often?”
The books lying face-down on every surface imaginable should be enough of an answer. “No,” he lies. “I use them as firewood.” He gestures toward the fireplace, who’s hearth is barren.
Hannibal nods knowingly and turns his back towards Will. “I feel as though there is something you wish to discuss with me.”
“Isn’t there always?” Will deflects.
“Such is life for a man of your stature,” Hannibal says, “but I sense there may be something you are less eager to talk about.”
Now, Hannibal is facing Will, but keeps a lengthy distance between them. “You feel correctly. Knowing that, then, why bring it up?”
Hannibal crosses the room to stand directly before Will, trapping him between himself and the counter. Suddenly, Will is on the defensive, his body reacting to every movement as a threat. He inhales deeply, holding his breath and then letting it out in a pathetic attempt to regulate his body temperature.
“Some things bear discussing,” Hannibal says evenly. “Breaking down barriers of the mind in order to reach a better understanding of oneself. That’s worth the price of confronting a difficult topic, is it not?”
Will slips away from Hannibal’s scrutinizing gaze; if anything were ever to make Will slip again, to fall into whatever that was, he would not let it be this. Not ever again; the heart has no jurisdiction over the mind, none at all, none at all. And Will’s mind is entirely too nonspecific and vast to answer to anybody’s orders. He tells himself this as he crosses the room, several feet away from Hannibal. Nearly bumps into his fishing lures.
“I am not interested in mind games with you,” he says, because he isn’t.
“You’re defensive,” Hannibal says, “both in speech and mind. Too ashamed to be open to conversation, too afraid to be open at all.” A beat of pregnant silence follows, and Hannibal’s gaze flicks from Will to the window just behind him. The sun has only just risen, rubbing its tired eyes, and it occurs to Will that Hannibal is at his home entirely too early for living a full hour away. His eyes return to Will’s.
“What say we go for a drive?” He offers hopefully. “I find it has a remarkable way of clearing the mind, as if another burden is abandoned with every mile.”
“I’m busy,” Will says flatly, and hopes Hannibal does not ask with what.
He doesn’t, and instead suggests they go for a night drive. Hannibal would pick him up at 7:30, their usual appointment time. Will’s thoughtless agreement is purely to get Hannibal out of his head, out of his home. He fears, though, that he might have agreed out of a genuine desire; a desire of what exactly is a different question. A desire to be open, or to go on a drive with Hannibal just for the sake of it, like he used to when he was a child.
He severs that line of thought before it can develop, and slips on his coat, figuring he might as well find something to do to pass the time. The thought of reading makes him sick, the thought of eating makes him groan, and the thought of fishing sounds fine, but the last time he went fishing in a vulnerable state it didn’t bode well for him.
When he relents to his duties and eventually arrives at the headquarters, he finds Beverly standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Will deposits his bag beside her as he enters, and she trails behind him.
“Will,” she says. “Long time, no see.” Her heeled boots click against the tile and then are muffled by the carpet.
“It’s only been two weeks,” he replies, not sounding half as offended as he was, pulling papers out of his drawer and splaying them on the desktop. Offended wasn’t the proper word. More like chastised.
“Two weeks too many,” Beverly retorts. “You’re always slaving away at crime scenes, and then suddenly you go radio silent? Something’s up, I can tell.”
Students are beginning to file in and find their places among the auditorium seating. Since Will had taken to repeatedly canceling class, many students had taken to repeatedly showing up to his evening classes rather than his morning classes.
Beverly doesn’t know, Will thinks, she can’t possibly know.
“Is it Hannibal?” She asks.
But of course, she knew, because she always seemed to know, in such a way that was less otherworldly than Hannibal’s ability but more personal, which was, in turn, far scarier. Will nods complacently and mentally checks out, watching himself and Beverly have a conversation from several miles away, staring at the tops of their heads. Beverly’s speech goes through one ear and out the other as if there’s a filter that turns all sounds muffled and unintelligible. Will turns on a student film about the development of the legal definition of crime and takes a seat in a spare chair in a dimly lit corner. Beverly pulls up a seat beside him.
“You know, I don’t think you’re as good at being vague and enigmatic as everybody else thinks,” she says. She’s sitting backward in her chair, arms folded on the backrest. Far more relaxed than Will.
“How do you figure that?”
She sits up properly and rests her hands on her thighs. “Well, I remember you missed your appointment with Hannibal several weeks back… and that’s certainly not like you. After that, you were skittish and cranky, and I know it wasn’t anything Jack or Alana did, because I work with them, so…” She gestures vaguely.
“You were doing better before, you know. When you were seeing him.” She stretches the word seeing in a way that makes Will’s skin crawl.
“Stalker,” Will says sarcastically.
Beverly snorts. “Totally. Anyway, you don’t have to go into any sort of great detail about your personal life. I care about you, and if you need anything I’d be happy to help. Just thought I’d let you know I’m aware of all the things you might hope for nobody to notice.”
Will raises a brow. “That’s supposed to comfort me?”
She shrugs. “Not necessarily. You can never hide, not entirely. Take that as you will.”
Beverly says her goodbyes, excusing herself with a curt ‘shit, Jack is calling’ and a promise of later correspondence. She’s hunched over as he hurries out of the room to not interrupt the students’ film; half of them are on their phones and half of them are falling asleep on the heels of their palms. Will would return to his desk in the center of the room if it didn’t make him feel so exposed. It was an easier feeling to deal with when everybody was distracted by your words, not noticing the way you seem to zone out, to trip over your speech. He’s played this film a million times before for a million different classes. It’ll run its course, by which point his students will have already noticed Will is gone.
He stands outside of the bureau, hands trembling, body shaking. This is fine. He’s fine. His watch shows 7:25. He feels a horrible dread, a doom hanging over his head. The sun is setting by now, abandoning him, retracting its tendrils of light. He needs something, but he doesn’t know what it is; it would seem that he always needs something and that something would forever be just out of reach. With tremulous hands he retrieves a loose cigarette from his coat pocket, and twirls it between his fingers– this is fine, he thinks as he lights it and brings it to his lips. I’m fine, I’m doing fine.
The relief is immediate. This is a habit he dropped a long, long time ago, but never truly eradicated; naturally, he’s not an addict in the same way that other people are addicts. Why? He can’t be anything the way other people are. Fundamentally, he is different, and he is a grown man who can do as he pleases and smoke if he wishes but there is a dose of shame that accompanies it. His mouth and throat are pleasantly warm, though, despite the frigid cold cloaking Virginia, and a rush of contentedness washes over him like a wave. He shivers and settles into himself.
He needs something. He needs something. He feels it gnawing at his flesh, or rather, his bone, clambering to escape. He won’t let it in, though; why?
Afraid, comes a thought. You’re afraid, aren’t you?
Will Graham is not simply afraid.
Thousand-dollar tires roll down the ice and stop at the road in front of the long staircase to the bureau entrance. Will snuffs his cigarette on the wall behind him and stuffs it in his pocket, making his way down the steps. The driver’s window rolls down.
Quite a scene, the two are painting. A man is smoking, looking disheveled. Another man in an expensive car pulls up, and the man– as if they had done this before– trots toward him and rests his arm on his hood as they correspond through the window. Will laughs to himself.
“Will,” comes Hannibal’s greeting, more casual this time, paralleling their earlier meeting. “There you are.”
“You were looking for me?”
“You were not at your home, and not at my office. I figured you would be here.” He inhales, and his nose scrunches repugnantly at the thick scent of smoke. No one else would have picked up on that, nobody but Hannibal. “I won’t lie, I was a bit worried.”
“Worried about what?” Will asks. “About whether a grown and trained man can fend for himself anywhere but his home?”
Hannibal chuckles. “You are right about that. Won’t you join me?” He asks, and pats the passenger seat.
It’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous, this whole day has been ridiculous. Hannibal worrying about him, unprecedented, something he's never done before– something nobody has done before, for that matter. Trying to coax out of him a discussion, or an admission that anything happened at all. All Will can think is, what does he gain?
Nevertheless, he rounds the hood of the car and plops into the seat beside Hannibal. The leather is exquisite and smells of– and smells of pine. Will squirms. The sun hangs low in the sky, mixing blue with divine purple and red. Will is tense on all accounts. He wishes he could sink into the seat, but he cannot; oh, he cannot.
His window is rolled down automatically and Hannibal drives leisurely down the parkway, heading West out of Quantico. Will can see the reservoir, the assorted academic buildings in and around the bureau itself, and people walking up and down sidewalks. Will never noticed how beautiful it was this time of year; light dancing on the water, the sky a brilliant watercolor painting. The bureau really, really blemishes that. Cicadas chirping mix in with the sounds of distant bustling streets, and Will has always hated the city.
“How are you feeling, Will?” Hannibal asks, and as Will adjusts himself his foot brushes against a discreetly placed bag on the floorboard. He ignores it.
“Fine,” he lies, and Hannibal doesn’t press him. It’s a strange, nostalgic feeling. He’s sitting, tired, in the passenger seat of a car with an all-black interior. The wind tosses his hair about and he closes his eyes to better feel it on his face. He doesn’t have school tomorrow, his dad didn’t drink today.
“My father used to…” he clears his throat, “take me on rides like this.”
When Hannibal is silent, Will takes it as a cue to continue. “I had night terrors often, in my youth. I was… utterly inconsolable. The only way my father could think to calm me down was to drive me to New Orleans and back.”
“You don’t talk about your father often. Were you two close?”
“Close… Well, sometimes. He drank, but he wasn’t a drunk, and was about as emotionally available as I am, if you can envision that. We’d listen to his music over and over again on the way up. That is, whatever old country was playing at the time, or whatever scratched CD was left in the player.”
“I see. Do you remember those drives fondly?”
“I never got to see the New Orleans skyline, I was asleep before then. I always… I always woke up in my bed,” Will recalls.
“A unique comfort,” muses Hannibal. “Exclusive only to years of our childhood. Or so we believe.”
“What’s childhood good for, anyway?”
“Good for running from, I suppose,” Hannibal jokes, either at Will’s expense or his own. Perhaps both. Either way, Will laughs.
It’s cold. It’s warm. The AC is valiantly combatting the frigid winds and Will clasps his hands in his lap. They merge onto the highway and the smooth hum of the car as it zips down the highway is soothing. Night has faded from a deep blue into black, traces of stars dotting the sky, just barely piercing the light pollution. Against his better judgment, he trusts Hannibal.
“I’m… I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do here,” Will confesses, because he doesn’t, feeling out-of-sorts.
“What do you mean?”
“I– you’ve got me at a loss here, Lecter,” he says. “You can’t expect me to be fine with talking about—”
“About what happened?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Why do you even care? What do you gain? How does it affect you? You’re just as capable of ignoring things as the rest of us. You don’t need all the answers in the world.”
“I was included in your experience, too, Will.”
“Right, you were. So if you want me to– to just stop talking to you and stop showing up to therapy and ignore you whenever I see you then I’ll do that. I’ll do that.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions, Will,” Hannibal says calmly, because he knows that Will is aware of how absurd he is acting. “You know I don’t want any of those things. You’re trying to convince me to cut off contact with you so that you don’t have to face yourself, and so I don't have to face you, either. You’re my friend, Will. I am open to whatever it is you may need from me.”
“I urge you to remember that, as a psychiatrist, you are far from the strangest thing I have ever seen, but certainly the most delightful, and the most interesting. That is to say, I am not going to turn my nose up at anything that you reveal to me, whether it be voluntary or not.”
Will curls into himself— all over again, this is far too much; except, it isn’t. It’s cool, Will has already shed his coat, and he feels safe with Hannibal, and he trusts Hannibal, and this has been long since established. He looks at the side of Hannibal’s head, all lines and shadows and sharp and gentle curves. Not comfortable, not content. But safe. He knows nothing bad will happen to him here. He sees it in Hannibal, sees that he wouldn’t let that happen.
Tears are falling before he has a chance to suppress them. He’s overcome by a strange feeling; social barriers rendered obsolete. Flesh gone tender and mushy.
“I don’t like it.” His voice is little more than an abject whisper. “I want you to stop. I want you to leave me alone.”
“You want me to leave you alone?” Hannibal asks as a police cruiser zips past them. “You want me to drop you off at your house right now and let that be the end of it?”
Will nods aggressively as if he had forced himself to agree, for he didn’t know how to be honest. Hannibal reaches a hand over to his knee and squeezes, caressing his leg with the flat of his thumb.
“I’m afraid that is not going to happen. I know you think you know what’s best for you. I know you think you know what’s best for me. But you do not, and that’s okay.” He passes Will a sidelong glance. “It is okay not to know.”
When Will begins digging his nails into his arms, Hannibal squeezes tighter. “There is a bag on the floorboard. I want you to look at what’s inside.”
Will stares at Hannibal, whose eyes are fixated on the road yet somehow staring through him at the same time.
“Go on. Don’t be shy.”
Will swallows hard and shakily reaches for the bag, placing it in his lap. It’s simple beige paper with golden ribbon handles, and it bulges slightly at the bottom.
There’s no tissue paper, no anticipation. It feels almost like a gift— nobody is watching him, though, not even Hannibal, who eyes the semi-truck as it chugs on behind them. No performances, no expectations. Is he still Will Graham if he is not performing? Is he any more himself in this car as he is in the bureau, in his own home? He reaches his hand into the bag and is met with a plush fabric that soothes his aching hands. Some sort of polyester or cotton, but it’s outrageously soft.
A pale gray dog. He holds, as he retracts his hands, a pale gray stuffed animal.
Pale gray with a white undercoat and striking blue plastic eyes. Its legs are especially weighted, and Will slots his hands under its armpits, feeling it ground him, weigh him to Earth, just as Hannibal did all those months ago. It’s definitely expensive, thoughtful, and something he’d never purchase for himself.
“Do you like it?” Hannibal asks gently.
And Will folds over, clutches it to his chest, and sobs. Hannibal doesn’t chastise him, doesn’t groan in frustration, only runs his hand back and forth over the surface of his leg. Allows him his right to hiccup and whimper and cry and doesn’t tell him not to, doesn’t even say a word. Just lets him know he’s there– by God, he's there– and hums a soothing tune. Will doesn’t remember all too well when he grew weary and fell asleep, nor if he ever stopped crying, only the sudden silence of the engine dying, and a warm embrace accompanied by a weight on his chest. When he wakes up in the morning, he’s clutching the plushie while lying in his bed, one of his chairs moved to the foot of the mattress. It’s empty except for a book lying face-down on the cushion.
#tiredmother#hannigram#murder husbands#hannibal lecter#will graham#agere will graham#little will graham#caregiver hannibal lecter#agere hannigram#will graham age regression#regressor will graham#annewrites
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— 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐬
[masterlist]
henri clément x augustin lambert, gen
tags - suicidal ideation, whump, character study
rated m - 1.7k words
warnings - suicide, major character death
— henri’s life over the course of eleven years.
(Pls rb + read on ao3 🫀)
[banner by reveriesources]
Henri didn’t mean to do it.
He was only dallying with the notion of it. Having read about it in books, having heard it weaved in hushed murmurs, having seen it in tired glances, he had become obsessed with the idea of how drawing your final breath must feel, had become obsessed with the sensation of rabid teeth against a pliant throat— obsessed with his solitude, so much so that he lamented its loss.
He was twelve and visiting the library in Annecy, a block past Centre Hospitalie where his mother worked, because she couldn’t find a job in Paris. Tucked away behind a myriad of old novels was a book detailing the infinitely many ways in which a person could die. War was one of them, of course, and then all kinds of sicknesses, and then suicide, before ‘suspicious death’ and after ‘stroke’. Henri went to sleep every night considering how it would feel, but never wanting it, never not fearing it any less than he had the day before.
Then he was fourteen and his mother took him to work with her because he couldn’t be trusted alone at home. She was a hospice nurse, but she never cited her vocation as one of compassion. His father thought her selfish, trying to get used to death before it claimed her too, and Henri agrees, remembering his one visit to the hospital, but he doesn’t blame her. He looked so much like his mother back then, long face and droopy eyes and an old man— Moreau, his name was— badgered him about his motivations for pursuing this line of work. Moreau had been a line cook before he suffered a severe bout of seizures and was paralyzed.
“Nurse Clément,” Moreau greeted as Henri took a seat beside the bed, in a worn wicker chair. Henri wanted to correct him, but was startled silent by Moreau’s ill, limp body, loose lips and open eyes fixated at the ceiling. “Why did you choose this life, Nurse Clément?”
Henri is silent, as if he felt shame after being reprimanded, but he hadn’t been. “Did you do it for them, or for yourself? Did you think you could grow more accustomed to me?”
Henri doesn’t like this. Moreau’s brows are furrowed in an angry scowl, and he squeezes his eyes shut, pushing out tears. He rubs his thumb over his palm, both hands in his lap, trying to comfort himself. Dementia is a hell of an affliction, Henri tells himself, and ignores the pang of melancholic fear at his gut.
“Have you conquered me?” The old man rasps, voice nearly a whisper. It seems to disappear among the sounds of hospital equipment and nurses shoes clicking against tile floors. “Am I less daunting to you now?”
A door opens behind him and his mother’s hands are at his shoulders, gripping them tightly and frantically ushering him away. She wipes away his tears with her thumb and whispers comforting words to him as he’s taken away. One last time, Henri looks over his shoulder, and the man is looking back at him, smiling a toothless smile that looks more like a frown due to his downturned mouth.
“I will be there,” he mouths. There is no sound but Henri hears him anyway. “I will be waiting.”
Then, Henri is fifteen, and his father hangs himself in his study. Nobody expected it and yet nobody was surprised. It was in the closet and it took them three days for Henri and his mother to find him, and for those three days the house stunk of death. He inherits his father’s Webley, and the night after his death he scrapes the rust off of the barrel, and feels its weight, heavy and palpable in his hands. His mother is in the study, too, wailing as if it will bring him back. Shes knelt by the closet, scratching at the door.
As if he isn’t in control of himself, Henri places the barrel against the middle of his forehead, between his eyes. Is his father a coward? Did he not want to leave a mess behind? During his final moments, was he afraid?
He’s sixteen when his mother is diagnosed with heart failure and sixteen still when she passes on. He feels nothing. He misses nobody. He takes up work in a coal mine in the French countryside until his lungs fill up with mucus and he’s eighteen when he’s sent back home to his parent’s house. It’s dusty and all doors are ajar except for the door to the study, which is closed as though it had never been open. It reeks of death and hospitals.
His mother’s room is in shambles. All blankets, sheets, and pillows had been torn off the bed and she slept on a bare mattress, even in the winter when Henri could hear her teeth chattering from the other side of the wall. She said she wanted to know how death felt before it took her, and had no explanation for why. Humans will find comfort in anything they can. It’s for that same reason Henri kept his father’s revolver all those years, well after he had been inducted into the army.
He cleans out his father’s study. He dusts his tchotchkes from his time in Romania. He opens the shutters and waves at civilians walking by. He doesn’t untie the noose from the closet and he never closes the doors. When he has company he seals the study shut. He moves his bed inside, positioning it under the window and he sleeps facing away from the closet so that he can feel that cold chill creep up his spine. I will be there, he thinks. I will be waiting.
One night, Henri has too much to drink. He rolls onto his back in his sleep and vomits. And then he chokes on it. Camille, a young intern who worked with his mother, finds him and carries him to the hospital. She had intended to retrieve something to remember Nurse Clément by, as they had been close, but found her son instead. The bed he sleeps in is familiar and in the chair across from him, where Camille sits, a young boy materializes in her place, holding his hands in his lap, crying. Henri laughs until he pukes again.
He’s nineteen when things more or less go back to normal. He moves in with Camille. He fucks Camille, who’s eleven years older than him and holds him when he cries. Camille moves away to work in Bordeaux and he pays to refurbish his childhood home except for the study. He keeps his mother’s old bed adorned with an extravagant bedspread at all times. Nobody is allowed to enter the two locked rooms in Henri’s house on Champs-Élysées.
He’s only twenty-one when tensions begin to rise in Europe. Countries mobilizing troops for a conflict they can’t be sure will happen. The Balkan simmering pot teetering on the edge of a boiling point. Henri makes a routine out of pressing the cold barrel of the revolver against his forehead, and pulling the faulty trigger, and being met with a rusty creak rather than darkness, and he comforts himself with believing that, somehow, he has cheated death.
He’s twenty-four when he’s conscripted. He’s thrilled about it. France has always been his heart and his home. He’s twenty-four when he meets Augustin Lambert and his wife at the train station. Augustin’s son is small and holds his hands shyly in his lap. There is a foreboding sense of familiarity surrounding him. He is twenty-four when he’s stationed in the bunker along the Western Front. He’s twenty-five when they open up the Roman tunnels for excavation. His birthday passed in that cesspit and he and Augustin celebrated, just the two of them. Augustin is his best friend. He kisses him, and Augustin kisses him back.
Don’t ask, don’t tell, 1916. It was an unspoken agreement between soldiers. When they were either conscripted or voluntarily enlisted into this bloodbath, they left their human conceptions of morality at the door. They weren’t here to be human, or even just good. They all understood that equally well, even if it went unsaid. A great many things went unsaid between them. A great many more did they not understand.
He is twenty five and Augustin is twenty four and four months and three weeks and short brown hair and round blue eyes when Henri tells him about his father and then his mother. Augustin hums forlornly and shakes his head. Nobody else has ever been so sympathetic. It’s as sympathetic as men like them know how to be. Henri makes a self-deprecating joke and Augustin’s laugh sounds like church bells and trumpets and he’s kissing him again. Then he’s crying, and Augustin holds him through the night. They never speak of it again.
He’s twenty five when he tricks Augustin into going on patrol instead of him. When Augustin comes back, the two are gonna laugh and laugh about it. Trotting off to his barracks, he hears a commotion. The other soldiers are in the mess hall betting on rats. He sits down on his firm mattress like a plank of wood. Henri is tired and cannot distinguish from his father’s revolver and his own standard issue Modèle 1892. He puts the barrel of one of them, not knowing which, against his forehead. It clicks and everything stays the same.
The next night, Augustin does not return. Nobody cares. Somehow, nobody cares. How could nobody care? Augustin is the best of all of them. He has a wife, a son, a life outside of this petty war. Henri bangs his head against the wall until a smattering of blood stains it. That night, he is as tired as he was the last. He places the barrel of a revolver against his forehead, and everything stays the same. The world still spins and the trees still sway in the wind, and the war doesn’t stop, not for anybody. He has no family to mourn him. Only Augustin, who he hopes will come back and give him that funeral that he had dreamed of more than his wedding. Augustin and Camille, the nurse from Paris.
For a moment or several he sees that old man, and they’re standing across from each other in his father’s study, and outside is the muddy trenches of France and Belgium, all a mash. And he reaches his hand out to Henri, who doesn’t feel so lonely anymore.
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— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞
[masterlist]
henri clément x augustin lambert
tags - reverse au, religious undertones, graphic depictions of violence, angst + fluff
rated m - 6.3k words
warnings - suicidal ideation, graphic depictions of violence, major character death
— augustin has trapped the beast in administration, and the road to freedom becomes considerably more obscured.
(Pls rb + read on ao3 if possible 🫀)
[banner by reveriesources]
The steady scratching at the door doesn’t cease until the first flush of morning.
Is man awarded his identifier as human only while he exists in his human state? Is it torn away from him should he devolve, should he revert to something more primal? If consciousness separates man from beast, then what is he who toes the line between real and symbolic?
The meager window of daylight above the compact rubble is all that allows Augustin to hazard a guess at the time; it gets colder at night, and if he wants to, he can bask in the sunlight when he’s afforded it. It should be near four in the morning when the desperate scraping and distressed roars from the other side of the wall slow and then are silenced. Augustin hears nothing. Not a claw raking against the stone, not a wardrobe or empty fuel canister being clumsily knocked over. Nothing, and he’s not brave enough to shine his flashlight under the door, or poke his head through the window beside it.
If he were a better man, a better husband, a better friend, he would be able to muster up an oddment of sympathy and extend it to his friend. But he cannot, and the sun is rising, and he’s exhausted beyond measure, and he’s left his bandages and medlars stowed in the storage box to make room for routine trips from the arsenal to the generator. Fuel was scarce. Darkness was a death sentence. Who could blame him?
He wonders, briefly, as he trudges down the stairs and into mission storage if Adam and Eve felt such melancholy at their eviction. If they felt sick as they tried and failed to claw their way back into paradise. If the bile rose in their throat, and if they swallowed it back down.
Augustin bangs helplessly against Henri’s locker. The beast does not stir, the lights do not flicker, and the rats do not skitter about in the walls and ceiling or around his sore feet. The world is taking a moment of silence for him. He pounds his fists into the firm metal door again and again before he collapses against it, as if, should he try hard enough, Henri may walk right out. As if he had been entombed in an iron prison the entire time.
He feels closer to this cold, dented locker than to the gnarled remnant of his friend several hundred feet away from him.
───
Henri never did like the harsh overhead lights of the bunker, or of any place, for that matter. They cursed him with throbbing migraines and for the rest of the day he would be nothing short of irritable.
Augustin sits beside him on the mushy loam just outside the entrance, watching Henri pack his cigarettes before he fishes one out with trembling, nervous hands. Long fingers, defined tendons. The air is crisp and smells of rain, moonlight acting as Henri’s spotlight. He looks angelic. Godless. Augustin compels himself to avert his eyes and suddenly becomes very interested in the ground.
His hair is slicked back today after he nabbed a tin of hair pomade from Sergeant Reynard, both for his own devices and as a jab at the officer. It’s refined, but stray hairs curl up in places. Very abruptly does Augustin feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, begging to be let out, to bleed onto the mud. He swallows subconsciously, watching Henri’s lips open and close around his cigarette. It’s frigid. Augustin’s skin burns despite.
“Chilly,” Henri remarks as if he read Augustin’s mind. Augustin hopes that he can, so that it would save him the words. God forgive him. A small smile spreads across Henri’s mouth. God have mercy. He had visited the priest enough times this week. “Think my balls might freeze off.”
Augustin laughs a little bit too loudly, and his courage curls up in his lap and stays there. Henri casts him a sidelong glance, shadows sharpening his features yet he retains his softness. His expression is suspicious and knowing. Augustin clenches and unclenches his hands into fists.
Henri’s eyes drift down to Augustin’s hand, resting on the ground between them. A gold band welded to the base of his finger twinkles in the moonlight. “You miss her, don’t you?”
Augustin’s breath hitches. “Yeah. A lot.”
Henri’s hand inches towards Augustin’s and rests comfortably upon it, fingers curling around his palm. He lets the flat of his thumb run over the bumps and ridges of Augustin’s knuckles, his skin equally scarred but paler, more flushed. Henri always compared him to Rudolph, his red nose, cheeks, lips. Henri, planted in the same spot, leans toward Augustin. Half-lidded eyes fixed on their hands joined amidst the mud and dirt and worms. They are not so different from the beasts of the Earth.
His world is ending. This is as close as he’s ever gotten, close as he’ll ever be– Henri leans closer still. Henri, his best friend, brother in arms. If he had known him sooner, he probably would have asked him to be his best man at his wedding. Would he accept? Would he laugh and wrap his arm around his shoulder, and they'd ignore anything else that could have been? Would it die there? Would they meet one another in dark rooms shrouded in shadow, illuminated only by the light seeping through the stained glass window? Would they rack up their sins far beyond the threshold within an evening?
Henri leans closer, and Augustin feels his breath against his face, warm and wet and smelling of tobacco. When their lips lock, Augustin’s reality crumbles and he wakes in Delisle’s blood-soaked cot. He can bear to remember no more, not if it won’t bring him back.
───
It’s nearly comforting to leave fate in the hands of a higher, more capable power. He understands how the Catholics feel a little bit more deeply. He repeats the same mantra as he wraps his makeshift bandages around a deep laceration in his calf: it will not get infected, it will not get infected, it will not get infected.
He tightens the tourniquet and ties it into a knot. He could see the pale tan of his under-flesh, the bumpy red of muscle. A plague of rats watch him from the mouth of a hole as if waiting for something that will never come. Augustin is waiting, too. He has always waited.
Walking is wobbly and labored for a few feet before he regains his control and can dig his nails into his palm to deal with the pain. There’s no time to rest, and even less to heal. He dreads the pillbox, dreads the chapel. Not for the danger lurking, of which there is no longer any, but for the knowledge that once his business is done in these places, he can never return. Eternally unable to reconcile. He retrieves the key from the reverend and one of Henri’s journal entries from the confessional. He ignores the altar. He must ignore the altar.
When he exits, he boards the door shut, freely slamming his hammer against the nails without caution for the racket he’s creating. He hopes to hear the growls of yore, the bell that tolls for him.
It never comes.
───
Horror. Hell, an eternity spent. Is this his punishment? Is this why he was spared? While he languished in a peaceful slumber, albeit plagued by visions of an ancient, endless desert, while his compatriots were slaughtered?
Idly, he holds his helmet up for the German sniper to shoot, retrieves it from across the room, holds it up again. It’s what Henri would have done, Augustin thinks. If that beast were Boisrond, the poor bastard, or Toussaint, and they were traversing this inferno together. If Henri could have been his Virgil, he would have offered they have some teasing fun, suggested they decorate administration for the holidays, despite it being July. Just to see him smile, just to help him relax. Henri generates morale. He always has.
Now, though, he only generates dust falling from the ceilings, and an impending sense of hopelessness.
───
It’s a while before Augustin timidly raps his knuckle against the door.
What did he expect? A response? What feared he more, the echo or the answer?
Nothing. Augustin kicks against the door in diligent ignorance of the shooting pain gripping his leg. He screams, wails, curses, shoots the lock with his last two revolver bullets. Not so much as a huff, a grumble, the dragging of loose skin against the raw ground.
Nothing. Always nothing, nothing at all, leaving him drowning in a sea of non-existence. Augustin feels he might die. It would serve him right.
───
No place to go but forward, for no salvation lies in waiting.
He’s still as the grave as he descends the stairs and into the prison. In life, he was never permitted to enter, none of the low-ranking soldats were. But that restriction wouldn’t stop the prisoners from begging for mercy, screaming in agony as their secrets were tortured out of them. They, the soldiers, were not fools. They knew that the army had ways of making somebody talk. Rumors roused despite, bored rumors, and they’d sit in the mess hall and convince one another the screams were vengeful Roman ghosts from the tunnels. It was the only explanation their fragile psyches would be able to accept.
Augustin wonders what Henri was up to while he was comatose. Selfishly, he wonders if anybody but him cared to worry on his behalf, or if they were only ever focused on watching their flanks, which would be justified. He vaguely remembers a strange, warm presence a few inches away, but never close enough to latch onto. Was Henri tortured like the others? Was Henri a saboteur at all? A mutineer?
“Hallo?” Calls the prisoner into the darkness when Augustin carefully removes the metal grate to the warden’s office from its bolts. The moment he sets it down on the floor, the prisoner howls, begging in a language Augustin cannot understand. He’s safe now, the beast cannot harm him. Why is he crying?
“I’ve trapped the monster in administration,” Augustin calls back, as if the German knows what administration is, as if he even speaks French. The prisoner falls silent for a moment. Augustin slips into the office and stares down the cell block hall, palms pressed against the control panel.
“…Monster?” The prisoner calls back timidly.
“Fuck— Ja, monster. Monster… nein. Monster ist nein.”
Henri would have cackled in Augustin’s face. Would have doubled over in his laughter. Whenever he’d hear them, he’d commit to learning and memorizing the meanings of any German word or phrase. That way, if ever he was in a sticky situation for which there was no salvation, he’d be in better shape. He taught Augustin a handful of simple verbs and articles and plenty of swears.
Augustin scoffs. Learning German would not have pulled him out of that crater. The prisoner is silent when he retrieves the bolt cutters from beside him and silent as he ambles back to administration. Perhaps he knows, too, and he’s salvaging the last of his fraying dignity.
He may not be an officer, he may not be a criminal, but he is a perpetrator of this conflict. He can die here like the rest of them.
───
Augustin curls up in front of the door, coat draped over himself. A bitter chill has seeped into the bunker, blanketing the very marrow of his bones. Maybe Henri is back. Maybe he’s transformed from whatever that thing is back into his usual self. Maybe he’s tired from exertion. Maybe something killed him. There’s always a bigger fish.
Augustin feels abandoned. Constantly hunted, never truly safe, at least he wasn’t alone— at least he had company. Now, the only person watching him is God in Heaven. Who would have him now? Not his wife, after what he’d seen, not his son, who would not be able to bear the sight of his disheveled, hollow father. Augustin is not the same man he was when he was conscripted and he never would be that man again. What came of the officers who left? Do they feel guilt, does it gnaw at them every waking hour?
They should. They should, for what they’ve done to him, to the garrison, to Henri. Augustin cannot handle not being seen.
───
“I brought you food,” he speaks against the metal, cheek pressed against the door. “You’re hungry, aren’t you? What have you been eating all this time? Rats? Corpses?”
Augustin chuckles weakly. “I wish you would eat some corpses. Or some rats. Or both. Would help me out a lot. Those bastards don’t bite shallow.”
Silence. Augustin has no audience. He holds a cut of rancid meat in his hand, and with all of his dwindling bravery, chucks it inside through the window, hanging on by its hinge. Hears it thud and then roll across the floor. He feels like he’s torn out his own heart and left it at the mercy of the beast.
Finally— God, finally— as relieving as when he found Henri in the depths of that crater, the beast scuffles, and then a grotesque imitation of digestion ensues. Tongue smacking, wet, grunting, hot breath wracking his body, and then a hard swallow. A heavy exhale.
Augustin draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “Are you cold?” He asks. “I could bring you a blanket. Are you thirsty? I could bring you some water. Some real water. Not that hell-broth in the spring.”
This is better, almost. Speaking as if the beast can hear him, and as if the beast is, in fact, Henri. Better for him to imagine things are calmer than they really are.
“If the meat is not enough, I’ll bring you a corpse. I’ll stuff it through the window for you. You liked brisket, didn’t you? I’ll manage you a brisket. Won’t be very nutritious, but…”
But what? What loyalty has Augustin to this monster, who slaughtered his unit? Then again, what dials or instruments can measure loyalty? What can weigh a heart?
“You can be close to them again,” Augustin says. “Eat your fallen victims, make them part of you. Isn’t that a fulfilling sentiment? Slice you open, fill you with soil. Give them a chance to make something better of themselves.”
Augustin weeps until he falls asleep. He feels as though the beast does, too. This all feels like they’re living out a metaphor. Men like them do not become angels. Men like them kill and kill and kill and it never gets easier.
Perhaps they were always beasts.
───
Plenty of animals would wander onto the battlefield, in dire search of better lands. Deer, rabbits. If they could, they’d catch them and then would have a marvelous dinner. If not, they’d be caught in the crossfire and die unceremoniously.
Sometimes stray dogs from the enemy K-9 unit would lose their masters, rendered untamable, and stumble into French trenches. But never, as a bottom line, would anything feline appear. That’s why the soldiers were so taken aback when they heard faint mewling coming from above the bunker, loud enough to wake a few of them. These walls were not thick.
“Lambert,” Henri grumbles tiredly, nearly rolling right off his bunk. “‘S tha’ you?”
“What the fuck?” Augustin murmurs, brows knitting. “Why would that be me?”
“Mm,” he mumbles noncommittally, and waves him away. “You hear that?”
They round up a few of their countrymen— Noyer, Toussaint, Cazal— to investigate, and they all shuffle out of the bunker, rifles in hand. The culprit of the disturbance is small enough to fit in your hands and gray with thick fur, knelt against the ground. The soldiers laugh among themselves. When the cat meows at them, they share chuckles and meow back in unison.
An ensuing song of call and response is enough to temporarily raise their spirits. All crouched down, repeating every noise the animal made. They all laugh at Toussaint, whose impression is especially accurate.
Henri looks at Augustin, a newfound light in his eyes. “Seems there’s hope yet,” he says, and Augustin feels rejuvenated.
───
Augustin might not know Henri’s birthplace or his mother’s name, but he knows his favorite food.
The officers— viz. Joubert— granted them a special opportunity: on a board in the mess hall was a tally. Good behavior would rack them up points, which could be spent on more novelty rations. It was small, but it served as something to work towards besides just surviving long enough to see the sunrise. Since Henri was the main contributor to this count, he often had the largest say in what they’d get.
Always, he decided on frozen fruit.
Raspberries, plums, mangoes, strawberries, cherries. He didn’t even wait for them to thaw, just dealt with the chill and the ache in his teeth. They were cheap on account of not being fresh, so he was the only one to indulge in them, while others requested tobacco or different grades of wine.
Every time, without fail, he’d share with Augustin. And Augustin does not like fruit, but he ate them anyway.
They’d sit on either Henri’s bunk or Augustin’s, chipped ceramic bowl in between them, usually with a tarp laid over the top bunk like children at a sleepover. Henri had a way of making something ridiculous out of a serious situation. They’d trade stories of war and fantasy, of family back home. How good things would be when this all ended. How much Henri would love Augustin’s wife, his son. How dearly Henri misses the bustling streets of Paris.
Henri’s favorite fruit was cherries. Augustin always saved them for him. If Henri fell asleep before he could finish them, Augustin would sneak all the way back to the pantry and re-freeze them, and then sneak all the way back, often dutifully accepting reprimands from the officers.
He preferred to be caught by Joubert. In a way, Joubert understood, even if Augustin didn’t, the confession Augustin would not dare to utter.
He walks through the soldiers’ quarters, not bothering to burn the corpses, shooting the lock off the door to the utility room. When Joubert finishes reading off the arsenal code, Augustin slams the radio against a wall. So easily, not unlike this machine, can trust be shattered. So easily can an enemy be made out of a friend.
He walks through the barracks, and they’re thick with the scent of cherries.
───
The garrison as a unit was prone to nightmares, it came with the war in a specialty package. Glossed over eyes, palpitating hearts. They all chose to ignore it, or weep in dark corners. When Augustin was victim to these terrors, the paralyzing, petrifying terror he’d feel when facing the reality of the lives he’d taken, he’d find Henri crawling into his bunk, lighting a cigarette as he stretches out and Augustin scoots away to accommodate him. Curled up into a ball, he’s silent. Internally, he can’t hear himself think.
“Hey, remember what you told me?” Henri whispers, voice so low, only audible to Augustin’s ears.
“I’ve told you a lot of things,” he replies with a grunt, “and I remember few of them.”
“Have you now?” Henri’s tone is heavy with fondness. “About that bakery in Marseille, the one you hold in such high esteem. Always so costly, right?”
He awaits a response. Augustin nods. The only distinct sound is his hair rubbing against his bare pillow.
“Right. Well, I heard from the grapevine that they’re going to compensate many of the French soldiers after this, on account of the shell-shock. Me and you, we’re going to go there.”
The statement is a matter of fact. No room for negotiation, for anything to stand in the way. Augustin’s brows furrow in that involuntary telltale manner, his lips pull themselves thin, face reddening and he’s grateful that tears make no sound. “Yeah?” He says shakily.
“Absolutely. You’re going to introduce me to the menu and we’ll make ourselves sick from coffee and bread and pastries.”
“…Okay,” Augustin breathes after a lapse in thought. “That sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it? So I need you to be strong, okay? We’ll be out of here. You’ll be with your wife and son, and we’ll go to that bakery, alright?”
Augustin hums in affirmation, and just as Henri makes to leave, he sits upright and seizes his friend by the wrist. Henri looks over his shoulder.
“Can you stay here?” He asks. “It’s— well—”
“You don’t need to explain yourself, you fool,” Henri snickers, and crawls back into their bunk. Wraps his arms around Augustin’s midsection, and buries his head into his shoulder. “Sleep well.”
For a long time thereafter, the terrors were quelled. Curled up outside of administration, Augustin clutches the remnants of a tattered uniform to his chest. The numbers 33 are embroidered onto the collar.
───
The metal keypad is pristine from lack of use. Henri never did touch his locker, only to stow or retrieve bullets or to stash away letters and photos. It’s cool against Augustin’s sweating flesh, and he leans against the door for a moment to gather himself.
He remembers the day the photo was taken, the one pinned to the back wall of the locker, half hidden away as if shameful. It was before they boarded the train to Ypres, en route to the Western Front. A fellow conscript had taken the photo. A soldier whose name Augustin cannot recall, who would not be documented in any record or index.
Augustin does not want to, but he stains the ink with tears. If he places his thumb right over Henri’s face, he can pretend that he never existed, that he is alone in his Hell, that he mourns nothing, for he will be with his family soon. But a piece of his soul has been stolen from him, right from the center and he rots from the inside out. Maggots infest his organs and tear away at the tissue.
He tucks the photo into his collar. He cannot go back. He can never go back.
───
He gags at the enucleated eyes on the table, who appear to stare at him as if still attached to a socket. Notes and photos and overwhelming words and thoughts are strewn about, but there is a lantern, and he is grateful for the lantern, and he must be grateful even when he doesn’t want to be.
Ridiculous. This place was always such a point of interest to Noyer and Toussaint, whereas Augustin and the rest of the brutes viewed it only as a vessel for ambush. Those two viewed it for what it was; a scrap of history, a gleaming light.
This is what Augustin gets, what he deserves, the weight of all of man’s original sin heavy against his back. Wage shitty wars, win shitty prizes. If he scrubbed hard enough, could he be pure again? Could his family look less like shells to him and more like people?
The eerie blue glow displaces him as he begins his descent into the tunnels, and the sights that would have baffled him several days ago are now unsurprising. He has seen worse. He has seen man have their humanity revoked as if it were a privilege and stared into the hollow chassis that resulted. He has looked death in the eyes, and whatever lay beyond death which would make a sane man go mad.
Death is the least of it. Death, and petty wars.
Pebbles suspended in the air and a language Augustin knows not to be Latin. He hears chanting in his mind, distant, like from the other side of a locked door. He hears the wind, and through a square barred window, he sees the detonator handle.
Has he served his compatriots well?
───
He recognizes that voice.
It’s worn and scratchy and cuts out at times from overuse. Otherwise, it’s deep, booming. A time ago, it was not so. It’s a whirlwind of emotions as it sings the poem that had been recited to Augustin many a moon ago, and he had found it insightful, found it clever. Now it is like a death rattle, the horn that sounds before Ragnarok.
His heart beats in his throat. Monsters are frightening. Horrifying is the man who is not a monster, but is driven mad by information he was not meant to have access to.
Augustin jumps at the sudden firing of a shotgun as the bullet is buried in the tender flesh of a rat-beast. He’s sandwiched between a stack of boxes and an explosive barrel. He wouldn’t have to be hit directly to be eviscerated.
He cannot kill him. Even if he has to, he cannot. It would be better to die here. His wife is beautiful, she can marry again and provide the boy with a father. The beast who is not Henri could starve and die like God intended. He cannot kill Beaufoy.
Instinct trumps thought. A clean shot to the head renders this room eternally silent and Augustin is stumbling through the broken door, shoving the handle into his pocket bag, and clearing away the rubble from a tunnel— is this his freedom? Is this his solstice?
He emerges from the tunnel. He feels he wants to vomit, and vomit he does.
───
“What is to be done about this, my friend?” Augustin laughs, his voice raspy. “We are at a stalemate, no? I could leave here so easily. The detonator is hooked up to the dynamite. There is nothing left for me. I could leave now, right now.”
No response. “Do you think I would be believed? Do you think they’d think me a murderer? Would I be executed?”
A light stirring of indignation, but nothing more. “Would my wife have me? I could write a note. Would—”
He buries his head in his hands, covered in filth and soiled bandages.
“Henri. Oh, Henri. You know what it is I truly want.”
A click sounds from behind him. His heart stills, replaced with a revolving vortex of dread and terror. With his weight pressed against the door, it would not open lest the beast come plowing through. He does not, and Augustin is frozen.
Trembling, he stands. At death’s limen, faced with the wicked possibilities of a foregone world. Would he shy in fear? Would he face the reality of Henri’s eternity without a shred of empathy?
He pushes the door open. It’s dark, but not dark enough. An undefined mass of shadow lies in the furthest corner. Like an animal exposes its stomach, Augustin shuts the door behind him.
───
There is a word Augustin knows. He cannot say it, cannot think it, but he knows that Henri knows it too.
“For you.” Henri extends his hand and caged within his fingers is a stuffed toy rabbit.
Augustin snorts. “For me? Wow, I’ve always wanted this, you shouldn’t have, so on and so forth.” He waves his hand.
Augustin is always trying to draw a laugh out of his friend, and it always works, and it always warms Augustin when he’s cold. “I thought he looked like you. With the blue coat, and all. For your son, perhaps, because he thinks he’s so fast.”
Augustin accepts it and turns it over in his hand. It may be the cleanest thing he’s ever received during his time at war. His son does look like him. Round and rosy and sweet. Augustin promised to bring him something back.
It fell from his pocket in the crater when he slung Henri over his shoulder, and when he retrieved it from the crater after he emerged from the tunnels, he was filled with a profound sense of dread.
───
Cowardice prevails. Augustin screws his eyes shut as he lights the hanging lamp. Deep, dissatisfied grumbling echoes about the room, flesh chafing uncomfortably against flesh, a gnarled mess of limbs. Distantly, the all too familiar twang of a tripwire being triggered echoes through the halls, followed by an uproar of flame. Augustin feels as though the world is crumbling around him.
A confession is punched out of him. “I dream of death, you know.”
He feels the beast slither across the floor before its breath is upon his face, acrid and hot like gas.
Augustin takes a deep breath. “I dream… I dream that in my sleep, I’ll be granted mercy. That we will all die here. Me, you, and… and that thing in the tunnels. Already a third of the way there, right?”
Augustin forgets that the beast cannot understand him. That it knows only to stalk, hunt, kill. Perhaps it is not his fault. Perhaps he is only acting on instinct. Perhaps he knows no better.
Whenever has that been a sufficient justification?
The beast draws up what Augustin can only assume to be a claw, and wipes away a spot of blood on his cheek. Gently, cautiously. An unprecedented tenderness— what changed in the last few days? Was the beast, trapped in his prison, forced to listen? To understand? Did he hear the trumpets, too?
They’re loud. Deafening.
“Isn’t that funny?” Augustin laughs as if the beast had told a joke. “Isn’t that funny? All this work, all I have to live for, and selfishly I deny it.”
Augustin’s arms are glued to his side, posture uncomfortably straight. “Haven’t I always been selfish?” He reaches up to grab the claw before it can be pulled away. The sharp edges dig into his skin and draw more blood, slicing through the bandages. “Henri? Haven’t I?”
───
“Ah!” Henri exclaims. “Seems I’m fortune’s fool.”
He pushes out his chair and stands, collecting his rifle leaned against the wall. He throws his cards against the table in defeat. “Guess I’m on patrol, then. C’est la vie.”
He shrugs on his coat, and with a salute, he departs, and Augustin sleeps comfortably in his bunk after a round of drinks with his comrades. A lantern flickering dimly beside him. He never did like the dark.
───
A fuel canister clambers at his feet, the beast looming above him. He dares not look at his face. His teeth, his claws, are already too much. He hesitantly retrieves it; it’s heavy, filled to the brim.
“More fuel,” he observes. “You hate the light.”
The beast grunts in acknowledgment and saunters away, shoving his body into a tunnel, and scurrying away through the ceiling above. Why he didn’t take that route before, Augustin doesn’t know. It makes him wonder if he was ever trapped. If he was ever safe.
Augustin breathes a sigh of relief when he empties the canister into the nozzle and the lights come alive. Distantly, the beast groans.
He thinks about his visit at the Louvre with his family. He was particularly drawn to the exhibition dedicated to a rendition of a feudalist Japanese setting, shrines and cuisine and all different types of architecture and traditions. The samurai had a ritualistic execution called seppuku, where one would be disemboweled and then decapitated.
Augustin sits in the chair at the desk across the generator. He has already decided. He decided a long, long time ago.
───
The engineers who built the bunker knew what they were risking when they installed the daisy-chained lights. Henri kneels inside the utility room, undershirt discarded in favor of his coat, gloved hands working at the wires.
“So he fancies himself a handyman,” Joubert remarks, leaning against the wall, overseeing his work. A cigarette between his knuckles. “Aren’t we a talented bunch?”
Augustin snorts. “I wouldn’t call being able to piss completely silently a talent, Joubert.”
“Then you don’t understand talent, my friend. Here, go stand beside him,” he says and pulls out his camera. “A memory, for the monoliths soon to be erected in our honor.”
The photos of Augustin and Henri surmount quickly. Henri’s hand grasping his shoulder, a fond smile on his face. Best friends forever scribbled on the back in red ink, and blood staining the front.
───
The beast sleeps. In the chapel, folded next to the altar. Bodies strung up in prayer to a false Goddess of blood, a Goddess Henri was forced to worship. Augustin cannot ignore reality any longer. His friend, his dear friend. Who could do this to him?
He feels indignity boil his blood. No matter. He must act quickly.
He kneels beside the beast. Large, mangled. There is a beauty about him, if not just by association with who he was before. He was once human, and some part of him is human yet.
There is a darkness in his eyes, one so unlike Henri’s, but a reluctant one. He is only acting on inclination, which is all he knows. Augustin cannot blame him. He hopes that Henri will not blame him, either. He hopes that Joubert will tell his family lies about what came of him, that he died in honor. He hopes they will find the note he left.
Toussaint’s limp, cold body is propped up in a chair outside the infirmary. They will find him first. He carved Boisrond’s name into the wall behind his final resting place. They will find him second, and third, the prisoner who starved to death. He’s left all the doors unlocked and all traps disarmed, returned dog tags to their owners. This empress of darkness and blood will not have her execution, will not have her honor. That belongs to the soldiers, who are people before they are mercenaries.
He cradles the beast’s sleeping face, too large for his hand. He is not truly such a beast. Batesian mimicry, he thinks, how clever. He could have held Henri like this if he had more time. They could have gone to the bakery together.
German shells rain outside. He grabs the beast’s paw and it stirs, before falling still. It’s tired. They’re both tired.
One claw is longer than his entire forearm. He’s removed his coat and draped it over his friend so that he may be warm in the drafty chapel. He grips the appendage by the base. All the Gods, all the Heavens, all the Hells are within him.
His honor. His.
He plunges the claw into his stomach. Immediately, he retches as his organs are pierced. He splutters blood onto the floor, and blood seeps into his undershirt, and blood spills onto his hands, onto the beast’s one natural weapon. Perhaps Augustin was never at the advantage. The job isn’t finished. He grips the claw tighter and it tears himself open in a diagonal slide, from top to bottom, stomach acid coming loose and burning his lap. An unholy tincture of blood and other bodily fluids.
Traditionally, a shorter blade was used. He frowns, his muscles growing weak already. Henri valued tradition. He never would have had him, and Augustin was foolish to entertain thoughts opposing that.
He sees nothing, hears nothing except for panicked noises from the beast as the Earth tremors and shakes him into wakefulness, wrapping Augustin’s coat around the wound, but it does nothing, nothing, and he’s too big and awkward and Augustin was a dead man walking the second he entered the chapel.
The beast clutches him close to his chest, squeezing him, snapping his bones, releasing a mournful wail.
Augustin’s eyes drift close. It’s all he’s ever wanted. All he’s ever wanted.
───
I write this not as a resignation and not as a suicide letter, but rather as a victim impact statement, and more, a cautionary tale.
Several weeks ago, excavation began in this very bunker of a network of tunnels presumed to be of Roman origin: I tell you this now and I will tell you this once, and I urge you to listen to me, lest you meet my fate, lest we cross paths in the eternal void and I rip you apart. They are not Roman. They are something greater, more meaningful than any organized religion you could ever hope to erect. They are something I do not understand, and nor will you.
Following this, an estimated six men were involved in a mutiny to end the onslaught of nightmares and hallucinations caused by the tunnels. The mutineers were abandoned in pits and left to starve. This description is a blasphemy. We were betrayed and fed to the wolves, the lot of us.
I cannot trace the events back to an exact date or a catalyst which set this off, but at one point a beast did emerge from the fray to pick us off and offer our cadavers to its God of sadism and blood. This beast, once, was a man named Henri Clément, who lived in Paris, and was better than us all.
In the league of soldiers you will find Toussaint Beaufoy in the infirmary, driven mad for not heeding the warning they were too ignorant to give in the first place. Boisrond’s final resting place is in the pantry. A German prisoner is dead in the prison ward.
I offer you no consolation, nor forgiveness. But I offer you this— remove any salvageable corpses and return them to their families. I am in the chapel with the beast. I have rigged both the chapel and the surrounding area starting from the arsenal. You, with all of your men, could not get through, and even if you managed, this beast would kill you too. Tell my family what you will and pass all my earthly belongings unto my son.
There is nothing for you here. None of us will be remembered. When you’ve removed the corpses, blow this amended circle of Hell to bits.
— A. Lam
#if this flops I’m gonna die#amnesia game#amnesia the bunker#henri clement#augustin lambert#annewrites
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I’m not makin a whole post for this one guys
masterlist
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— 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐲 (𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬)
[masterlist]
henri clément x augustin lambert
rated e - 3.2k words
tags - pre-canon, showering together, feminization
warnings - none but their relationship is a bit fwb
— henri grows sick of augustin’s stink, and decides he’s going to get clean, one way or another
(not posting to tumblr, read on ao3)
[banner by reveriesources]
#amnesia game#amnesia the bunker#henri clement#augustin lambert#tiredmother#should I tag this as lament?#I will#lament#annewrites
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— 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐢 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞
[masterlist]
alexander of brennenburg x daniel of mayfair
tags - comes back wrong, resurrection, angst, dead dove: do not eat
rated m - 3.3k words
warnings - disturbing imagery, graphic depictions of blood and gore, violence against animals
— alexander tries to bring daniel back after he dies in an accident. to some degree, it works.
(Pls rb + read on ao3 if possible 🫀)
[banner by reveriesources]
Brennenburg was a very antiquated and very labyrinthine barony, far older than any of the living beings who would ever come to inhabit it (excepting its baron, who was almost always an outlier in situations like these). It was built in the late 1500s— its second rendition was, at least— and had withstood the test of time and the unforgiving Prussian weather.
Daniel, however, was several hundred years younger than Brennenburg. He was built in the 1810s. He was fragile like china and jumpy, too. Alexander should have known better. Even in his own world, humans were never left unattended.
The irony was not lost on Alexander. He had regarded the rules of his homeland as foreign and unseemly for the sake of his work in this world, and in doing so forgot why those rules worked as well as they did. Humans were dukes of flesh, shambling about aimlessly with infinitesimally little class. Alexander has nobody to blame but himself, but he is not worried, not one bit. There is a remedy for every ailment.
Daniel lay rigid on his back on an operating table in the morgue. Alexander hates to treat him with such impropriety, but there is work to be done and he’s sure Daniel will forgive him once it’s finished.
There’s a chunk taken out of his head where blood and brains still bubble, like a geode. That can be remedied. His eye, loose in its socket, swivels about the cusp and then falls out completely. It bounces on its stem and then falls still. That, too, can be remedied. His other eye is frozen open, petrified, and there’s blood smeared over the entire left half of his face. Nothing a bath cannot fix.
Alexander has always been masterful with his fingers. He wraps linen around the window in Daniel’s skull and stitches the sides of the cloth into his skin to anchor it. He takes two fingers and gently pushes his eyeball back into his socket, but it’s red and concave in some places and may have to be removed later but he will do what he can for now to salvage it. He wraps cloth around that too until he is equal parts human and equal parts bandage. He isn’t au fait with the human art of taxidermy but for Daniels sake he can try. If he could speak, Daniel would make a joke about mummies. Alexander would laugh at the human conception of humor.
For a moment he cradles Daniel’s face, already becoming swollen. His eyes. Oh, his eyes. If beauty had a color it would be the green of his irises. He’s seen the milky hues of one too many corpses. If he can, he will save Daniel from that. He will not become another casualty. He passes a hand through his hair, once brown and soft if not frazzled, and finds a clump tangled around his fingers like a tourniquet. In disgust he waves it off of his hand.
He was once so handsome. And handsome again will he be.
Alexander leaves Daniel there and takes to the laboratory, which is no short stride from the morgue but he doesn’t mind making the journey. Castle Brennenburg is ripping apart at the seams but there is a sort of eerie beauty about it, one that Alexander can appreciate. On the way there he passes by the mound of rubble that had collapsed and killed Daniel. The boy is lucky, Alexander reasons. It only crushed half of him and not all.
He has a journal bound with tanned skin hidden under a loose laboratory plank, wherein different combinations of different ingredients that would yield different results are scrawled. Cinnabar, gold, mercury and sulphur divided into fourths. A low heat would produce the desired elixir. God willing, and the creek does not rise, it will not overwhelm his frail little body and kill him.
The tincture is warm to the touch like a broth. It almost makes Alexander ‘sleepy’, as Daniel would say, as he ambles toward the morgue. He knows the way by heart, but there’s a breadcrumb trail of blood droplets that had fallen from Daniel’s head as he carried him there. He cannot help but notice them, and cringe. For once he feels anxiety. How queer.
There is a sort of sadness that runs through him as he stands over Daniel’s lifeless body, even though he knows it soon will not be. It’s unnaturally stiff and unnaturally pale. Daniel was never quite 'lively' but he was passionate when he wanted to be. Nothing like the dull citizens of Altstadt. He quite likes Daniel, actually. In his own right is he brilliant, and pleasant to look at, and sometimes he even says something funny. He supposes that he’s been spoiled by no longer being alone like he had been for centuries.
He doesn’t dwell on it any longer. This is a rabbit hole he has been trying to keep concealed.
He brings the jar to Daniel’s lips, parted and stiff and barely pink, and tips it back. He listens to it gurgle unnaturally as it pours down an unreceiving throat.
Daniel is unresponsive. Doesn’t move his eye, doesn’t exhale, or inhale, and if he doesn’t in the next twenty-four hours, it will be over for the two of them.
When he leaves the morgue, he locks the door behind him. To keep himself from going back.
—-
When he enters the morgue, Daniel is gone from the operating table and there is an outline of blood and mucus where he was laying not even a full twenty-four hours ago, and a trail of blood leading into the back room the corpses are stored. It’s still saccharine red, still fresh.
Alexander sighs in relief, feeling his tense muscles relax. The potion took, then. It will take a day or several for Daniel to recover but afterwards he will be back at his feet. The door to the back room is shut, and he sees no light from under it, which puzzles him. Daniel loathes the dark. Alexander assumed he’d hate it more with no means to escape it and accompanied by a slew of corpses. Perhaps the ritual cured his nyctophobia. That would be helpful.
When he pushes the door open (which is no easy feat), the darkness is strange and unnatural and laps at his feet like waves. He holds his lantern in front of him, and as he does a sweep of the room, every last inch, stepping over corpses and limbs, he finds nothing.
“Daniel,” he calls. “Daniel, are you alright?”
He cringes at the echo, and at the worry in his voice. It has never shook like this.
Something drips onto his forehead. It’s searing hot and thick and Alexander shouts in pain, frantically wiping it away while dropping his lantern in the process. It clatters to the ground and fizzles out.
He looks up at the ceiling.
For fucks sake.
—-
Daniel has to be transported, of course. He burdens a servant with that task. Meanwhile, Alexander laments in his study. Books Daniel was in the middle of reading are still strewn about. Unfinished. It peeved him then. Now, he wishes Daniel would pick up a book without finishing the last one just one more time.
He has been playing a foolish game from the beginning. Rules of life did not function on Earth the way they did back home. Fundamental, irrefutable rules. Daniel was alive, but even that was debatable. ‘Conscious’ or ‘mobile’ are not quite the same thing as alive.
He is afraid. He doesn’t want to enter the guest room. To him, he does not fear the impossible, but rather what is real, very much so, and right in front of him. And he fears facing what he has done to Daniel. How he has defiled him.
Oh, what a mess he’s made.
He documents the results of his ritual, which he passes off as an experiment rather than a genuine plea to have Daniel back. That’s what it is. An experiment. He doesn’t need Daniel, anyway.
But he wants him.
As he exits his study and saunters down the dusty halls of the archives, the commotion from the guest room reaches his ears. It makes him shiver and briefly consider turning back, but he persists. Oh, he must persist. Animalistic scratching at wood. Inhuman screaming, snarling, some pitches higher than his normal voice and some lower.
When he pushes open the door to the Daniel’s quarters, the door to the left is boarded shut, at least seven planks barricading it. That isn’t what catches his eye, though. His servant is torn to shreds, not dismembered, but eviscerated, some parts more in tact than others. There’s holes burned in tables and wardrobes as if they had been melted. The scratching stops.
His voice is still as soft and nervous as it had been the day before. “Alexander?”
Alexander screws his eyes shut and clenches his fists into tight balls. He still lingers in the doorway. He dare not enter the bedroom.
“Alexander, please, come here,” Daniel begs frantically, sounding terrified. “It’s dark. Please, you have to help me.”
Alexander is no fool. Daniel begins to sob, but it’s distorted, and sounds as if two people are sobbing at once, one equally as deranged as the other. As he slowly takes a step back and shuts the door, Daniel hears the creak and begins to wail, raspy and horrid and guttural from the very back of his throat.
Alexander hurries to shut the door.
How curious. Sweat on his forehead. Heart racing. He has given in to human survival instinct for the first time. In what other ways has Daniel sullied him?
The screams echo through Brennenburg. They do not pause, not for anybody.
—-
Daniel has to feed.
This is a job Alexander personally oversees and animals have always been easier to harvest than humans have. They put up less of a fight, in a manner of speaking. He cannot waste what little cattle he has on making sure Daniel is sustained.
He cannot, but he wants to. But he doesn’t. The mind boggles. And irritates.
Little things at first. Rats and mice and critters of the forest that nobody will miss. A stray cat had given recent birth to a litter but Alexander refrains from harvesting them. Daniel liked cats. He felt he understood them.
Alexander finds little ways to honor Daniel where he can. For each night he takes laudanum, he pours one out for Daniel. He never drained the water from Daniel’s last bath and he never will. He sleeps beside the tub, some nights. He keeps his journal safe in one of the archives rooms. He repairs the frayed spine. Reads his handwriting over and over and over again just to see it swirl and sway.
It’s easy enough work. He gathers enough specimens into a burlap sack, swings it back over his shoulder and then slams it against a sharp rock. After a strike or two, the rustling inside the bag stops. Blood saturates the fabric.
Daniel would not want this. But Daniel does not know what’s best for him right now.
It takes two full days but he fashions a mechanism to keep Daniel fed with spare parts from the machine room. A tube inserted through the wall has an input and an output. The creature goes in one end and comes out the other, on Daniel’s side of the wall.
How does Alexander know he’s eaten? He hears it. Disgusting, wet sounds, sickening ones. Flesh smacking together in the absence of teeth. And then silence. Disgusting, sickening silence.
—-
What has he done?
He does not descend into the nave even though he needs to soon if he wants to go home. He knows that Heinrich knows. He does not want to face that man. He does not know that he will be able to handle it.
Alexander is a fool. He knows this. A fact as impassive and indifferent as the stars.
But he feels guilt all the same. Admitting to his actions does not alleviate it. Nothing alleviates it. He will live like this forever.
—-
He wishes that Daniel was naught but a mobile corpse. He wishes Daniel stayed dead. Well and truly dead.
—-
He weeps until the waning hours of the morning. They call it that— morning— for the activity it was named for. It’s the best time for it, after all.
—-
Daniel begs.
Humanity is a fickle thing. Fleeting. You will throw it all away when you’re at the threshold of your death.
Daniel begs for this to end. Alexander doubts he has any conception of ends or beginnings but he begs anyway. He sobs until nothing comes out besides little raspy squeaks. Crunching and cracking as he stomps about the room.
Alexander wishes he could comfort him. Once, not at all long ago, he could. He did. He gave Daniel hope. He gave Daniel purpose. And Daniel had plans for what he would do when this was all over. What was most peculiar was he still wanted to be Alexander’s ‘friend’, as he put it.
Friend? After Daniel has no need for him? Alexander didn’t understand it then but he understands it now.
Alexander has made him a zoo animal, but Daniel was always fodder. He should apologize to his sister. He should have done something different.
He should have—
—-
He should have told him.
—-
"Daniel?" Alexander murmurs, looking up at the man standing above him. He’s dressed in his nightclothes and his face is tired, droopy. He’s just as handsome like this as he is awake, prattling on about something Alexander already knows, but pretends he doesn’t.
Daniel yawns, and strides past Alexander, taking a seat beside him in the lounge chair. The library is bathed in a warm orange glow.
“Forgive me, Alexander,” Daniel says groggily. He must have come here mere moments after waking. “My nightmares continue to plague me.”
Alexander shuts his book and sets it down in his lap. At first, when there were more inhibitions surrounding their interactions, already transactional, Daniel’s constant night terrors were a burden. They grew closer, though. Daniel was such good company. He didn’t mind so much lulling him to sleep anymore.
“I do not fault you for that which is out of your control. I hoped that you would know this by now, Daniel.”
Daniel’s brows knit momentarily and he mumbles an apology. Alexander’s smile is light but heavy with fondness.
“It would help you to sleep if you’d read.”
“Oh, I am much too tired to focus.”
“But not tired enough to sleep?”
“Indeed.”
“Then I will read to you.”
Daniel is taken aback but it does not show on his face. Alexander can feel everything Daniel feels. What makes him special is that it is nothing Alexander has felt before. And that Daniel does not understand it either.
“I cannot ask you to do that.”
“You are not asking me.” Daniel is a fool. It is endlessly irritating and hopelessly endearing. “I am offering.”
Alexander does not wait for a response. He begins to read from The Inferno. Daniel is beside him in the chair, leaning against the arm, his legs pulled up to his chest. He looks away from Alexander.
Minutes pass. Rustling and fabric rubbing against itself. And then Daniel is resting his head upon Alexander’s lap, settling in. Alexander feels the emotion. Daniel doesn’t know what he’s doing. He only knows what he wants. This is him, then. Without inhibition.
Alexander cards his fingers through Daniel’s hair, smoothing out tangles until the only sound in the library is soft snoring.
—-
Blood. A lot of it. More than Alexander needs but he is grateful for it. Waste not, want not.
He is in the nave. Heinrich’s face is lifeless and hollow but he feels his judgement.
How humorous. Two knaves walk into a nave. One says to the other:
“I have been plagued with a crucial decision, lately. Plagued by human morality.”
And the other says:
“Since when have you cared about such concepts?”
Alexander chuckles. “I suppose you are right. Still, I wonder if I deserve to go home. More, if I want to.”
“When it comes to you, it’s never about deserving or not. You take what you want,” Heinrich says, face still. Alexander pokes at him. Drags up the flesh at the corner of his mouth to form a smile. He draws his hand back and it collapses. He is surrounded by mounds of flesh waddling about like zombies. Some more lucid than others.
He is done here. As Alexander ascends the stairs, shutting the door behind him and effectively shutting out Heinrich as well, he looks behind him. “You would not know the first thing about what I want.”
—-
He sees Daniel for the first time. Second time, really, but it’s the first time he truly looks at him.
He is as he was before, when his face was illuminated only by candlelight, when he gave a rare smile over tea. His eye sockets sag, though, eerie and long, and his lower jaw has come loose. It’s as if his skin weighs several pounds more than the rest of him. All that and associated signs of decomposition do not make for a pretty sight.
Alexander can see the outline of his contorted body in the low light of the guest room. He is cowering in the corner. It is silent except for the slow crackling of the fireplace and the wind whipping through the trees. His limbs are backwards on their joints and he stares at Alexander, blood pouring out from his eyes and mouth, crusted at his lips and sockets. There are bloody prints on the walls, on the ceiling.
He’s in pain. He breathes heavily and does not move. He is in pain and he is afraid.
Alexander is, too.
—-
“I’m not familiar with pets,” Daniel shares. They’re standing in the foyer, watching the sunset. It had been a long day of drudgery and they allowed themselves a moment of leisure. “We had a dog, once.”
Alexander smiles. “How quaint,” he says. “What came of it?”
“Got sick,” Daniel says with an even tone that hides years of sadness, too many for a boy his age. “We kept her alive longer than what was humane. She could barely walk. I just wasn’t ready to say goodbye.”
A brief pause. “One day, Hazel told father that she had collapsed while walking across her room, which is more of a broom closet, so that was concerning. He took her out to a field and shot her. He told me later. Said there’s no difference between a sick dog and a sick kid.” He chuckles. “I never told him about my colds, after that.”
—-
It’s dusty from lack of use but it’s something of Wilhelm’s that Alexander kept. A pistol, Piedmontese, to be exact. He keeps only one bullet in the chamber. He only needs one.
The walk back to the guest room seems to last forever. He wants it to never end yet wants to get it over with. Mostly, though, he’s in grieving. He could keep Daniel here. He could be selfish and keep feeding him and feeding him and keeping him alive until he went home and Daniel could die here, alone, in a wet, dark castle.
He would not. You put sick things out of their misery.
Daniel had taught him how to hold infinity in the palm of his hand and eternity in an hour. Alexander couldn’t articulate the logic behind why each and every life should matter, or why his Ptolemaic outlook on life itself should be challenged. He couldn’t verbalize it but he understood. As he cocked the barrel, pointed it at Daniel, who screamed, he understood. And he would honor Daniel that way.
He activates the portal.
He goes home.
He does not feel quite so vindicated.
#amnesia game#amnesia the dark descent#atdd#alexaniel#alexander of brennenburg#daniel of mayfair#tiredmother#annewrites
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I actually cannot stop writing “BOOPER DOOPER” like it just comes over me
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Wanting to write two people cuddling 😁😁😁😁
It would be out of character 🙁🙁🙁🙁
#everything rn#jovier vandermatthews lament metzivries#almosf said salim and tasi but that’s pretty in character#marybeth and karen..#sighs#how do I get around fhis chat#annewrites
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Th e urge to write metzivries (ignoring the avtual gay people for the False Imposter gay people)
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Little bits of my fic abt henri :3333 (I cannot stop writing about him and his mom) (unposted btw)
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Staring at my metzivries draft rn
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