Rated M because of explicit slash content (underage!), strong violence, explicit imagery of child abuse, explicit imagery of alcohol consumption, strong references of sexual abuse and rape, minor references of hetero-sex, and coarse language. If you need more specific warnings, feel free to ask me in a private message to send those to you personally before you read the story.

In short: The story contains explicit elements and sensitive topics, so nope, it's not a good idea to read it if you want to avoid disturbing material.

Contains some elements of Hannibal Rising.

Thanks so much to Silverfeathered_Angel and The-blackfirewolf for the wonderful betawork.

Chapter 1: The Last Room

Hannibal despises everything around him, but he hides a beautiful world in his mind. It's the only thing he can still be proud of. And, as a small child, he was raised to be a proud, noble man. He has just turned fifteen, but he has had to learn how to become one on his own. After his outer world collapsed and burned to ashes, he has been collecting the beauty inside his mind. No one can take that away from him. Not again.

At first, a long time ago, he just tried to recall some pleasant childhood experiences whenever he felt that his surroundings were unbearable. But it has started to grow with each day. More and more beauty added to the rooms of a palace made of fantasies. Some of them are real memories, some of them imaginary pictures, and all kept inside his head. Marble floors, playful sunshine on golden mirrors, carpets, scents, music, echoes, colors... Everything that protects him from accepting that the filth, the cold, the starvation and the horrors are the only reality he can ever know.

Slowly, the palace was built in his dreams too. Brick by brick, it became clearer as time passed, and after a few months, it wholly consumed the usual world of dreams. Now it's only the palace he can see, whenever he falls asleep.

Surrounded by all the wonderful objects he builds for himself with the help of his imagination from the alluring fragments of his past, he is the only living creature in the huge palace.

Beauty and perfection. Nothing else.

And then, one night, something unexpected happens.

Hannibal keeps wandering from room to room like he does so often. His shadow crawling on the brocade covering the walls, soft steps on the expensive carpets, his slow, calm breaths mingling with the empty silence of the rooms... He opens the last door of a long corridor. It leads to an empty room, not yet furnished. Hannibal still can't decide whether he should place a sculpture there, or he should remove the walls and the roof to create an open balcony. He has been pondering over this question for a while now.

But as he looks around now to evaluate the empty room, suddenly, he spots something that makes his fingers freeze on the door handle. The room is not vacant. A skinny, frowzy boy is standing in one corner; his hands clasping together in front of him anxiously. The boy is shivering from cold because he is only wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an oversized, stained t-shirt. He seems a bit younger than Hannibal; maybe fourteen.

Hannibal steps back, closes the door, and then carefully opens it again. The young boy is still there. He is standing on the marble floor bare feet like Hannibal, though Hannibal never feels cold here. This is his own mind, he can control his senses. However, the smaller boy seems uncomfortable, fingers entwined, blinking rapidly at the play of shadows on the clean floor as Hannibal moves the door.

The young boy's face shows mistrust. His blue eyes are full of caution, but he doesn't look straight at Hannibal, only at nearby spots around his ankles.

Hannibal closes and opens the door six more times, but when the boy still won't disappear, he steps inside. He has to figure out what is going on in his palace.

The smaller boy smells like cheap shampoo and fish. Raw fish. As a punishment for a minor disobedience, Hannibal was ordered last Friday to help out in the kitchen, and his task was to strip scales from a bucketful of fish. The fish was reeking so badly that it made his nostrils tremble and his stomach twist. He hasn't been able to forget about that smell since then. The scales bruised his fingers with the myriad of tiny cuts, so tiny that they were unseen, only palpable... But the pain didn't disturb him. He got used to it. However, the smell, which infiltrated his skin, his invisible wounds, and his flesh, remained with him for days.

He also received a sharp punch from the cook because he was gazing at the pots on the stove too intently. The old man thought Hannibal was hungry and wanted to steal some food. But he was simply intrigued by the way those different types of ingredients were simmering, transforming, leaving their original state to become something more valuable, more beautiful...

As Hannibal looks closely, he perceives that this boy also has a black eye. It's a big, bluish mark crossing his left cheek, ending by the pale line of his jawbone. Its color is like the velvet of the expensive dress Hannibal's mother used to wear when she went to church.

Hannibal doesn't want to speak. He wants the other boy to be the one who breaks the silence. But the boy just stands there, hands fidgeting nervously with the corner of the shabby t-shirt he is wearing, eyes cast down on the floor.

Finally, Hannibal reminds himself that this is just a dream, the boy might not even be there, so he takes a big step in his direction, and with one finger, he pokes the younger boy in the shoulder. The boy flinches, and takes a hasty step backwards.

He is really there. He feels real, at least. Hannibal has sensed the warmth of his body through the t-shirt. It still lingers on his fingertip, seconds after the brief touch. The smaller boy slowly looks up; his blue eyes are full of little lights. Small glimmers of hidden feelings, more like stars on a summer night sky, not like the common, low, animalistic expression in other people's eyes.

The boy plucks up enough courage to speak: he says something in a language Hannibal doesn't understand. From the intonation, Hannibal guesses that it's a question.

Now it's his turn to become distrustful. What is this strange boy doing here? How could he find his way inside? This palace is only for Hannibal, and no one else has the right to enter. Who is this intruder?

Hannibal steps to the door, and opens it.

This is just a dream... It's time to speak. He can speak here, this is his own mind, and his voice is not real. The words he will speak remain inside his head. The disgusting, filthy outside world with its nightmares and demons won't hear anything from it.

He inhales slowly, carefully, preparing for words leaving his lips, but then he finds himself unable to utter anything. Not even in his own head. He just makes a swift motion with his left hand to show the younger boy that it's time to leave.

The smaller boy doesn't obey; he starts creasing the lower part of his t-shirt again with shivery fingers. His eyes are on the ground.

Go away. This is my home, Hannibal shows the boy again with his hand. Somehow, speaking and hearing his own voice seems impossible. Even in his own mind, nothing's worth his words, his voice, the air he inhales... He makes another gesture to make the younger boy see that he should get out and leave.

The smaller boy hangs his head, mumbling something in front of him in a foreign language again.

Hannibal repeats the motion a bit slower. The boy remains in place.

Hannibal once more illustrates with his white, slim hand how the boy should walk out, but the boy still doesn't move.

At first, Hannibal considers dragging him out by sheer force, but then he changes his mind. It's curious that this boy is here. And every time something awakens curiosity in him, it also attracts him. He gets bored easily, and often has the feeling that there is nothing that could be worth his attention. Everything is calculable and empty. The things they do to him, the things they say to him, the way they try to break him... It's just plain disgusting. Ugly. Pigs. They make him feel locked inside his own head, alone, trying to be as far as possible from the world of simple, noisy, abominable people. Everything outside becomes less and less interesting.

Whenever he is here, truly alone in his palace, it's freedom. And this boy disturbs it. But also makes it more interesting. How could he get inside?

Hannibal goes round the boy with paced steps. He takes a full circle before he stands in front of him again. He smells the boy's curly, brown hair once more. Under the smell of raw fish, he can also sense machine oil.

A poor kid.

Hannibal thinks of his parents, his sister, and the light, clean smells of his childhood. Warm, newly baked cakes served on silver plates... Freshly washed, white clothes... Chandeliers with crystals...

The younger boy takes a step closer, and he carefully touches Hannibal's gray pajama shirt, which is ragged by the cheap, old washing machines of the orphanage. He rubs the aged fabric with two fingers as if he was checking it. Then he also pokes Hannibal in the arm.

Hannibal haughtily tosses his head back, and steps away from the boy with sudden coldness, trying to show him that this palace is all his. A stranger shouldn't touch him as if Hannibal was the same abject creature like him.

The younger boy doesn't seem disturbed by the reaction, he follows Hannibal, and pinches the sleeve of the pajama shirt again. He mutters something in his foreign language while touching the fabric.

Hannibal starts wondering if he should experiment with this boy. It would be interesting to see how a body would react when he crashed the windpipe with a quick move of his palm. How long would the boy twist and squirm on the floor before all the air would leave his heaving chest? What would the sound be like? Would it resemble the one the oldest instructor let out while dying of lung infection last winter? Hannibal was scrubbing the floor in front of that bedroom, and he heard the choking, croaking sounds for hours.

No one would punish him in his own palace. He can do whatever he feels like.

The boy pulls on the sleeve of Hannibal's pajama shirt again, and asks something. Hannibal frees the fabric with a quick, skilled motion.

Now, the younger boy puts one hand on his own chest, and says only one word, "Will."

Then he repeats it a few times, slow and clear. Hannibal suspects that it's the boy's name. He has already met this name in an American novel he read in the library. It was translated into Lithuanian, of course, but the names remained the same. In that book, there was an old black man called Will, who was burned alive by a group of Southern farmers.

"Will," the boy utters for a last time, resting his hand above his heart, then he points at Hannibal questioningly.

Hannibal turns away from him without a response, and walks around the room prideful, with his chin high.

Will retreats; he crouches in one of the corners, pulling his knees up, hugging them with his pale arms. He is just a pile of disorderly, fish-smelling curls and stained, worn t-shirt now.

Hannibal avoids looking at him for a while. He considers what he should do to Will. He could bring some binding material from one of the other rooms. For example the golden stranded cords the curtains are fastened with. With those, he could incapacitate Will, and maybe cut Will's teeth out with the dagger decorating the wall of the nearest corridor. One by one. Then he could take those teeth and keep them for later. He might mix them into the porridge given for breakfast so that the meanest boys would choke on them. And he might gauge Will's eyes out and slip them in the chicken pie served only for employees. That memory would be an intriguing part of his collection for sure.

He can do whatever he wants here.

Hannibal leaves the room in order to fetch the dagger. It's better to have the weapon first, in case Will would try to attack him or steal something from his palace. Then, he can still decide how to use it. Should he cut off Will's tongue for example? Or his fingers? Oh, yes, what about the fingers? Those could also be used in the chicken pie, couldn't they?

He might also strip Will's skin off like he did to that disgusting fish last week.

He stands tiptoe, trying to reach the dagger, but it's a bit too high, so he turns to pull an ebony bench closer. He suddenly stops dead. Will is standing right behind him, just a step away. The younger boy is looking neither at Hannibal nor the dagger, just keeps his head hung, chin sunken on his chest. His odd, glimmering blue eyes are directed towards the marble floor, arms crossed as tightly as if he was hugging his own chest to protect himself from cold.

There is something innocent, vulnerable and mysterious in the way Will is standing there with his quivering limbs, his timid expression and the huge black-eye. The picture reminds Hannibal of something he doesn't want to get reminded of. He feels his lips pressing together with abrupt bitterness.

He turns away from Will, steps on the bench, and removes the dagger from the wall. Soon, he stands in front of Will again, pointing at Will's forehead with the silvery blade. Will blinks a couple of times, and the right corner of his mouth squirms, but he doesn't back off. He is still keeping his eyes on the ground.

For a minute, they are frozen in this posture. Then Will reaches out, and with two fingers, nips the sleeve of Hannibal's pajama shirt again, touching it as if checking once more whether it's real or not. Hannibal wants to pull his hand away, but it's too late. The next moment, Will gives an interested, curious jab with the tip of his forefinger at the red ligature mark around Hannibal's wrist. Will taps the bruise, and then pulls his finger back. He clasps his hands in front of him again.

Hannibal stands still, dagger pointing at Will, while Will rubs his palms together, trying to warm up a bit.

After a slow, silent exhalation, Hannibal lets the dagger sink, and it soon hangs by his side limp in his hand. He gives Will a nod, signaling him to come, and Will follows him obediently. Hannibal leads him back to the room Will first appeared in. Then, sending him inside with a rough push, Hannibal shuts the door in front of Will, and holding it with his arm so that Will can't open it, he hastily turns the key and locks the room.

Through the broad wooden slab, he can hear Will's surprised gasp.

And then Hannibal turns, and simply leaves Will there, locked in. He walks through corridors, rooms and stairs with aimed, quick steps. Finally, he reaches a balcony, where he sits down on the marble blocks. There is nothing else surrounding the building just the dark blue and shiny stars.

He stays there, gazing at the night sky until he wakes up in the morning. He hopes that tomorrow, when he is going to return, Will won't be there anymore.