tw // transphobia , dysphoria , unsupportive family

Okay, so I've been thinking and I want you guys to consider this: 

Hannibal speaks of Mischa rarely, on the few occasions where he's become soft with wine and melancholy. He mentions her with a sort of painful longing.

She's been long dead now, but sometimes Hannibal aches for her in a way no one else can understand. 

The first person to catch on is Will.

He dines at Hannibal’s home often and, after gaining his trust, is shown family photographs. Hannibal has had a glass or two too many, and he laughs as he tells Will stories of his Uncle and his Aunt.

"Is this your sister?" He asks as he sees the young, blonde girl standing prim and proper in a photograph. She's at the edge, nearly cut out of the frame and it's the only photograph Will has seen of her.

Hannibal hesitates, flinches as if he's in pain, and a cool mask slots over his previously flushed and mirth filled expression. Will knows he's done something wrong immediately.

"Her name was Mischa," Hannibal whispers before wordlessly turning the page. 

Will, cautious, but curious at the end of the photo book continues to press, "Why are there no photos of you?" 

Hannibal smiles ruefully, "I wasn't seen often as a child."

Will makes the correct choice not to push any further.

The next time something feels amiss is when Will receives a call from Hannibal at an ungodly hour. The man is intoxicated, slurring through words half in English and half in Lithuanian. Will throws on a coat and drives his truck to Baltimore with a heavy foot on the gas pedal.

When he gets there, however, he doesn't expect to see Hannibal sitting with that same photo book again, openly crying. It shocks Will to the core and he hesitates before sitting in front of Hannibal and taking his hands.

"I called them- I shouldn’t have. I made a mistake," Hannibal’s voice cracks and he hiccups out a chaotic slur of his mother tongue.

Will shushes him as softly as he can, "Hey, now. It's okay. I don't understand- you have to explain it to me."

"My Aunt and Uncle, I called them." His breath was hitching into concerning gasps and Will made the choice to pull him into his arms, squeezing a bit too tight in hopes of grounding the older man and his breathing.

"I thought you said they were dead," there was no accusation, only soft confusion. 

Hannibal's voice breaks heart-wrenchingly loud, "They're not. I am." 

"Hannibal," Will begins slowly, "I don't understand. You're not dead, Hannibal."

"I killed her. I killed Mischa."

And then everything becomes blindly clear to Will and he feels as if his own ribs have collapsed in sympathy to Hannibal’s pain. 

"That's- that's not how it works, Hannibal. You know that's not how it works."

"You don’t understand," the emotion in Hannibal’s eyes startles Will to the point that he nearly pulls back out of their embrace, but he fights the urge, "You wouldn't understand. I killed her."

"Hannibal," Will's tone was a bit too tight, a bit too angry and stretched thin with his own emotions, with his own past, "Trust me when I say, I understand."

Will was in motion then, untucking his shirt just enough to grab Hannibal's hand and slip it beneath. Hannibal flinched at first, tried to pull back in confusion, but Will held strong as he led his fingertips to the scars that curved around his ribcage and marked him different.

Marked him the same kind of different as Hannibal.

"I didn't kill Clarice and you didn't kill Mischa," Will speaks slowly now that he has Hannibal’s full attention, "We were one in the same. She was everything I hated and loved about myself at the same time, but I didn't kill her. You didn't kill Mischa either."

Hannibal choked, at a loss for words before he cupped Will’s face, pressed their foreheads together and openly sobbed. Will felt the sound deep inside his chest in the same gaping wound he shared with Hannibal.

Will pulled back, cupping Hannibal’s cheeks to make tear-blurred eye contact, "Mischa isn't gone. You're you, Hannibal. Don't let yourself or others wilt you, kill you, because you have some notion that you have ever been and will ever be anything but yourself. Understand?"

Hannibal surged forward, falling off the couch and into Will's arms, "You see me," he babbled as he began to rock them soothingly on the living room floor, "You can see me."

"I can. It's like looking into a mirror," Will whispered, reverent, "You're wonderful, Hannibal. Thank you for letting me see you, fully."

It took several minutes for Hannibal’s breathing to return to normal, but Will didn’t mind. They stayed like that, wrapped up into each other like one shared body, before Hannibal untwined and stretched his sore limbs.