Cold sweat covered his trembling body, his lungs heaving in strained pants, his consciousness still lingering in a realm far away from his sheltered bedroom. Somewhere he was falling, crashing, drowning, the feeling of losing someone and being all alone in the deepest darkness, reaching for a hand and grasping into the void.

Will tried to open his sticky eyelids held together by dried tears. As he succeeded, he turned on the bedside lamp. The dim light engulfing him seemed glaring. Dazzled, he squinted while his mind slowly returned to reality. The right side of his face hurt, his throat felt hoarse, his wet t-shirt adhered to his back.

On his nightstand, he found a towel, a new set of pajamas and a glass of water. With shaky hands, he took a sip before he changed into the fresh clothes. Reluctantly, he laid back down, beding his stiff limbs to rest. There was something soothing... At first he couldn't put a finger on it, maybe it had been there for a while. A distant melodic sound lulled and allured him back to sleep.

Will: "I'm alone in that darkness."

Hannibal: "You're not alone, Will. I'm standing right beside you."

2.08

In the following night, Will woke up from his nightmares appreciably earlier. His mind felt clearer, it had been a gentle awakening. There was the fresh pajamas again, the towel and the water. And the melody. Will threw back the bedcover, stood up and got changed. His healing wounds still ached with every movement.

For a fleeting moment, he hesitated, then he opened his bedroom door and followed the faint yet present sound. With bare feet, he wandered down the cold stone stairs, every step, every tone bringing him closer to their source.

When he reached their crepuscular living room, he stood still reverently. In the twilight, with his back to him, Hannibal sat in front of the piano, playing a piece of music Will had never heard before, calming yet melancholic. There was no need to announce himself, the older man was well aware of his presence, as evanescent tones enveloped them both. After a while, Will settled down on the sofa next to him.

"You have nightmares too."

For an instant, Hannibal paused, then his fingers danced once again over the piano keys. Will didn't need an answer, he knew. It was as if Hannibal's every thought and emotion were flowing out of his brain, down his arms, into his fingertips, who translated them to music, creating a melody only for Will to hear. The only one who would understand. The only one who would listen.

A sequence of notes, a series of tones, each individual one meaningless on its own. They soared up, got entangled in the heavy curtains and were swallowed as if they had never been there. Only jointly, they created one another a purpose. Only jointly, their fading away would not have been in vain.

Weren't they all, in their transience, like music? Made of imagination and memories. Drawn in time. A melody that died in the same moment it was completed. Finished. Finalized. Faded away. But not without having made a difference.

In the morning, Will found himself curled up with a soft woolen blanket spread over his strained body. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa. As he raised his head, Hannibal greeted him with two cups of fragrant coffee in exhausted hands and dark circles under his eyes.

"Strange having nightmares; I never used to. (...)

I'm metabolizing the experience by composing a new piece of music."

Hannibal 2.06

The third time Will heard the faint melody, he was barely falling asleep. No nightmares had yet sunken their claws into his imagination and memory. For a few minutes, he listened closely to the poignantly tender tune, melancholy and wistfulness oozing into his flesh, like an ocean flooding the land.

Then he stepped out of the warmth of his bed, not letting the waves of tones pull him into oblivion-promising sleep, and betook himself down the cold dark stairs, whilst the sound of the piano got clearer and clearer.

He didn't halt until he beheld him. Immersed in his music playing, Hannibal didn't turn around. There was devotion and pain in the way he moved, sentimentality and affection, elegance and grace, in spite of his still wounded muscles and bones.

"Hannibal", was all Will said. He knew what he needed, what they needed. Even though the older man showed no reaction, Will sensed he had heard him.

Then he walked out, ascended the stairs again and ensconced himself on his bed. He regarded the painting on the wall towards him, it depicted a quiet river. There had been thought put into the interior design of his chamber, simple and comfortable, just as he preferred.

Will had left his bedroom door open. An invitation. The music had stopped a while ago. He noticed him standig in the doorway, between the darkness of the corridor and the light of Will's bedside lamp. Hannibal must have followed him soundlessly. Their eyes met. Hitherto, they hadn't talked about what had happened, about the cliff, the fall and the sea. They hadn't yet been ready to. Maybe they would never be.

Silently, Will laid down. With deliberate movements, Hannibal entered the room, closed the door, followed suit and laid down next to Will, careful not to touch him. Will perceived his weight on the bed, his scent, his warmth close to him. His gaze was open and unveiled, letting Will see his innermost being. The dark sun and the bright night. They were just looking at each other, listening to the other's beating heart, his continually breathing lungs.

"I am listening. I'm listening to you. You and I went so long in our friendship without ever touching, yet I always felt attuned to you."

Hannibal 2.10