Chapter Text
He's so cold. His body was aching until he pushed through it and found every inch of himself numb. He stumbles along; the snow well past his knee in some places. In those spots, he tries to crawl, soaking his flimsy shirt and turning his skin bright red. He tries to count in his head how long he's been walking, wonders if he can make it back to the orphanage. They would beat him senseless, surely. They would punish him until he was bedridden for leaving. He weighs the options in his head; freeze to death, starve to death, or try to make it back to the orphanage and potentially be beaten to death.
The wind howls and he tries to huddle against a tree until it stops; the cold stinging his eyes and freezing his tears to his cheeks. It's only leaning against the tree that he feels the weakness of his body. It would be so simple to slide down the rough bark and shut his eyes. His stomach twists from emptiness and he opens his mouth to scream but only a rush of air leaves his chest. He can't stand anymore, and his legs give out. The snow catches him gently and he blinks and tries to admire the last scene he will ever see.
Dimly, through the trees, he sees a cabin concealed behind the snow drifts and fog. His heart pounds because he's so close and he just has to stand up. One more time, he just has to crawl the distance and then he can be warm. It's the last of his strength, his skin beat red and unfeeling, to drag himself through the snow and to the door of the cabin. He can't stand to open the door, can barely raise his arm high enough to reach the handle, his fingers twisting helplessly to turn the knob. More tears on his face because his hands aren't working to open the door and he's so close. He presses himself against the door and slowly works his way to his knees; eye level with the handle he uses both hands to twist the knob and he falls through the door.
The gush of warmth rips through his nerves and he gasps at the shockwave of pain. Every inch of skin tingles back to life and goes on fire within seconds, and he barely manages to kick the door closed behind him before he curls against the rug and opens his mouth to scream again. The pain is so real that it reminds him he's alive, and he lays still and lets it consume him. His tears sting his frozen cheeks on the way down his nose, where they drip onto the rug, and he focuses on the small dark spots they leave in their wake.
Minutes tick by before his body starts to calm down again, followed by a clench in his belly that reminds him he hasn't eaten in days. He forces himself to his knees again to crawl the short distance to the cabinets. There isn't much, and the first thing he grabs is bread. He crams it in his mouth, swallowing such large chucks he nearly chokes.
One hand pushes more into his mouth, and the other seeks blindly on the counter for something else to eat. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers a deep shame at turning into a desperate animal; the acknowledgement sends more tears down his cheeks as he shovels a piece of bread with mold on it past his lips.
He never gets to swallow it; his stomach revolting at the sudden influx of food sends him face first to the floor. He heaves up the barely digested food, spitting it right onto the floor. He throws up again, wondering if he will eventually have to eat this, too. If it will be between that and starving to death.
The door opens then, a gun coming through the door first, followed by a tall, dark haired man and five dogs. Hannibal heaves again, his stomach jolting, before he turns to back himself into the corner. The man with the gun shuts the door slowly, pointing his gun around the room while he looks around. The dogs run to him, and he instinctively covers his face in fear that they'll bite him. Instead, warm tongues drag along the backs of his hands and his neck.
"Lay down," the man commands, and instantly, the dogs are gone. Hannibal looks up then, to find that the man no longer has his gun raised. "I saw your tracks in the snow, leading to the door. I was unsure what I was walking into." Hannibal blinks at him, glancing at the bread and then back up at the man. "If you eat slower, it won't make you sick. And chew."
He feels frozen in time, too afraid to move out of fear that the stillness will shatter and this man will hurt him. He's far too accustomed to what happens to boys who try to steal food or go where they do not belong. The man takes a step towards him, and his chest feels too heavy to breathe. In the corner, he has no where to back up to, no way to get away. He looks from the man to the door, wondering if he could even stand quick enough to run to the door and get outside.
He doesn't know where he'd go, he has no idea what to do with himself, but when the man takes another slow step towards him, he doesn't care. He shoots upward, trying to get his feet under him and stumbles in the direction of the door. He doesn't take a full step before he's falling face first towards the floor. Strong arms grab his shoulders and pull him upright, and his mind goes blank.
He flails helplessly, swinging his arms to free himself from the grasping hands. His sight starts to narrow, and he only then realizes his breathing is shallow and labored. His struggles weaken when his body loses the adrenaline and the lack of oxygen makes his head heavy. The man holds him still until he goes boneless, then he keeps him from collapsing. "Easy," the man whispers, "Calm down, you're alright."
Everything goes black.