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Hannibal had been insistent on the environment being familiar to Will before allowing him to partake.
“But didn't you just spring this on Abigail? She had no time to get acclimated. Why am I different?” Will accused on the fifth visit to Hannibal's home. The man in question only flicked his eyes up at Will and continued stirring the teacup, a silver spoon clinking against porcelain supplying a tiny melody. The psychiatrist had removed his suit jacket and rolled his maroon sleeves up past his elbows. Hannibal picked up the cup and crossed around to Will with gently echoing steps in the giant kitchen, handing him the cup carefully.
“The question, Will, is not why you are different - but rather how you are different from our dear Abigail.”
Will felt Hannibal's eyes on him and purposefully stared down at the cup between his hands. He had never done any kind of drug before, let alone a powerful hallucinogen. But he did know Hannibal's house by now, and actually did have some feeling that resembled trust toward the man himself. Will felt a hesitant bloom of confidence amongst a field of doubt that this might actually work.
It's the sudden image of bodies in a row, buried shallowly in the ground, hosts to various blooming fungi and the intense feeling of I own these they're mine look at them that spurs Will to down the tea in his hands. The drink burned hot and bitter down his throat and made him cough, but he finished the entire dose. A crystal glass of water was pushed into his hands and he drank eagerly, the cool liquid a balm on his scalded mouth. Will set the glass on the counter next to him with a small clinking sound, dizzy from the headrush of drinking the tea all at once.
Hannibal's hand came to clasp around Will's elbow. He steadied Will with a slight chuckle and a guiding hand to the small of his back. Hannibal steered him out of the kitchen and towards his sitting room. “No time wasted, hm? I cannot say I do not disagree, but I will teach you later that a good tea is to be savored.”
Will let himself be guided, but stood up more on his own and pulled his arm from Hannibal's grasp once he got his bearings. The sitting room of Hannibal's home was cozily furnished and warm, opulent in shades of red and gold. Though he trusted the safety of this house and the man who stalked like a lion through the halls, Will still felt an abstract sense of being too rumpled and out of place to really fit in and be a part of it as the walls and rugs were. He dropped down onto one of the couches, feeling loose and pliant already. Hannibal sank into a dark leather armchair opposite Will. He crossed his legs and Will watched the motion with startling focus, tracing the tip of Hannibal's immaculate wingtip through the air with his eyes. Will felt his eyelids start to droop and his lips fill with static.
Hannibal noticed and tilted his head, dark eyes on Will. “How is it treating you?”
Will wanted to respond, but edges were blurring already. He felt as if his skin was too small to contain his real self and if he didn't do something soon, his vestments would burn up and flake away and his soul would disperse into the air.
“I... I'm...” Will started, eyes roving around the room. The furniture appeared to him as cardboard two-dimensional cutouts. The lamps, tables, other couch – all appeared fake to his augmented vision. Will could feel the folds of his clothing against his skin, each fiber scraping against him. “I'm different.” Even his own voice sounded stilted, different, filtered through his own ears. His eyes flutter closed and colors bloom in the deep black of his eyelids.
A light laugh flows from Hannibal like water over stones – Will sees the slick transparent water sliding smoothly over polished black river rocks, green ferns dipping into the surface, disturbing the tension of the water's surface - “I thought you might feel that way, can you tell me what you are seeing right now?”
tracing the river back to its source
“I see...”
a pool in a clearing, water roaring, broad trees standing about
“I'm in a forest...”
a waterfall, rushing from a cliff and descending in freefall
“There's a waterfall.”
a feathered stag appearing from behind a tree, stomping a single hoof and snorting loudly, claiming territory
Will's eyes flew open and a cold shock raced down his body. For a moment, the image of the stag was imposed transparently over the form of Hannibal in his chair. The stag's chest and Hannibal's appeared to be one, but the stag's head and neck towered over Hannibal's sitting form. The stag snorted once more, nostils flaring and antlers cutting cruel shapes into the negative space above Hannibal. Will blinked slowly and the apparition faded.
Hannibal clasped his hands together. “Are you hallucinating yet, Will?” The man's clinical voice distorted – coming in and out like the fleeting radio stations Will would pass as a young boy as he spun the dial on his father's radio in the boatyard, gulls calling in a cacophony overhead – like there was interference in the air.
“Yes I am,” Will's own voice seemed far off from his body and higher, like his voice as a child. His entire body was buzzing now, fingers feeling numb and tingling when he clasped them and released them. He slid his palms down his thighs where a rolling, buzzing feeling ran – like ball bearings beneath his skin contacting each other, rubbing and yielding.
“What are you seeing?”
“I saw the forest, then I- I was in my father's boatyard, there was -” Will had a sudden moment of clarity, flashing knife-bright in the dulled grey of his consciousness. Something within told him to withhold the sighting of the stag from Hannibal.
“Then there was... what, Will?”
Will got up then, wobbling slightly on his feet but gained his bearings. He strolled around the room, feeling light. He had to look down at his feet to make sure they were traveling on the plush carpets and not actually in the air. The objects in the room kept their two-dimensional shape, but followed Will's point of view. He walked toward a lamp and grazed careful fingers over the texture of the lampshade. He thought he could feel the fibers reach out to him, caressing the tiny ridges of his fingerprints.
“Nothing, it was nothing.”
Will could hear Hannibal tutting quietly as he made his wobbly way back to sit on the plush couch. Will collapsed onto its surface, legs splaying out in front of him, full of static prickly feeling. It was now when he started to really feel the chemicals working in his brain, when he was dissociated most from reality. The doctor saw this in Will's dilated pupils and sweaty brow.
Hannibal stood and crossed to a table in the far corner of the room. “Do you enjoy records, Will? I found an old player in my attic a few days ago, and I think now is a splendid time to get her back in working order.” Hannibal did not wait for an answer to his question (Will wasn't even sure he could form a coherent answer at this point) and selected a record from a drawer and slipped it out of its sleeve with deft fingers. Will's eyes slowly traced the man's every move from beneath sleepy watchdog eyelids. Hannibal set it atop the deck and dropped the needle and soft pinks and trills of piano filled the air.
The music sounded odd and three-dimensional to Will's ears. He leaned his head back on the headrest of the couch and closed his eyes. His thoughts were flying about his brain. Scenes from the recent murders leaked blood onto childhood memories he thought he had forgotten. Throughout all of them floated black feathers or a disappearing hoof of a retreating stag. Will wanted to get away, he breathed in through his nose heavily, fingers twitching beside him.
Then a soft hand swept his hair back from his face. Will's eyes flew open to see Hannibal standing over him, the crystal glass of water from earlier in his hand, refilled now. “Trust me, Will.” he practically cooed. Hannibal grasped Will's chin gently and tipped it back further. The edge of the cup was placed against Will's bottom lip, cold cold glass feeling like heaven against his overheated skin.
Hannibal's low tones seemed to slither over the strains of cello now filling the air, filling in their rests and empty spaces. “About now, your mind is ablaze with all manner of thought and memory.” Hannibal was right about that. Just his voice alone was sliding like thick syrup over the landscape of Will's mind, slipping into crevices between memories and ideas. Mortar between bricks, holding things together. “Simply focus on the water. Focus on the movements of your throat as you swallow.”
Will coughed a bit as he first got used to drinking in such an awkward position, but Hannibal just smoothed his free hand down the ridges of Will's throat and Will swallowed obediently. And Hannibal was right, as Will drank more and focused on his motions, he could feel the tumult of his mind start to slow and become replaced with a placid, quiet calm. After the water was gone, Will kept his position, simply closing his eyes and watching his thoughts recede into separate corners of his mind, something that rarely happened for him.
Will wasn't sure how much time had passed but the record had played itself out, now spinning idly. He sat up, blinking a couple times and correcting his posture. He was incredibly relaxed from Hannibal's exercise and from the drug's effects dulling. The man himself was over taking the record off its stand and flipping it over to the reverse side and setting the needle back to it. Will felt completely relaxed, a true rarity. His hands rested heavily on his thighs and a blissful fog rested in his head.
This time, when Hannibal came back to the sitting area, he chose a spot next to Will on the couch. An arm was stretched across the back and his body angled slightly towards his patient.
“How are you feeling now, dear Will?” A concerned-sounding inquiry.
Will felt a smile break across his face. “I feel like the tide's gone out in my head, it's actually calm in here. I feel like the roof could come down and bury me and I wouldn't even care. It's that kind of calm, y'know?” He turned towards Hannibal for confirmation and the doctor did indeed give a small smile and nod.
“I thought as much. But I can assure you, the structural integrity of my home will not give out anytime soon; you have nothing to worry about.”
Will let his gaze turn to the doctor. Hannibal's posture was open, the lean curve of his body made into a cove by the arm he had across the back of the couch. The doctor's long legs were crossed, ankle across knee, and Will felt the great need to be closer. He gave a searching look to Hannibal, asking permission. The doctor seemed to know what Will was asking for and put both feet flat on the floor.
“We are friends, after all – wouldn't you say?” Hannibal said by way of granting permission.
That was all Will needed. He scooted closer and fit his shoulder beneath the doctor's arm. Will's head fell neatly against Hannibal's shoulder and Will could smell his unique scent – spice and something electric, Will's tired mind was too spent to try and quantify the thought. Hannibal's arm fell from the back of he couch down around Will and his eyes fluttered shut tiredly. The doctor's body was warm and full of a coiled kind of strength - a snake poised to strike, but a snake Will did not fear.
Will felt a hand reach around the back of his knees and his legs were hauled up onto Hannibal's lap. He felt rather childish practically sitting in the doctor's lap, but his insecurities couldn't find a foothold on the smooth surface of Will's mind, and they were washed away when he leaned against Hannibal's shoulder again. The doctor held Will close, one arm around his back and the other resting on his knee.
“I hope I have helped you tonight.” Will felt the rumble of Hannibal's voice against his ear and nodded. The doctor chuckled, palming Will's knee. “When you wake tomorrow, you will feel similarly as if you had drunk too much alcohol the night before, and you will be a bit absent for the rest of the day. I have taken the liberty of letting Jack Crawford know you will not be present tomorrow.”
Hannibal went on to explain more about the drug's effects on his next day, but Will slipped into an easy sleep, the first he'd experienced in months. The last thing he felt before letting go of consciousness was a light kiss on the crown of his head.