01 | 🕐 | audio

[mirrortouch]

[ It's not something that really ever becomes routine, it doesn't matter how often he wakes up someplace strange and uncharted. The voice on the line sounds about as scattered as he feels. ]

My name is Will Graham, it's- [ He's pulling back his sleeve to look for a watch that's not there. ] I don't have the time. I don't- I don't have the time.

[ Hang on, don't get too lost. ]

It's not clear to me exactly where I am, but- [ a dry laugh ] you probably already knew that. This isn't even my phone. But you probably knew that too.

[ He's missing details. He's missing plenty. His voice trails off for a short while before he can get his bearings enough to speak again, and even then it's almost unconsciously. ] I don't know. I don't know.

[ It's as if the fact that he has no idea sparks him back into the present. His voice grows more composed, if somewhat cracked. ] So if you're hearing this, if anyone is hearing this - [ is anyone hearing this? ] - any singular indication will be key.

[ Another beat. ]

I feel as though I've strayed a long, long way from home.

[ The air goes dead, and then so does the line. ]

Comments

[Spam]

[youwill]

[It is always about seeing between them. Seeing the truth, seeing what is and is not there, seeing the divide and the lack thereof. The distance of separation has decreased between them, it has decreased greatly, and Hannibal is almost jealous of the time Will has gathered around him, the experiences and knowledge that surround him like armor.

Experience and knowledge that Hannibal has not.

He is jealous, in that way.

Alana's name inches out of Will's mouth, and Hannibal wonders what the other man would do if he drew up a list for him, handed over the information as clear as day for him to do with what he would.

It would be almost comedic, he thinks: distrust would reign, but so would surprise. Hannibal would never be so open as that. The idea does amuse him.]

What did she paint for you?

[Spam]

[mirrortouch]

A mural.

[ His teeth grit as he recalls, once and all over again - the tube down his throat, the perfect means through which Hannibal framed him, it always stands all too clear in his mind now. ] A masterpiece, a palette of whites and greens and all too much grey filter, at first, like an old movie -

[ All dedicated to Hannibal. ]

These lost memories - [ his gaze is fleeting, towards Hannibal, a darkened look that blames, what you took from me ] - they blaze much brighter than what surrounds it, begging to be noticed with their unlock from the confines of my mind.

[ In boxes, in cages, in mislabeled file folders. His mind is a mess. But he knows where just about everything is inside of it. That doesn't mean he chooses his words any less thoughtfully, or that he knows which ones to grasp for next.

You used me. You abandoned me. I thought we were friends. A long time ago. ]

Doctor Bloom helped clear my mind, so to speak. Swept some of the clutter out from underneath the threadbare rugs.