YES I VERY MUCH DO LOVE THIS VIBE!!! god i so wish i could encapsulate 80s americana serial killer 4 serial killer ivtl...disorganized "accidental" 1-time self defense kill till who didn't want to do it vs organized killer ivan who is so deeply unhinged...

this is not quite the cabin vibe, but like. this is the hannibal fic i envision as inspiration: "turn the page"

something about ivan & till circling each other like wary predators...ivan's whole "i know what i am (a monster)...do you know what you are" 🤤

i had a hannibal vibes AU i abandoned because it wasn't coming together lol and i can't remember if i ever posted it. so, here ya go!! (very unfinished / unpolished obviously lol)

thanks for asking and for your interest hehe 💓

////////////

Till has never been particularly renowned for his patience or his mellow temper.

It takes him half an hour to approach the partition, mostly because a particularly nausea inducing thought crosses his mind. You’re alive. Thank god.

Disgust rises in his throat alongside the bile. The sensation is so powerful that he has to clap a hand over his mouth. The man on the other side of the bulletproof glass doesn’t so much as twitch. He is, most likely, amused by Till’s display.

When he feels less like his knees are going to give out with relief, he puts one foot in front of the other. The guard reminds him that he’s not allowed to step any closer, and thank god he does, because Till was an instant away from holding out a hand and reaching out.

“Hello, Till,” says Ivan, voice a low, smooth purr. It is the stuff of dreams and of nightmares. “I see you got my letter.”

//

He doesn’t mean to chase Ivan all over Europe—it’s just the way that things happened to work out. Following the ugly betrayal in Ivan’s manor-home and Rina’s blood splattered all over the tiles, Ivan serrating the carotid artery of the girl they had all but adopted with surgical precision, Ivan absconded overseas.

They played a futile game of cat and mouse that landed them somewhere in the underground, chasing the ghosts of each other. Till lamented the fact that he had never truly gotten to know Ivan, even if he was a cannibalistic serial killer trying to fry Till’s brain like bacon.

Perhaps it would have been easier, if he tried, to convince everyone that he was telling the truth. Perhaps, if he had taken Ivan’s hand on that fateful night instead of siding with the FBI, he and Ivan wouldn’t be staring at a painting in a gallery with cuts and bruises all over their faces.

Perhaps Rina would be alive.

You loved her too. How could you stand to do it? Till does not ask.

He does not push Ivan away when Ivan grabs his hand. He does not report this particular incident to the police, no matter how many flashbulbs they shove in his face.

Ivan swan dives off of a cliff with injuries so serious he has little to no hope of surviving.

Little to none. Not none.

Till does not allow himself to consider the prospect of Ivan being alive.

//

“I’m not here for you,” Till says with less conviction than he feels.

Ivan paces around the cell the same way he would have paced around the stage at the opera house or his sitting room in the manor. The jumpsuit is tragic. The pallor of his skin and the unfortunate texture of his hair betrays the poor quality of life he has been subjected to since he was captured.

How long has he been here? Why didn’t anyone tell me?

Till knows why, but it is easier to delude himself with flimsy questions like this.

“No, no, of course not,” Ivan hums, pointing to the slot for mail in the door. “Hand me the file so I can take a look.”

No one better to do a profile on a killer than a killer. The artistry, the panache, the elevation—it’s the sort of stuff Ivan applauded. The sort of thing Ivan himself would have done.

He flips quietly, dark eyes drinking in xerox ink. It’s probably the most interesting thing he’s read in quite some time.

“It’s a metamorphosis, of a sort,” Ivan drawls, theatrical to the last. “This is his becoming.”

I gave you the opportunity to change, once.