He had never, at Erik's prompting and request, played this piece all the way through. Not just because he'd been asked not to and warned against it, but also because he'd taken up residence in the manor with Erik and Arya, and Hannibal had sworn to never let her delicate ears be witness to the sorrow within this work.
It didn't mean he hadn't heard it, though. Hannibal had read through the entire thing, gone note by note, played it for himself in the silence of his rooms, while walking the halls, while speaking to Erik, or Arya, while going about his work at the hospital, while sleeping. He had come to memorize every single note in the way that a lover knows his passion. His fingers now danced over the keys in such pristine accuracy it might have seemed he played this a million times before.
Hannibal felt whole in that moment. As if he had never known anything so beautiful and true. This was what he'd been made for. Oh, sure, Erik would say that the composition had been written for him, but in all truths, Hannibal had been created to give this music life, to release it into the aether, to free it from the bonds of the paper it was written on.
A warm bubbled up from the depths, it seemed to be right in the center of him, reaching out to his skin. Hannibal felt - for the first time since his sister had died - true peace. His eyes closed as he imagined her face, the face of his mother, the face of his father, the face of Lady Murasaki, River, all of them. But most vividly, Mischa.