Being not alone is a strange state.
Hannibal has yet to grow accustomed to it, although sometimes he thinks it had already changed him too much.
Technically, Hannibal was not alone in Italy, with Bedelia. He was not alone when, at the houses, there were Miriam and Abigail, and briefly Abel Gideon. He was never really alone in the BSHCI, or at least never unobserved.
Being in company with Will, though. Oh, that is a kind of not alone that actually means something. That changes something.
They crawled from the ocean together, they stumbled to freedom together and now they walk along the pavements of their equatorial retreat side by side, step in step.
There is the not alone that means another person in the bed every night, and in the morning, and the not alone that means sometimes the dishes are washed up and Hannibal forgot even to think of them. There is the not alone that is interruption, in an afternoon planned for reading, of someone who wants to swim and shake sea-water from himself like a dog and be fussed and dried with a towel and demand kisses with his hot salt mouth.
There is the not alone of having to tolerate someone else’s moods and moments, in the strange conjunction of caring about them - if Will sighs and looks mournfully at the horizon, Hannibal feels sad. Sympathy. Never one of his talents. Never even one of his abilities, or so he had thought. He couldn’t leave Will, alive or dead, and be glad of the release from responsibility - and he’s only ever felt that way once before.