Chapter Text
Check out the wonderful art Seasick Yet Still Docked (TomatoLullaby31) made for the story!
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Witnessing Elliot Buddish horrific body brought images of hell that followed Will to his dreams. Sleep evaded him, and within a week he was nursing a headache that deafen even the sound of Jack’s incessant demands.
Will walked through the hall of the academy like a living corpse, face gaunt with dark circles, grunting in lieu of speaking. By the end of the week, his students learned to only ask him yes or no questions. By the end of the month, his TA pitied him enough to act as his bodyguard and shooed any eager brown nosers away.
On a sunny Friday morning, searing pain deep within his spine woke Will from his shallow slumber. His head cracked with thunderous pain and his skin flashed with alternating chills and fever. It was then that Will finally considered the possibility that he might be sick.
“Stay home Will.” Jack’s disappointed voice crackled through the receiver. “You’re no help at all like this.”
‘Gee. Thanks for the concern Jack.’ Will thought as the line went dead. If he didn’t grew up with such a neglectful father, Will would’ve felt more indignant about Jack’s professional disinterest. He didn’t mind it though. An honest dismissal is much preferable than the uncomfortable attention that a fake concern can bring.
He continued on settling his various affairs for the day; calling Alana to sub in for his classes, dumping the bulk of his grading to his angel of a TA, and finally pleading with the nearest Chinese restaurant to deliver him chicken soup, negotiating an exorbitant delivery fee so they might consider delivering him food.
When he scrolled to Hannibal’s name in his contacts, Will’s head was already spinning from ten minutes of focused concentration and excess socialization. The pain on his spine has spread up to his shoulders, and he considered giving up and finally calling 911.
Instead, he called his psychiatrist and left a polite message at his voicemail. If he was going to die from this freak fever, then the least he could no is not leave Hannibal alone and waiting. That would be unspeakably rude of him to do.
Will only managed to dial 9 and 1 before succumbing to the sheer pain in his head and back.
**
After finishing his last appointment and stopping by his home to garnish the dinner stewing in his slow cooker, Hannibal drove out to Wolf Trap with a generous serving of Anita Crane shank soup and his psychic driving kit sitting on the backseat of his Bentley.
He’s gotten quite fond of feeding Will after their intense sessions. There is a certain vulnerability in watching a man so distrusting consume something taboo and praising him after each mouthful. In fact, there were many things that Hannibal had come to enjoy from Will Graham, so much so that he considered extending their relationship beyond the simple borders of friendship.
Though the news of Will’s sudden bouts of illness forced Hannibal to change his meticulously planned schedule, the doctor was eager to see the brewing fever he predicted finally blooming into it’s mature sweetness. It made him thrum his fingers in giddy anticipation, a feeling he thought he had outgrown with other childish things. Hannibal just couldn’t wait to see Will’s magnificent mind deteriorate and elevate into it’s beautifully tragic end.
His only regret was he wouldn’t be able to eat Will’s brain after the man expire. Sure, Will would’ve been perfumed beautifully, but even his curiosity wouldn’t tempt the good doctor to consume an unhealthy man.
As he mussed on the spices needed to replicate the scent of Will’s encephalitis, Hannibal arrived on his Wolf Trap property and promptly walked up to the door bearing gifts of food, flowers, and manipulation.
Two things caught his attention; the eerie absence of barking canines as well as a
paper bag from a Chinese takeout riddled with ants and rodents. The sight alone made Hannibal frown in distaste. Will’s home may not be the ideal candidate for the cover of Architectural Digest, but the man was not inherently messy or unclean. Leaving trash outside where the wildlife might infest them was not something he would do.
A cursory glance at his watch revealed that it’s almost nine o’clock. The damp receipt taped to the bag showed that the order was placed at ten in the morning. Was the man so sick that not even hunger could rouse him from his bed?
Hannibal knocked on the door and called for Will. When the man did not answer, curiosity drove him to cross the threshold of Will’s home, letting both shadows and sweetness envelop him completely.
The scent was so intense that Hannibal almost couldn’t make out the permanent stench of dog that clung into the very plaster of the house. Out of the corner of his eyes Hannibal spied the pack huddled against the far end of the wall, their faces turned meekly away as they silently cowered in fear.
On the very opposite of the darkened room Will’s silhouette rose and fall with barely audible gasps. His thin blanket draped over his slender body, his sweat making it clung to the dips and valley of his pleasing figure.
It was a delicious sight, even under the sparse light of the moon, and it stirred Hannibal’s loin and filled him with a taste of something transcendent.
“There you are.” The doctor sighed, approaching the man after divesting himself of his jacket and gifts. With tentative steps Hannibal approached the bed, dropping his guard completely when he learned that Will was quite unconscious.
With a gentleness he did not need to fake, Hannibal placed his hand on Will’s back and caressed circles to rouse him up. “Wake up Will.” He gently urged, but the man remained dead to the world, and it pleased Hannibal beyond belief.
It was such a tempting sight to see such beauty lay there all vulnerable and weak. Hannibal had to remind himself to behave. It wouldn’t be right to consume the man while he’s unconscious like this, figuratively or otherwise.
So instead Hannibal settled on scenting the man, brushing aside the sweaty hair on his nape so he could savor his scent directly. “Exquisite.” he murmured, his mouth watering as he filled himself with Will’s heady aroma.
Hannibal couldn’t remember the last time he was this hard.
Lost in the exquisiteness of Will’s prone figure and intimate scent, Hannibal inched closer until he was all but straddling the man.
There was this intense desire for him to peel the very fabric that dared to hide his prize away from him. Hannibal longed to run his eyes, then his hand, his tongue, and finally his blade across the planes of Will’s body. He wanted to savor him until he could recall his taste from memory alone. He longed to capture his pleasure sounds and eternalize his anguished terrors. Hannibal wanted, no, he needed to consume the man beyond any rational thoughts or consideration.
‘Then why don’t you?’ A mischievous little voice taunted him, and being the prideful devil that he was, Hannibal slid the blanket off and ran his hand just beneath Will’s damp shirt.
His eager exploration was immediately halted when he smelled blood and found two black marks seeping from where Will’s shoulder blade was supposed to be. Enraged at the thought that someone might’ve left their mark before he could, Hannibal all but ripped Will’s shirt apart and was immediately stunned at the sight of his mangled back.
Two angular protrusions erupted out of Will’s shoulder blades like black stone temples erected for brutal gods of old. The skin around it was swollen and bruised beautifully, weeping trails of blood and plasma from the puncture wound that was obviously made from inside.
Hannibal dropped the tattered remains of Will’s shirt and took out his phone, shinning the light over the two curious anomaly.
“Oh…” He laughed in wondrous disbelief. “I can never truly predict you, can I, my dear Will?”
**