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I have had recurring nightmares
That I was loved for who I am
And missed the opportunity
To be a better man
Sometimes, Will Graham feels the sweet and easy peace he longs for.
Sometimes.
~
“I’m not even sure you can call this love.” Will remarks to Hannibal’s suprasternal notch, internally noting the irony of saying this to Hannibal in the first place, never mind saying it while they lay, naked and entwined, on sheets stained with their tears and their blood and their passion. Who do you think you’re kidding?
Hannibal says, with the usual gravity he manages to achieve when saying the oddest things, “I would call you my beloved. ‘Amor, ch'a nullo amato amar perdona, mi prese del costui piacer sì forte, che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona.’” This is recited to Will’s temple, while he attempts to control the impulse to roll his eyes, despite the fact that Hannibal cannot see said eyes.
“You know my Italian doesn’t go that far.”
“’Love, which absolves no beloved one from loving, seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly that, as thou seest, it does not leave me yet.’”
“Dante?” He hums an affirmation into Will’s hair, his fingers busying themselves elsewhere. Will cannot quite stifle the small gasp he releases when Hannibal’s palm finds him hard. “’Seized with pleasure’, indeed. You’d be Virgil, anyways, if not the Devil himself.”
Hannibal rolls Will gently onto his back, sliding down his body to slip a leg between Will’s own and rolls slightly, situating himself fully between them. He is careful, as always, of their healing wounds as he runs his hands over Will’s chest before slipping them under his back. He touches Will with the reverence and care usually afforded a precious work of art. Will thinks to remind him that he is not made of glass but tears are stinging his eyes, for some reason, and so he thinks better of it.
“Virgil, then. ‘Omnia vincit Amor; et nos cedamus Amori.’” Hannibal’s head is bent to Will’s chest, the words ghosting over his collarbone as he speaks them, goosebumps rippling in their wake.
“This one, I know.” Will’s voice trembles a little when Hannibal looks up to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark and shining, the tender impulses warring with the darker ones. It is not the first or last time they will look at each other in this way. “‘Love conquers all; let us, too, yield to love.’”
Hannibal leans in to whisper into Will's parted lips, “Yes, let’s…”
They move together, one flesh, one heartbeat. A different dance than the one that lead them off a cliff, but a dance, all the same. Just as necessary. Just as intimate. What is between them, what they do together, is beyond any definition or function of sex, as either man has known it. It is not a physical urge, a biological imperative, a cumbersome burden, nor is it a manipulation, a means to an end. It is a language, a secret language they are creating between their bodies, a language they are learning. A language in which it was easier to say what needed to be said. A language in which it was far more difficult to lie. Now, at the beginning, it says everything they need to say.
I want you. I need you. I’m so tired, so tired of running, of aching, of emptiness. I am so alone, so lost without you. I love you.
I know you. I see you. There is no need for words, not now, not yet. I know what you want, and I will give it, gladly. I love you.
~
The peace does not last.
~
Will is never certain that Hannibal is asleep.
He lies next to him, sometimes for hours, sometimes all night, watching. Watching Hannibal’s chest rise and fall, the occasional twitching of his fingers or stretching of a limb. His face is peaceful, his brow uncreased, the very picture of deep, contented sleep. He looks younger, then, as all people do when lost to slumber. Like the children they once were. Will ignores the ache in his chest, like the pressing of an old bruise. He simply continues to study Hannibal’s face, looking for a tell, a sign. It cannot be this easy. With Hannibal, it is never, ever easy.
~
It is a hot, sticky night, and the breeze that rolls off the Atlantic does little to mitigate the temperature. Will is restless, unable to sleep, unable to lie still. He feels uneasy, though he cannot pinpoint exactly why. Why wouldn’t you be? The thought comes, unbidden, fully formed to his mind and he tries to push it away. If he can only find whatever it is that is nagging at him, hold it in his hands and fix it, it will be alright. Then he will be able to rest.
He pulls off the thin sheet that covers him and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He pauses, then, to look back at Hannibal. He has not moved, his expression has not changed. He looks like he is still asleep. Will rises silently from the bed and pads to the door, closing it noiselessly behind him. He walks through the house, slowly, mindfully. He is not yet accustomed to this space enough to navigate it with ease in the dark. He goes downstairs and through the kitchen, checking to make sure that the stove is off, into the dining room, brushing his hand along the top of the familiar table as he passes. He enters the hallways and goes into the library, standing in front of the shelves for a moment, as if considering whether or not to take a book. Next, he goes into Hannibal’s study, ostensibly to check the locks on the windows. In reality, he does nothing more than sit in Hannibal’s chair and rest his hand on the cool surface of the desk. A part of him wants to look through the papers, force open the locked drawers, to look for the secrets he knows must live there. But the larger part of him understands that it would be a fruitless endeavor. Hannibal is much too careful for that.
When he leaves the study, he goes to the room at the very end of the hallway, the one he had purposefully saved for last. He opens the door gingerly, not wanting to wake the room’s sleeping inhabitants. For a moment, he stands in the doorway, listening for the soft sigh of her breath. Slowly, he goes further in, crouching down with his hands outstretched. His fingers finally brush the edges of a dog bed and he feels a smile tug at his mouth when his hand meets soft fur. He strokes her, from head to tail, over and over, tentative at first, until he grows accustomed to her shape in the dark. He pets her sides, her back, her legs, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing, letting his hand rest above her heartbeat. Minutes, maybe hours pass by unnoticed as he sits in the dark, surrounded by the familiar sounds and smells. He closes his eyes and imagines that he is back in his living room in Wolf Trap. That the hardwood beneath him is the floor he walked a million times, that the heat comes from the rickety old space heater that he is never sure will last another winter. He imagines that he is surrounded by his whole pack, that he is alone but never lonely, that he has never taken a life, that he has never licked blood and salt and sweat off another’s skin, that he is innocent still. He is not aware that he is crying until the dog beneath his hand yips, startled by the hard twist of his fingers in her fur. He resumes his soft petting, murmuring soothing words to her, apologies and confessions and remorseful promises that are meant for someone else entirely. Someone who will never hear them.
When Will leaves the dog’s room, he checks the locks on the front and back door. It is a futile exercise, it was never the thought of an unlocked door that kept him awake, but he had to at least try it. With a heavy heart, he climbs the stairs and goes back into the bedroom. Once inside, he stands at the end of the bed for a moment. Hannibal has not moved since Will left the room, or so it seems. He is lying on his back, right arm resting above his head and the sheet draped ever so casually across his body. His face is relaxed, his breathing deep and even. There is nothing to suggest that he is not fast asleep.
Will climbs back onto the bed, stretching out next to Hannibal. Will lies on his right side, head pillowed on his right arm and reaches out to touch him. He spreads his hand out on the middle on Hannibal’s chest experimentally, resting it lightly on the wiry hair and warm skin there. He waits, for a moment, but this does not seem to disturb Hannibal. Will begins to move his hand, lightly stroking his chest. He touches the puckered circular scar on his abdomen with a fingertip, tracing it’s ridges over and over. He looks up and reaches above Hannibal’s head to rest his left hand on top of Hannibal’s right, pressing their palms together as he has so many times. And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. With his thumb, he strokes the rough edges of a newly formed scab on Hannibal’s corresponding digit. He had cut himself that very afternoon, using Will’s pocketknife to cut slices off a pear. When they had been in bed and said thumb had found its way to Will’s mouth, healing skin broken open by his teeth, Will had decided it had not been accidental.
Lifting his hand from its resting place, Will gently cups Hannibal’s cheek. “Who are you?” he whispers, eyes searching the familiar terrain of Hannibal’s face as if it held some secret. As if there was an answer there that would let him rest, let him be at peace. But there was nothing there. Only more questions.
At that moment, Will knows, without a doubt, that Hannibal is not asleep.
~
The question, and all that lies behind it, hangs heavily in the air between them in the days that follow. They do not touch and they barely speak, though Hannibal stalks Will from room to room like a shadow, not even bothering to try and hide it. Will can feel the air crackle with electricity between them and the storm brewing between them looms close. He knows it is only a matter of time before it breaks.
~
One afternoon, while they sit outside, not speaking, Will suddenly stands and goes inside. He makes his way through the house and out the front door. He does not lock it. He does not say goodbye. After wandering aimless for half an hour, he heads in the direction of the market. Once there, he meanders through the stalls, lost in thought. Eventually, he finds himself standing in front of a fruit stall, staring at the pears. He does not know how long he has been standing there. He buys one, and leaves. He walks, further than he has the whole time they have been here, walks until the sidewalks end and he finds himself at the edge of the water. The tide is in and there is only a small strip of sand between the wall he is standing on and the sea. He sits, legs dangling over the side, and eats the pear, cutting slices off with his pocketknife. After he has taken the last slice, he holds the tip of the knife to his left thumb and drags it down. He watches the blood well up and spill. He puts his thumb in his mouth and watches the sun go down. The wind coming over the water is high and below him the dark sea pitches and roils, crashing against the wall. It would be frightening easy to slip into it again. His body probably wouldn’t even make a splash this time.
When he returns home, everything is dark and still. The front door is still unlocked. He opens it and walks inside. When he turns to close the door behind him, he hesitates for a moment, hand resting on the lock. With a soft exhalation of breath, he turns it, and heads up the stairs. When he reaches the landing at the top, he takes half a step forward before his legs are knocked out from underneath him. He doesn’t even try to put his hands out and break the fall.
~
Hannibal grips Will by his hair, by his shoulder, as he thrusts viciously into him. Rendered helpless and immobile, assaulted by the invaded force of Hannibal's cock inside him, so deep, so relentless, Will can do nothing but groan, head tipped back, eyes shut, body stretched to its limits, trembling.
"Where did you think you would go?” Hannibal hisses, voice choked with rage and a deep hurt. "What is there in the world for you? Did you think you could be a good man, that you could lock me away and live, insisting to the world your hands were clean? That you could pretend, for the rest of your life, to be as others are, settle down, have a wife and child, and pretend that you would not kiss me, lie down for me, even if I was covered in their blood?”
He batters into Will mercilessly, each thrust punctuating the words he spits in Will’s ear. Will can do little more than hold on, knuckles clenched white on the solid arm barring his chest. A dry sob escapes his mouth, his body at war with itself. He wants to break the arm he holds, turn his head and tear out Hannibal’s throat, wants him to stop fucking talking. He wants Hannibal to touch him, to stroke his straining cock, hard, and throw them over the edge of oblivion together. He wants to curl up into a ball and cry. But he doesn’t do any of these things. He just screws his eyes shut and holds on.
Hannibal continues to drive into him, hard, Will’s back arched taut as a bow string as Hannibal holds him upright. But, after a time, his rhythm begins to falter and slow. He still speaks in Will’s ear but softer, now, with less venom, his voice hoarse with emotion. “We are both alone without each other. You would feel the loss of me as keenly as a missing limb. As I felt the loss of you. There is no life for us now but this, no separate existence possible while we both live.”
His hips stutter and still. He is not even hard anymore and when his softened member slides out of Will, he does not pull away. He just releases Will’s hair and winds this arm too around his middle, hugging Will tightly to him. He presses his forehead against Will’s shoulder for a moment before bringing his mouth back to his ear. “There is nothing in the world for me but you, Will. I have tried and I have found that I cannot live without you.”
Will sighs, leaning against Hannibal’s broad chest. He lets his head fall back and rest on Hannibal’s shoulder. “I know. I tried too.” His next words are said with more vehemence. “I don’t want to live without you any more.” They stay like that, silently embracing, for a long time. Will’s knees and thighs ache, he imagines Hannibal is equally as uncomfortable, but neither is willing to let go, to relinquish this moment.
When they finally do, Hannibal stands and holds his hand out to Will, like a question. Will takes it. He rises, stiffly, to his feet, and follows Hannibal into the bedroom. Hannibal sits down on the edge of the bed, one knee tucked under him, one foot on the floor. Will follows suit, sitting across from him, close enough that their knees bump against one another. Will’s hands find Hannibal’s and he briefly presses their palms together, interlocking their fingers. He forces himself to look up and into Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal’s face is as open as Will has ever seen, the naked hurt and love there twists in Will’s chest like a knife. Breath catching on the lump in his throat, he releases Hannibal’s hands and takes him by the shoulders, climbing into his lap. Hannibal gives no more than a short exhalation of surprise before gathering Will in his arms, shifting to settle him more firmly against himself, pulling him close and pressing their foreheads together. Will nuzzles against him, pressing their temples together, breathing in quick, hiccuping sobs. He is crying, hot, fat, stinging tears, and the more he tries to hold them back, the harder he sobs. Hannibal moves his head back and, through the tears, he sees Hannibal’s eyes glance upward and close, briefly, with an expression that would have looked, had he not known so much better, like gratitude. Like a prayer. Then Hannibal’s eyes open and tears that might be his or might be Will’s roll down his face and he lifts his hand to rest it on Will’s cheek. This, at long last, proves to be Will’s undoing, the exertion of pressure that finally cracks the glass. Hannibal moves his hand up, in Will’s hair, and presses his head onto his shoulder. Murmuring in a voice too low for Will to hear, he strokes his hair and rocks him while Will goes, quietly and thoroughly, to pieces.
~
“You know that I will kill you if you try to leave.”
A pause. A breath.
“I know.”
~
“You slice the ginger.”
Hannibal’s eyes are dark, penetrating. He pulls a knife from the block, turning it so he grasps it delicately by the blade as he changes hands. He offers the handle to Will, his fingers light but firm, his sleeve rolled up so the faded scar on his forearm is visible. His expression is open and his eyes are on Will’s, rather than the blade between them. It is a gesture of trust, it says “I give you this knife, because I know you will not turn it against me.” Will feels the heat and weight of his gaze and his hands tremble slightly as he curls them around the handle. But only for a moment.
I will not hurt you. Not again.
Hannibal cuts the meat into strips in slow, precise movements. Under his instruction, Will mixes vinegar, soy, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, and cumin with the ginger in a small mixing bowl . The resulting sauce smells deep and sharp, the spicy smell of the cumin lingering in the air. A purist to the last, Hannibal only had cumin seeds, and Will had ground them with a mortar and pestle. Rather than be amused with Hannibal’s fussy insistence on such small details, as had been his previous habit, Will feels a sense of reverence and appreciation. The act of crushing the seeds fostered the air of magic that Will often felt when he was invited to assist Hannibal in the kitchen. He might have called it religious but he could scarcely imagine a place less touched by the light and purity of God than Hannibal’s kitchen. It is magic, a magic older than the written word and any idea of a single, loving deity. A deep, pagan magic, practiced in dark rituals made of earth and fire. And blood.
The marinade complete, Hannibal transfers the strips into the bowl and coats the meat with practiced flicks of his wrist. When he is satisfied, he sets the bowl down and says, quietly, “That will need to sit for half an hour.” There is a soft suggestion in his tone and Will’s throat involuntarily contracts, his mouth suddenly dry. Hannibal raises his eyes to meet Will’s and the intensity of his gaze immediately roots Will to the spot, the air rushing out of his lungs in a long sigh. Hannibal crosses the room, advancing steadily on Will, who does not move until Hannibal stands before him, close enough to share his breath. He lifts his arms to rest his palms on the cool metal of the countertop behind him, and brings his left palm down on the blade of the knife he had left there .
He swears and instinctively pulls his hand away, sending the knife clattering to the floor. His quick contact with Hannibal’s razor sharp kitchen knife has caused a long, shallow cut along the heel of his hand. Before he can curse his own clumsiness and apologize for any damage to the knife or, god forbid, the kitchen floor, Hannibal has moved smoothly into a crouch. He reaches past Will’s left leg to retrieve the knife from where it lies under the island, leaning further than is strictly necessary so he can place his hand, feigning innocence, on Will’s right thigh. For balance, of course. When his fingers reach the knife, he wraps them around the blade and, sitting back on his heels, hand still curved around Will’s thigh, he blithely offers the knife up to Will. Will looks down at him for a moment, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Hannibal’s upturned face is expertly innocent, betrayed only by the glint in his hooded eyes. Brushing his fingers lightly over the back of Hannibal’s knuckles, Will takes the knife from him and twists at the waist, mindful of Hannibal’s grip, to place it as far away on the countertop as possible. In doing so, he also places his right palm, ever so nonchalantly, on the side of Hannibal’s face. To steady himself, of course.
When he places the knife on the counter and takes his hand away, he notices he has left the handle sticky with blood. Turning back, he absently goes to put his injured palm in his mouth. He is stopped by Hannibal’s fingers tightening their grip on his thigh. Palm hesitating in the air next to his parted lips, he looks back down at Hannibal, who is still crouched, head tilting slightly into the hand resting on his face. The mischief has left Hannibal’s eyes and they are dark again, lust stirring deep in them like the smothered embers of a dormant fire. Shifting forward, he moves to settle on his knees, left hand still digging into Will’s thigh. His eyes never leave Will’s and Will, for his part, cannot tear his eyes away, still transfixed, caught like an insect in a spider’s web. Slowly, Hannibal reaches up to circle his fingers around Will’s left wrist, careful of his torn palm, and bring it down to his mouth. Will’s right hand drifts from Hannibal’s cheek to his shoulder and gently presses there, steadying himself in earnest as a slight tremor moves through his spine and down the backs of his legs. When Hannibal brings his cut palm to his mouth, parts his lips against it, and drags just the tip of his tongue along the cut, Will cannot swallow the soft moan that falls from him, barely more than an exhale, barely a sound at all. Hannibal, kneeling at his feet, here, at this sacrificial altar, taking Will’s blood into him like a sacrament. Like some kind of unholy communion.
His lust for Will’s blood momentarily sated, if indeed it ever can be, Hannibal tugs his hand down just a little further so he can drag his tongue lightly along the underside of Will’s fingers and kiss each of his fingertips in turn. Hesitating for just a moment when he reaches the thumb, he parts his lips and his breath moves hotly along Will’s skin. Then he takes his thumb into his mouth, teeth skimming the blunt fingernail before his mouth forms a hot seal just below the knuckle. When he begins to suck and his cheeks hollow, Will cannot help but close his eyes and tilt his head back, a shock of arousal running white hot straight to his cock. His fingers curve to dig into the dip of Hannibal’s jawline, heedless of the blood that smears across Hannibal’s chin when he does. Hannibal’s lips briefly curve around his digit before he drags his tongue upward and swirls it around the tip of his finger. The smacking sound his lips make when he drags his mouth from Will’s thumb is obscene. The ragged groan pulled from Will’s mouth when Hannibal suddenly moves the hand that had been gripping his thigh to cup the erection pressing against the fly of his jeans is downright pornographic.
Will’s right hand moves from Hannibal’s shoulder to his own belt buckle but when his left tries to follow, it is prevented by Hannibal tightening his grip on Will’s wrist. He stills and searches Hannibal’s eyes, impatience flaring temporarily. A moment passes, in silence, the only sounds his quickened breath, and the pulse racing in his ears. Hannibal’s gaze is steady, his grip on Will’s wrist remains firm. He is waiting, waiting for Will to speak. Then Will understands, knows that he must ask. As always, he must ask for what he wants and only take what is freely given. Such is their game.
Even Steven.
“Hannibal…”
“Tell me what you want, Will.”
“I want- I want your mouth. Please. I want to feel your mouth on me.”
Hannibal laughs then, softly, barely more than a exhalation of breath. He looks up at Will, through his impossibly long lashes, and whispers, “You need only ever ask…” and then bends to his work. Moving Will’s hand aside, he begins to slide the tongue of Will’s belt out of the buckle. Will hovers his hands for a moment, then lays them, gently, on Hannibal’s head. In benediction. In blessing. In thanks. He has forgiven me for my trespasses, Will thinks, and I have followed him, willingly, into temptation. Then Hannibal drags his zipper down ever so slowly and he finds himself largely unable to think any longer.
Freed from his jeans, his achingly hard cock juts out, tenting his briefs. Hannibal hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Will’s jeans and pulls them down, just enough to give himself unfettered access. He ghosts his hand across the straining pull of Will’s underwear and curls his hand around Will’s length, stroking him lightly through the fabric. Will’s breath comes short and he swears he can see the side of Hannibal’s mouth quirk up, briefly, before he leans forward to mouth the hard line of Will’s arousal through his briefs. Will makes a sound, low in his throat, something that might have been the beginnings of a word but trails off in a growl. Hannibal moves up his length, pausing at the head to nudge at the sensitive spot beneath it with his nose. Will’s fingers reflexively twist in his hair, just for a moment, before he forces himself to relax. Hannibal would not take kindly to any uninvited hair pulling at this juncture and Will would rather grab a knife by its blade a thousand more times than cause Hannibal to stop. Hannibal nuzzles his head into Will uninjured palm in thanks and continues to mouth at his cock through the fabric. His breath is hot but Will knows his mouth will be hotter and his cock throbs so hard at the thought it, Will is certain Hannibal can feel it. Still palming Will through his briefs, Hannibal moves down his length to fondle his balls, rolling them in his palm, revelling in the small, breathy sounds his touch coaxes out of Will.
Suddenly, Hannibal’s mouth is gone but Will barely has the time to mourn its loss before Hannibal’s fingers curl into the waistband of his underwear and unceremoniously yank it down, Will’s erection springing free. Will barely has time to process the action, and the resulting cold air on the hot skin of his groin, when Hannibal takes all of him into his mouth, in one swift movement. Will nearly doubles over from the shock white hot arousal that electrifies his spine, his thighs tremble with the effort it takes to stay upright and he moans loudly, his voice echoing in the silence of the kitchen. He nearly comes right then. Hannibal gives him a moment to adjust, buried to the hilt in the wet heat of his mouth, before he reaches behind Will, sliding his hand over the curve of his ass. He pulls his head back, achingly slow, releasing Will’s cock inch by inch. Pausing at the head to explore its sensitive underside with the tip of his tongue. Will’s breath is coming in pants and his head has fallen back, eyes squeezed shut. When Hannibal releases his head, Will lets out a long, ragged breath. For a moment, they still. Then Hannibal dips his head to the base of Will’s cock and licks a single broad stripe up his length, base to tip, simultaneously tightening his grip on Will’s ass, fingernails digging, just shy of pain, into the soft flesh. This pulls another low growl from Will and one of the hands twisted in Hannibal’s hair is removed to grip the countertop behind him instead, his knuckles turning white.
Hannibal pulls back again, rubbing Will’s cock on his wet lips and licking the slit with little flicks of his tongue. Will grips the countertop, his palm slippery with sweat, and a high, keening noise fighting its way out of his throat. Hannibal continues to explore the tip of Will’s cock with little flicks and Will tries very hard not to twitch when he hits a sensitive spot, his thigh muscle intermittently trembling beneath Hannibal’s hand. His other hand is busy behind Will, squeezing and stroking his ass, occasionally curving his fingers into the cleft of his cheeks to skim over his hole. When Hannibal takes Will fully in his mouth again, he moves the hand of Will’s thigh between his legs, lightly cupping his balls. He sets a steady pace and takes Will deep, sucking with a steady pressure, the hand on Will’s ass encouraging his to meet the pace and fuck Hannibal’s mouth. When Hannibal cups his balls and uses a finger to gently stroke his perineum, Will feels his release starting, the heat and pull of it low in his belly. Unsure whether Hannibal wants him to come, and, if so, if he wants Will to finish in his mouth, he tries to force out a warning. “Hannibal, I’m g-going…” he chokes on a moan before he can finish the sentence but Hannibal clearly heard and understood him, as he quickens his pace, head bobbing on Will’s cock, fingers digging into his ass and rubbing gentle circles into the sensitive spot just behind his balls. Will involuntarily tightens his grip on Hannibal’s hair, thrusting barely controlled jerks into Hannibal’s glorious, tight, hot mouth. Hannibal swallows, his throat constricting around Will, and he is pushed over the edge, knuckles white on the counter. He comes in long, wracking contractions, his release acrid and thick in Hannibal’s mouth. He comes so hard he can see sparks behind his closed eyelids and a groan is ripped from somewhere deep inside him.
Hannibal indulgently milks him through the aftershocks, mouth and hands gentling coaxing him through the last spasms of his orgasm. When he is finally finished, Hannibal leans back slightly, resting his hands lightly on Will’s exposed hipbones and leaning his forehead against the gentle curve of his stomach. They rest like this, panting, for a few minutes. When Will finally opens his eyes and lets out a sound that is halfway between a laugh and a sigh, Hannibal leans back and looks up at him. There is blood smeared across his cheek, his chin and his lips are red and glistening with Will’s blood and his come. His hair has long since been pulled into disorder and it hangs in his eyes, which are still dark with lust and a fierce possessiveness. He looks predatory. Wild. Dangerous. A wolf in the guise of a sheep. The Devil, in the guise of a man.
It is the most beautiful thing Will has ever seen.
After gazing at each other for countless minutes, Hannibal draws the back of his hand over his mouth and says, with complete seriousness, “I think it has been thirty minutes.” Will truly does laugh then.
“Ever the pragmatist.”
Hannibal rises very gracefully from the floor, without any of the stiffness that should accompany a man of his age kneeling for so long. Will wonders if he ever feels his age, if he would allow himself such a human weakness. Once he has risen and fastidiously brushed off the knees of his dress pants (the floor is, of course, spotless and so it is a futile gesture), he straightens his shirt and runs his fingers through his disheveled hair. Will is attempting to fix the disarray of his clothing, pulling his pants back up, tucking in his shirt. As he is doing up his belt, he glances up and catches Hannibal reguarding him with a very tender expression. He smiles in response and impulsively stretches his arms out to Hannibal, palms up. Hannibal steps into them and Will wraps his arms around Hannibal, splaying his hands across the broad muscles of his back and pressing his face into his chest, nose nudging at the base of his throat. Hannibal’s arms embrace Will, one hand cradling his head and lightly stroking his curls. It is a familiar embrace, entirely comforting and loving. It is like stepping into a warm bath after being out in the cold. It is like coming home.
Will pulls his head away from Hannibal’s chest to look up into his face. Hannibal’s eyes meet his and Will can see nothing but love in their depths. Hannibal dips his head to capture Will’s mouth. The kiss is close mouthed and gentle, but not without passion. Will is continually surprised at the inexhaustible nature of their desire for one another. It is always present, in one form or another. It is not always sexual, but it is always potent, an insistent tug on a connection forged somewhere below the skin, as if their connection was a living thing, the very muscle and tissue of their hearts woven together . The desire to touch, to possess, to be close and to lose themselves in the complete comfort and warmth of their sameness and understanding of one another , was always there. Will cannot help the small hum of content that escapes him. Hannibal’s mouth is soft and wide, his body solid against Will. Will can taste the metallic tang of his blood, the salt of his come and the strange, warm spiciness that is Hannibal’s alone.
~
Sometimes, Will Graham feels the sweet and easy peace he longs for.
Often, he does not.
But always, always, there is Hannibal. There is the sweet curve of Hannibal’s mouth, the touch of his hand, the warmth of his body. There is the universe they have built between them, in real and imagined spaces. There is cruelty and kindness and a deep well of love there, many frightening and beautiful things that belong to him and him alone. Will knows he is falling, knows he will never stop falling. He has stopped worrying about whether Hannibal will be there to catch him. He has chosen to fall, chosen to drink the Koolaid and dance with the Devil and lose himself in the hot darkness that is Hannibal Lecter.
Always, now, there is Hannibal. And the smell of the sea.
Draw another picture
Of a life you could've had
Follow your instincts
And choose the other path