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“I love you.”
It’s the first time Will has said the words aloud, and they hang weightless in the dawn air, still and split through with the first glint of Florentine sunlight.
Hannibal eyes bloom wide. Sirens wail off-key in the distance.
Will tucks a hand behind Hannibal’s neck, draws him in close and desperate. They close their eyes, pants of exertion coasting out of them as they taste each other’s breath.
Will kisses him, sharp and true. Then, just as sharp, he shoves Hannibal away and turns from him to cut a path through the morning fog that has coiled around them. Taut muscles shimmer in ripples along his back. The sirens grow louder. Will bares his teeth in a snarl, flexing his hands and recurving them into fists. There is blood beneath his fingernails and he needs more of it. A warped shout breaks through the fog, a warning, a command. Will tosses it aside, draws back on his haunches, and pounces.
He hears a single gunshot before the dawn shifts swiftly from grey to black.
-x-
Will wakes in alarm, his entire body mid-spasm. He is breathing in hard, knotted rasps and he presses a palm to his eyes, deep enough to see pained welts of colour.
He was in Florence. There was blood. And now he isn’t in Florence and there isn’t blood and… he loves Hannibal.
It isn’t a shocking thunderbolt to his chest, there is no violence in his realization. It’s barely a realization, just a shifting of clarity. Sometimes dreams are weighted with symbolism, sometimes dreams are just dreams, but sometimes dreams will spell things out very clearly and succinctly. For Will, he notes, that happens to involve more than the standard amount of blood. He wonders absently what the standard amount is, then shakes it off, tossing aside the covers and heading to the bathroom. He splashes water onto his sleep-deprived face and takes in his reflection.
This is the man that loves Hannibal Lecter.
He doesn’t look much different from the man who loved Molly Foster, but his face is drawn in shadow, and a scar runs small but wicked across his cheek.
It is an ungodly hour of the morning, and Hannibal is most certainly asleep, but Will thinks he should tell Hannibal what he probably already knows. He owes it to him, in his way.
He crosses the house to the master bedroom and slips into the doorway. Hannibal is sleeping, and Will watches him quietly. He wonders if his confession will place him in this bed. He wonders if he wants it to. There’s love and there’s Love, and there’s every italic and quotation mark in between, but what beats in him is undefined and raw and a little bit angry in its devotion. He’s not sure where it will lead him, but at least he can put a name to it.
He stops still in the doorway at the weight of his realization. Naming it will change everything. Speaking it aloud will place the last link on the chain that pulls him further and further down into a great plush blackness he longs to drown in. He takes in Hannibal’s sleeping form, the slope of his back a soft rise and fall, and turns away, heading back to the vacant coldness of his own room.
Hannibal shifts, presses his face into the down of his pillow, and tries to set himself back to sleep after the very nearness of Will Graham had suddenly torn him from slumber.
-x-
In the morning, Will runs his hand along Hannibal’s back as he enters the kitchen. He feels the surprise flutter through him, feels him settle against it, and says nothing further.
Hannibal’s gaze becomes more unguarded around him, and he catches him staring at his mouth from time to time, but he doesn’t act on it. He mulls over the idea of it and decides he might like to, but doesn’t pursue it.
Together they murder a man who had established an illegal dog fighting ring. It is an absurdly easy kill for Will, and he finds poetic justice in feeding his parts to the malnourished and abused animals. Will embraces Hannibal and kisses his cheek when they’ve finished their work, mostly because he knows it’s what Hannibal wants, but partly to see if he’ll hate it. He doesn’t. It feels strange, but normal.
Will wonders if now might be the perfect time to name what he knows to Hannibal, covered in blood as they are, but instead he wipes a red-soaked thumb against his lip and asks how many of the dogs they can keep.
-x-
“I love you.”
The sirens are louder still. Hannibal’s eyes are wide and confused. The fog is thicker now, he can only just make out the man in front of him.
Voices bark from far away, muffled, angry, almost upon them.
“You need to go,” Will says. He shoves at Hannibal, then grabs at him, clutching a handful of his shirt to pull him back. He kisses him, and it is hard and deep and very clearly the last time.
“Daylight is coming,” Will says, more desperate now, shoving Hannibal back. “Go.”
He turns away then, back into the fog, towards the shouts and klaxon wailing. He snarls and pounces. The bullets start hit him mid-leap, and he feels himself fall. He manages to twist a glance over his shoulder as he hits the ground, and he sees that Hannibal is gone. Blood burbles out of his lip and he grins. The glow of daylight starts to dim, everything around him filtered into monochrome.
A burst of color and sound strikes through the pain and he raises his head, ready to bite at whoever comes for him first. He will die for Hannibal like the animal he is.
The voices stretch distant, taut, then begin to spring back. Despair sinks low and cold. They’re not coming for him. Sharp footsteps sing out over the cobblestones and in the distance, through a filmy scarlet, he can see them dragging Hannibal, his arms cuffed behind him.
Hannibal did not leave, and now Will is leaving without him.
He tries to croak out something, anything, but the words snap off brittle in his throat. Hannibal meets his eyes, dark and sad as he is paraded away, the great Il Mostro clipped of his wings.
Will is alone, dying on a beautiful and cold street just as the rays of sunlight reach out to warm him.
The warmth never finds him.
-x-
Will wakes with a shout this time, the sweat dripping from his brow. He does not go to Hannibal, choosing instead to lie awake in exhausting stubbornness and examining his ceiling until day breaks. This will keep torturing you, he thinks, you’ll die a thousand times before you tell him. He ignores himself and stares upward, still and troubled by the ghost of those sad eyes.
The next day he can’t stop himself and he kisses Hannibal good morning over the kitchen counter. It’s a little thing, their mouths don’t even meet fully, he catches the corner of his lips and their noses press awkwardly together, but it feels good and honest and Hannibal’s smile washes away the last of the tension that had been set into his limbs from the nightmare.
Will looks at Hannibal’s eyes so bright and grateful and thinks this might be the right moment for him to confess, but Hannibal turns back to fluff the eggs in the skillet and Will lets the moment pass him like a train through a closed station. He hears the echo of the roar of it long after it has passed through.
Will decides to experiment and turns his new morning greeting into a habit. The kisses are fleeting and fond, but each day they seem to last a fraction of a second longer. After a week of relative chasteness Hannibal grabs at Will’s hair and pulls at him until they are pressed flush together. He angles him, just slightly, to better fit his mouth to his, and kisses him deep and passionate, stroking his tongue against Will’s with eagerness. Will arches into it, his hands moving to loop his thumbs into the strings of Hannibal’s apron, clutching low at his hips.
Hannibal breaks the kiss to return his attentions to breakfast, leaving Will kiss-swollen and unsteady.
“Good morning, Will,” he says as though he has not just kissed the equilibrium out of him.
Will says something that sounds like it might have once been good morning and the love spills out of him so easily he thinks he might slip and fall on it.
He decides Hannibal must know of his love by now, and convinces himself there is no need to say it.
They continue this dance for weeks longer, until one morning the kisses press further into hot moans and clutching, and Hannibal sinks to his knees. Will lets Hannibal blow him and has the decency to feel guilty about it, but not guilty enough to stop it. He shoots down Hannibal’s throat and when Hannibal looks up at him with a beatific smile, regret drops into him like a weighted brick, heavy and painful.
They begin sharing a bed that evening, but Will does not let Hannibal touch him again.
-x-
“I love you.”
Wide eyes, a pressed kiss, desperation, anger and blood. All of it is amplified now.
Hannibal does not let the kiss leave him without a fight, clutching to Will and pulling more from his mouth, lips fevered and unforgiving in their adoration. He gathers Will into a tight embrace, everything in his touch is lined with the fear of their parting.
“Go,” Will says, Hannibal’s face cradled in his hands. He strokes the lines of his cheekbones, then gives him a shake. The sirens are pounding in their ears now. In twenty seconds they will be surrounded. There is no time.
Hannibal pulls himself free, but instead of heading into the darkness, he marches towards the light, the fog curling around and through him.
“Hannibal, no!” Will yells, the terror cutting through him.
Hannibal looks over his shoulder, his hands tensing into fists.
“I love you, Will,” he says, and as he turns away Will watches three bullets tear into his chest. Blood billows out in clouds that spray over Will’s face; Hannibal’s last touch, warm and liquid. As he watches Hannibal fall, he feels hands clasp at him, grabbing him roughly, the cold circles of handcuffs biting into his wrists.
He doesn’t even get to die by Hannibal’s side. They are pulling him away as he screams, pure and animal in his grief as the one thing he has loved most constant in his life suddenly and silently stops existing.
-x-
When he wakes this time, it is not with a shout, it is with tears. Tracks are running wet and messy down his face, and the open end of a sob coughs out of him. He wipes at his face with the heel of his palm but the tears do not seem to stop. He shifts himself to sit, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and leans into his knees, his head in his hands. He takes large, gulping breaths as he cards his fingers through his hair, clenching handfuls in small bursts. The flat warmth of a hand steady against his back speeds his calm immeasurably.
“Will?” Hannibal questions cautiously from behind him, and Will is hit with the weight of his own damned stubbornness.
All of these dreams, all of his fear and pride, and Hannibal is still here, palm pressed to his skin, his very nearness speaking all the vows that Will himself refuses to say. Hannibal’s love is deafening in its absoluteness.
Will leans back into Hannibal’s hand and turns to look at him. His hooded eyes are tender and puzzled, by both the violent waking and by something fresh and undefined he senses in Will’s mind.
Will rubs the rest of his tears away with a careless swipe and clears his throat, chasing a sharp sniffle.
He meets Hannibal’s eyes and certainty punches him in the gut. He breathes in and the world does not shift from its axis.
“So,” he says, quiet and firm, “I love you.”
He breathes out and the world remains upright.
Hannibal begins to weep.
His tears are silent and heavy. It is not the weeping of a maiden or a child, it is the weeping of a man who has been given a gift he has not been taught how to hold, and the weight of it has overwhelmed him.
Will moves to touch him and Hannibal shakes his head, his tears flowing almost disconcertingly free. He tries to speak but the words are knotted into his sobs and everything comes out a beautiful unrecognizable mess.
“Hannibal,” Will says, soft and gentle, “please”.
He doesn’t even know what he’s pleading for, but he opens his arms all the same and waits until Hannibal falls into them, his cries quieting but his body quaking in great shudders.
Will closes his arms around his love and strokes at his back, muttering assurance of reality as he feels Hannibal begin to question the fabric of it.
To put it mildly, this had not been the reaction he was expecting.
Will thinks he should find this embarrassing, but Hannibal’s response only serves to flood him with tenderness, he feels his heart rising and bobbing within his chest, buoyed by this outpouring of mingled disbelief and joy.
Hannibal pulls back suddenly, seizes Will’s face between his hands, and kisses him. He drops kisses over his face and against his neck, his mouth, his hair, everywhere he can press his reverence to. Will returns the kisses where he can, moving his hands to stroke along Hannibal’s strong forearms. Hannibal pulls Will’s lower lip into his mouth, sucking it before sliding his tongue against him. Will moves with the deepening of the kiss, pushing Hannibal back into the bed and letting their mouths tangle languid and slow.
“Please” Hannibal entreats, “show me?”
Will nods against him and pulls his shirt over his head. Hannibal lays kisses into every inch of exposed skin, and Will leans eagerly into the touch. He reaches to unbutton Hannibal’s pajamas, skimming his fingers against the muscles of Hannibal’s chest, grazing against an exposed nipple. He watches it pebble into hardness and bows his head to take it into his mouth, stroking his face against Hannibal’s curling chest hair. It’s a strange sensation, but the notion of having pure Hannibal beneath him sends bolts of want through him, and he feels himself beginning to harden.
Hannibal frees them both of the remainder of their clothes and pulls Will down to him. They lay together, skin to skin, stroking fingers and mouths against places they have never touched before. Will groans freely against the curve of Hannibal’s neck as he feels a hand reach down and cup his cock.
“Will,” he hears him mutter against his cheek, “I would like to feel you inside me.”
Will’s hips give an involuntary jerk at this statement, and he sucks against Hannibal’s pulse, moaning in agreement.
Hannibal gently pushes Will aside, opens his bedside drawer and takes out a jar. He scoops a generous amount onto his fingers and lowers his hand.
“I need to prepare myself,” he says, and it’s almost comically clinical.
Will watches him, Hannibal’s cock pressed flush against his stomach, his fingers moving low and beginning to press inside. He hisses out a breath between his teeth. The idea of watching Hannibal finger himself open is almost offensively erotic, but after weeks of denial he wants to be the sole source of his pleasure.
“No,” Will says, moving Hannibal’s fingers, “let me.”
He takes the jar and slicks his own hand, scooting down the sheets to better angle himself.
Hannibal widens his hips, letting his knees fall to the sides, and Will falters for a moment. He can’t help but quirk an amused grin.
“I’m sorry,” Will says, “it’s just – I’ve never done this. How do you want – I mean how many-”
“Start with one finger,” Hannibal says, “you’ll know when to add another. I will open to you.”
Will feels his cock tighten at the last statement and swallows thickly.
“Right.”
Will begins to massage in teasing circles around his hole and Hannibal moans softly beneath him. Encouraged, he begins to press a finger inside and Hannibal rocks up against him.
“Yes,” he whispers, “yes.”
Will rubs slowly, responding eagerly to Hannibal’s direction. He feels the ring of muscle begin to loosen and he looks up at him from underneath his lashes, quirking his brow.
“Another?” he asks, almost coquettishly, and Hannibal raises his hips in response. Will can see fluid beginning to drip from his cock and tracing lines into his belly. He is struck with a sudden desire to know how the weight of Hannibal’s cock would feel within his mouth, but he places the thought to the side, for next time, and slips another finger up into him. Hannibal’s sweet mewls in response send reflexive ripples of pleasure through him. He feels Hannibal beginning to angle against him, and he curls his fingers, thrusting up to the knuckle, stroking harder. He finds what he is searching for when Hannibal suddenly cries out, loud and sharp, and he rubs in circles against the sweet spot he has found. He feels Hannibal opening further around his fingers, and he takes his cock in his free hand, thrusting into his own fist in anticipation as Hannibal rocks against him.
“Now, Will,” Hannibal groans, and Will shudders with want.
He pulls his fingers free and dips his fingers back into the jar, spreading slick along his already dripping cock. He raises himself up onto his knees and watches Hannibal spread his thighs wider. It takes all of his self-control not to spill into his hand right then and there, seeing Hannibal so vulnerable and bare.
Hannibal opens his arms to him and Will bears down, balancing over him with one hand, guiding the head of his cock against Hannibal’s entrance with the other. He pushes slowly and is met with a brief resistance, before he presses firmer and feels himself slowly enter him.
“Oh,” he groans, “Oh God.”
“Will,” Hannibal sighs in response.
Will grits his teeth, breathing harsh out of his nose. It feels incredibly, immensely good, he can feel Hannibal gripping around him, sucking him in, and he wants nothing more than to bury himself completely. He looks down at Hannibal and sees that tears are beginning to spill out of him again, but now they are formed from awe.
Will begins to move, pulling back slightly and letting himself sink a little deeper on each thrust. Small gasps are erupting from Hannibal as Will strikes places within him that ignite flames of pleasure, and Will feels a deep urge to bring Hannibal closer to him, to hold him and taste the sweat of his skin.
Will dips down for a kiss and reaches between Hannibal’s thighs to stroke his cock, but Hannibal pushes his hand away.
“No,” he breathes, “I want to come solely from you inside me.”
Will swears quietly and curves an arm under Hannibal’s head, pulling him in for a deep, wet kiss. He presses their foreheads tightly together, panting into his mouth.
“Are you sure you can come like this?” Will rasps, and Hannibal arches up into him.
“Just like this,” Hannibal says, angling himself so that every thrust strikes deep and draws electric current through their bodies.
Will holds Hannibal and rocks into him with long, sweet strokes, nothing between them but breath and awe.
Hannibal comes without a sound, and Will watches his face tense up in a paroxysm of ecstasy. Hannibal’s eyes are tinged with fear and surprise, and Will realizes with smug triumph that no one has ever made Hannibal come like this before. He holds him through his release, kissing at his cheeks and brow until Hannibal remembers to take in air, then he kisses the breath back out of him. Hannibal whimpers yearning into Will’s mouth, clutching at his face and hair, his entire body trembling. Will feels as though he has deflowered a virgin on her wedding night, and the thought makes him smile against Hannibal’s lips.
Will is still rooted deep in Hannibal as the last of the shocks ripple out, and he feels his cock twitch inside him. Hannibal clenches around him in response, and the tenderness begins to bleed out of his demeanor. Emboldened by the strength of his orgasm, Hannibal shoves at Will until he is flat on his back. The movement separates them and Will groans pitifully at the loss, but before the last of his cries can leave him, Hannibal has straddled him, grabbing Will’s cock in his hand and sinking back down, enveloping him in heat. Will reflexively grabs at Hannibal’s hips and watches him begin to rise and fall, mesmerized. His eyes travel up his body, sees the smear of pearlescent fluid across his chest, the silver-dried tear tracks that trace sharp along his cheekbones.
Hannibal is goddamned beautiful, and Will moans deep at the sight of him.
He continues to ride him, merciless and fierce, and this is the side of Hannibal’s love that Will knows. The untamed beast that wants to consume as equally as conserve, and it is sinfully good to feel that devotion from the inside out.
“Say it,” Hannibal begs of him, only it isn’t a plea, it’s a command, and Will feels Hannibal shift his weight and place a hand at his throat. His hips buck violently against the sensation, and he meets Hannibal’s wild eyes.
“I-” he says, but the words thicken inside his mouth.
Hannibal clenches hard around him and it rips a groaning curse out of Will.
“Say it,” Hannibal snarls, and Will feels the fingers pressing into his skin.
He wants to say it, God he wants to worship the creature astride him, but he just can’t loosen the knots from his tongue.
“I-” he tries again, and Hannibal’s grip tightens and suddenly they are in the Norman Chapel, only Hannibal is fucking him atop the altar. He is a vision, unholy and perfect, and Will is blinded by it.
“I hate how fucking beautiful you are right now,” he says, his thrusts growing frenzied and erratic.
“I hate how much you love me,” he vows, “I hate how much I need it.”
Hannibal’s grip around his neck slackens and Will grabs at his hand, holding it in place.
“No,” he hisses, and Hannibal smiles, dark and victorious. He tightens his fingers again and Will feels the storm within him rising.
“I hate that I can’t exist without you.” Will’s own eyes darken with rolling clouds and he echoes Hannibal’s smile. “I love that you can’t exist without me.”
The air in the room is heavy and thick with heat and static, Will can feel the sparks and tendrils licking into him as Hannibal grinds hard against him.
“I hate that we kill,” he says, “and I hate that I don’t care.”
He pulls Hannibal’s hand free of his throat and drags it across his mouth, sucking at his fingers and running his teeth against the pad of Hannibal’s thumb.
“I love that we kill,” he purrs around his fingers, “I hate that too.”
Hannibal leans forward and braces his hands over Will’s head, bending to kiss him with punishing force. Will bites up at him, licking against his teeth and cursing into his worshipping mouth.
“I hate how much I love you,” he growls, “and Christ, Hannibal, I love you.”
Lightning strikes and Will comes, a wild strangled yell ripping out of him, his fingers dug so deep into Hannibal’s hips he can already feel the bruises.
Hannibal milks the last of Will’s orgasm out of him, riding him until Will winces from the oversensitivity. He releases him slowly, and Will watches the come leak out of him, enthralled by the lewd sight of it.
“I must clean up,” Hannibal says, suddenly all perfunctory business, and Will chuckles.
“No,” he says succinctly, grabbing at Hannibal’s wrist to pull him into his arms. He feels Hannibal’s moue of distaste muffled into his shoulder, and it only spurs him to wrap around him tighter.
“I love you,” he says, clear and bright this time, and he feels Hannibal hitch a breath against him.
“I thought you knew,” Will murmurs soft against his hair, and Hannibal sighs.
“Perhaps I knew,” Hannibal admits, “in abstract. But to have true knowledge of it, to feel it...” He curls a hand around Will’s shoulder, sweeping a thumb across his collarbone.
“That, I was not prepared for.”
“I could tell,” Will laughs, and feels Hannibal smile into his skin.
He strokes Hannibal’s back with gentle fingers and casts his mind back to his dream, to the sad gaze of Il Mostro, and he grows serious and quiet.
“If they ever catch up with us, let’s not do anything stupid and self-sacrificing,” Will says, and Hannibal raises his head to look at him perplexed.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve already died for you once. Hell, more than once, but I’ll call it even if you’ll agree that if they come for us, you’ll run with me.”
“I have been running with you for a very long time, Will. I don’t ever intend to stop.”
“Good,” Will said, and kissed him softly.
He settled back into the pillows, sated and bone-tired, Hannibal’s love and weight pressed snugly into him.
“But just to be safe, let’s never go back to Florence.”