Archive of Our Own

"Why, oh, why
does the soul from its eternal height
fall into abysmal depths?
Within the fall the power lies to rise again.”

— S. Ansky, The Dybbuk

Sometimes Will suddenly opens his eyes in the middle of the night, for no apparent good reason, and finds the stag standing in front of his bed, his eyes as black as pitch staring at him: the beast comes closer slowly, without making any sound, until he can feel his warm breath lingering above his body like a shroud.

Will sits up on the bed and they stare at each other, the animal and the man, for what feels like a very, very long time: then the stag lowers his head, like he's bowing to him, and Will gently caresses it, feeling the fur damp and cold under his hand. The stag lets him, doesn't move, and emits out a soft moan of approval at his gesture.

“Shadows are gathering.”

The stag whispers in his head, its eyes flickering red for a moment, a familiar grin appearing and disappearing in the span of a second on its muzzle.

“I know.”

“And winter is coming for you. It's already in your bones. It's all around you. It'll not let you go.”

Will smiles in the dark and nods, before taking his hand away and blinking: the stag is gone when he opens his eyes again.

He goes back to lie down on the bed, staring at the blank walls, still smiling.

Winter, he thinks, is all I want.

Will wakes up in a pool of sweat, breathing so fast and hard his lungs hurt and he can't even get up for a few minutes, his body stiff and paralyzed, still caught up in a vortex of fear that doesn't want to let him go: all he can do is staring at the ceiling, eyes wide, for long, long minutes.

Once he can move again, and his body feels sore when he does and sits up, taking his face in his hands and triying not to think about the nightmare that still has a tight grip on his mind, creeping behind his closed eyelids.

Will feels something sticky on his hands; blood, he thinks right away, blood on my hands, red warm wet blood, but when he turns on the light, they're clean, only damp with sweat.

He takes a deep breath, eyes closed, heart slowly going back to a normal rate, but he still needs a few more minutes before he can get out if the bed, his legs like butter, shaking and struggling to support his weight.

Will stumbles towards the bathroom, and sits into the bathtub naked, dirty clothes all over the floor: he shivers, his teeth rattling, but doesn't move, needing to feel the cold porcelain against his skin to have something real to cling to, because everything else is a mess of shadows and relics of bad dreams and his mind is too heavy and clouded to be able to tell what's actually there from what isn't.

Sometimes, the nightmares seem to get better, to leave him alone for a while; but then they come back, like they just refuse to relinquish their prize without a fight, attacking him even more fiercely, with the result that he's left broken and exhausted by them even more than before.

He never dreams when he's with Hannibal: the cold, strong and firm presence of the other man's body against his banishes them all, leaving his mind light and empty. It's a blessing, a gift he treasures as much as he can.

Will takes slow breathes and closes his eyes.

Behind his eyelids, he sees black figures dancing and calling him to them, their voices like melodious and sweet songs to his ears, soft and gentle and so, so seducing; he almost reaches out to try to touch them, but he's too weak and tired to do it: shivers and trembles shake his body and sleep almost manages to overcome him.

That's when he feels something warm pressing against his cheek.

Winston is in front of him, licking his face and poking at it with his nose; Will manages to smile and gently touches the dog, feeling its fur under his hand. For a moment, he thinks of the stag. He banishes the thought as fast as he can, focusing on the animal in front of him, clinging to him for support.

"You wish your other master were here too?"

The dog barks softly and Will sighs.

"Me too, Winston, me too."

Should I still call you Winston, he finds himself thinking, or should I use your other name? But he can't bring himself to even say it, so it remains buried in his throat. Accepting who he is, who Hannibal is, it's one thing; tainting everything else around him with that knowledge and recognition seems wrong.

And too much for him to handle in the state he's in; his mind feels weaker than ever, like it has to be broken and overwhelmed, before it can be fixed so he can get better.

Will gets up and takes a long, hot shower to chase away the chills from his body. The silence around him is absolute and Winston stands outside like a quiet guardian, watching over him like a shadow ready to devour anything that may try to harm him.

He only wishes he could have a Winston to guard his thoughts and keep the nightmares away.
But he's not that lucky, and all he can do is enduring.

Will should be surprised when he finds Hannibal waiting for him, sitting on his bed, when he goes back to the bedroom: but he isn't and a genuine smile lights his face at the sights of him.

"Do you always wear your suits?"

Hannibal laughs softly and looks so incredibly out of place perfectly dressed on Will's rumpled and messy bed, in a room where chaos is absolute.

"You of all people should know that I do not, Will."

Will feels suddenly aware of his naked body and fumbles to find some clothes; Hannibal's eyes follow all his moves, examining his body with the attention of the doctor he still is. Don't think about that, he tells himself, don't think about what his hands have done, it'll drive you insane and you're already on the edge.

He puts on only a pair of shorts and then turns to face the other man again.

“You shouldn't do that, come here like this. Or you should teach me how to do it, so I can at least return the favor.”

“All you have to do is wanting to do it, Will, I have told you so already. It's all inside you, just waiting to come out.”

Will doesn't reply; he sits at the end of the bed without looking at Hannibal, sighing when he hears him starting to take off his jacket and vest, abandoning them on the bedside. The air around him caresses his skin with icy breaths; Will shivers, but doesn't move, stays right there, not ready yet to turn around and face the other man, who keeps his distance and doesn't try to touch him.

That, he realizes, has always been Hannibal's way to slip into his life undetected; he never had Jack's aggressive behavior, or Alana's professions of friendship: he was there quietly, looking at him from the corners of the rooms, bringing him food, carefully carving his place in his days without raising Will's alarms.

One moment he wasn't there, the next he was everywhere, his scent permeating everything, his presence filling the rooms, trapping him: but at that point, Will had no intention of escaping. And now... now the link between them is so strong, he can feel him even when he's not with him, can hear his voice in his hears even when Hannibal is quiet.

It's a blood bond, something so tight and so absolute Will can feel its ropes around his body always, rubbing against his already abused and red skin.

“Are you really here? Or... or I'm hallucinating again?”

His voice is almost a prayer, a desperate call for help; Hannibal puts an hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Will's breath falters.

“I am right here with you, Will.”

Will gets on top of him and lets Hannibal caress his almost naked body with his ice cold hands, pressing kisses on his neck and shoulders, making him moan softly.

"Bad dreams once again?"

He simply nods, there's no way he can hide this from Hannibal anyway.

"Do you want me to help you forget them?"

Will doesn't reply.

He kisses Hannibal and his mind becomes suddenly as quiet as a grave.

It becomes easier to slip into the minds of the killers: he can see everything with an incredible clarity, the images so vivid it feels like the events are happening right in front of him. He can taste the blood in his mouth, feel it on his hands, smell it all around him.

But he doesn't lose himself anymore: there's a distance between Will and the monsters he empathizes with that he never experienced before; something that keeps his mind anchored to reality, to his own body.

He can see everything, can feel everything, but he knows that that's not him. A veil covers him, protecting him almost.

Will stops hallucinating and sleepwalking; maybe because now he knows that the hallucinations could possibly not be just tricks of his mind, but peaks and glimpse of a world that it's just starting to open and flower in front of him, still hidden by a soft cloud of mist that becomes thinner and thinner every day.

Maybe because there's a calm in his mind that he never felt before, something strong and real he can reach towards and cling to, a darkness that hides him, that he just wants to embrace, so he can disappear inside it.

Inside Hannibal's shadows, with the spirits of the dead as his companions, singing for him, dancing around him, like his dogs when they celebrate the return of their master.

He can slip into the minds of the killers because he understands them, but now can stay out because he knows that he's different: the taste of death and bloodshed and decay he can sometimes feel in his mouth has nothing to do with the minds he links with. It's all inside him: old memories that flash through his brain like shooting stars, nightmares that are not dreams, but things he did in an incredibly vast number if past lives, of deaths and rebirths in a cycle that will never end.

He's blessed with the gift of forgetfulness at least: when he dies, he forgets, his mind erasing what he was, starting anew, building itself slowly and waiting for him to be ready before revealing the truth: he can only imagine how devastating is must be for Hannibal, that constant feeling of being divided between two words always, without a single moment of peace.

Will closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, blood filling his nostrils, slipping into his throat and then into his lungs, until it's everything he can feel and taste.

When he opens them again, he sees.

"Why do you eat them?"

It's raining outside, heavily: big, angry drops hitting the house and the windows, filling the air with their hypnotic sound; the room is half dark, only illuminated by a small lamp in a corner and by the fireplace, shadows stretching all around them. Will shifts uncomfortably in his chair, curling his legs under him, trying to see the reaction on Hannibal's face.

But the other man has none, except for an almost invisible smile: he stretches out his hand and Winston obediently goes to brush his head against it, accepting his attentions with the same ease he reserves to Will's.

He feels a fit of jealousy rushing through his heart: towards whom? He asks himself, but he has no answers to give.

"Why are you asking?"

Because you haven't fed anymore since... you found me, because you're far too careful with me and I wonder what it means, what you're hiding, if this is another test, another choice you want me to make; Will thinks all this in the span of a few seconds, but says nothing for a while, measuring all the words carefully.

Because every word is a potential weapon in Hannibal's expert hands, a dagger ready for him, only waiting for a mistake, a moment of distraction to hit and make him even weaker, more and more lost in Hannibal's web.

"When I profiled... the Chesapeake Ripper..."

He cannot bring himself to say you, because the Ripper is not him, the Ripper is nothing but a lie, another mask made to hide what Hannibal really is: and what he is, it's so much Will is still beginning to understand it, to put all the piece together and to unveil the secret behind his stormy eyes that always look restless, that always follow him, that he feels on his skin no matter where he goes.

Will takes a long sip of his wine, before continuing.

"The Ripper sees his victims as nothing but pigs, animals ready for the slaughter. They're absolutely worthless, insects without purpose that he can stomp over without feeling any guilt or regret."

When he speaks of it, Will can almost taste the victims meat in his mouth, mixed with different flavors and sauces, strong and rich, but never completely capable of masking the aftertaste of blood, of humanity and life of them: maybe it's only his imagination, maybe he's putting too much weight on these unreliable memories, on feeling that are too raw and sensitive right now, but he just can't shake them off.

The thought remains and burns into his brain. He wonders if Hannibal knows.

These are question he has to ask no matter how much they hurt, how hard they claw at his heart, leaving marks that will take a long time to heal and that, even then, will leave behind faint scars that will never disappear completely.

Hannibal remains silent, looking at him, for an incredibly long time, his pupils shining red and amused with the fire reflecting in them, and Will cannot look away, feels compelled to keep staring while they dig inside him, take his heart apart with surgical precision, dissecting it until it lays open and exposed in front of them.

"One can find power in everything, Will. Even in worthless insects, as you called them. Power is power, it doesn't matter where it comes from. If you want it, you have to take it, by force and violence if necessary. By bathing in the blood of your enemies and eat their flesh."

"You killed and ate those people because they were powerful in some way?"

Hannibal breathes deeply and drinks some wine as well, savoring it instead of gulping it down like he does.

"I ate some parts of them because they served a purpose. There are many forms of power here in this world, Will: some require... extreme ways to be acquired."

"It doesn't explain why you were feeding them to us, then. Why waste that power for people who couldn't benefit from it?"

Hannibal smiles and his smile is all sharp teeth and wickedness that radiates from him to Will, filling the space between them.

"I am a bored and cruel god, Will. I take my small amusements where I find them. You of all people should know it. How could I pass the opportunity to feed my victims to the very people who were investigating their tragic passings?"

Will takes a deep breath and closes his eyes: Winston comes to rest his head on his lap and he caresses the dog absently, staring into his warm and kind eyes, trying to find the courage to let the question that has been stuck in his throat for oh, so, so long finally out, to free himself of it.

Because yes, there is a question that has plagued his mind from the start and refuses to leave no matter how much he tries not to think about it, how much he refuses to word it even to himself in the deep recesses of his soul.

Hannibal sights and once again stretches out his hand; Will puts one of his legs on his lap, sighing when the man starts to caress his naked foot, stroking the skin with a care and a gentleness that doesn't match the image of the ferocious and merciless killer he was just picturing; his fingers are delicate, almost loving.

Will closes his eyes for a while, breathes deeply, letting the air go in and out as slowly as he can, until he feels his body relax enough to take another sip of wine; the taste spreads in his mouth, the liquid red and cool as it slides down his throat.

Hannibal keeps caressing him and when Will finally looks back at him, there's a softness in his gaze that brings him back to a different time, to old memories of pasts he treasures even thought they hurt because he knows they'll never come back and that there are some he has lost forever along the way, among the lives he has lived.

Memories that have slipped through his fingers, disappearing into the void, too far for him to reach them; Will wonders how important those recollections were for him, if the reason why they're now gone is because he didn't cling to them hard enough.

"You have stopped feeding them to me."

He didn't mean to stress the last word so much, but his voice seems to betray his real emotions as much as his body does, trembling at every touch.

His tone always come out accusingly and angry in these situations, making Hannibal indulgently frown.

"Yes. I know."

"Why?"

Hannibal takes a few moments to reply, carefully choosing the words like he always does. In the end, he doesn't answer the question, another thing he's oh so very good at.

"Do you want me to start again?"

He has been incredibly careful to avoid putting meat in Will's plates, sometimes, and he knows it's true, even depriving himself of that pleasure not to arise any suspect in him.

But Will noticed, because just like it's hard to hide his own thoughts and his intentions from him, for Hannibal as well it's not that easy to go unnoticed to Will anymore; his soul and his mind are turbid, the shadows inside them too deep for him to see sometimes, but he can still catch glimpses and shreds of what's behind the curtain.

"Do you need me to say it? Is this another test? Another choice?"

Hannibal lowers his head and gently kisses the plant of his foot, his tongue flicking just for a second over his skin, making Will moan under his breath, forcing him to grip the chair in order to stay still.

"No, there is no ritual involved this time. But yes, it is another choice. If you eat my food again, you'll be my accomplice this time, fully aware of what I have done and why. Of what it is really in your plate, of what you're putting in your mouth."

"I know."

"Do you really?"

"Yes."

The man nods absently, his eyes are unreadable, firm and stern; like they are merely talking about the weather or the mundane ordeals of their days: not about murder and cannibalism. Will almost wants to laugh.

"And?"

Will feels the tongue thick in his mouth when he speaks, the words coming out awkwardly.

"I want you to. Please."

Hannibal caresses his calf for a few more minutes, before letting his leg go; Will curls again on his chair, resting his head against the soft pillow behind it, closing his eyes and still feeling the faint pressure of the other man's hands on him even though it's gone now.

"You don't have to ask, Will. Or beg. You just have to say yes, and I shall try to meet your desires."

Will doesn't look away, even though the intensity of Hannibal's gaze seems to burn on his skin.

"I want you to start feeding me again."

Hannibal smiles and finishes his wine, looking at him like he's almost proud of him; Will feels his chest heavy and his mind almost dizzy.

Winston brushes his nose against his bended knee, trying to put his head in his lap: caressing the dog seems to bring him back to the reality somehow, distracting him from glimpses of shadows moving behind Hannibal, of something invisible and dangerous binding itself to him, reaching out until Will can feel it on his body and shivers in the cold evening.

"Very well, then. I will come up with something special for the occasion."

He's in between, trapped halfway: still too much alive to belong completely to the dead and too far from the world of the living to be still fully a part of it. He thinks of Georgia Madchen and feels that he can now understand her even better than he did before; because the desire to give in and close his eyes, to forget that the world exists is strong it's almost overwhelming.

Because the cold breath of death is all around him now, sinks into his bones and creates a barrier between him and everything else, between him and the people he knows, who try to reach out for him, but that don't fully realize that he's too far away now.

Sometimes Will wants to talk about it, to let what's torturing him finally out, but words have too much power and he's still shaking on his new legs, unsure where to step, to engage in such discussions with Hannibal, who can use his darkness to bring him to his knees with just a nod of his head, who will be always tempted to do it no matter how much he cares about him; so he doesn't.

He stays quiet and allows long hours to pass between them in silence, smoothing the edges and wrapping around him and Hannibal like a cloak of things that remain untold and hidden; Will feels tired, even breathing is hard and difficult, like there's something on his chest that presses on his lungs.

“Let's go to bed.”

Hannibal looks at him and smiles, actually managing to make him feel a little bit better; there's something in the way he smiles that seems to sooth him somehow. The light in his eyes is red because of the fire reflecting in them and his face is half hidden by the long shadows stretching around them; Will sometimes wants to be afraid of him, of the monster hidden under the perfect suits and the reassuring smiles.

Of the predator ready to shallow him whole if he's not careful.

And when he finds himself unable to be scared or worried about the way Hannibal looks at him or by what he is, when he feels ready to expose his naked and delicate throat to Hannibal's teeth, Will can't help to think that there must be something really wrong with him.

Something broken beyond any chance of repair that makes the embrace of a serial killer one of the few things capable of putting his mind to rest, of giving him the peace he needs.

Maybe I'm really not human, he thinks, maybe that's the reason why I feel safe only when I am in his arms, when I feel him breathing on my skin. Because he's a monster and so am I.

We are both monsters and we can only feel good when we are together.

"Very well then."

Hannibal gets up and shushes Winston away, the dog obediently following his command and resting in a corner while he tends to the fireplace; Will looks at him and takes his stretched hand when the man offers it.

The skin is cold against his, Will shivers and goes with him in the bedroom.

Hannibal fucks him slowly, taking his time to undress him, to kiss his whole body like it's the first time he's seeing it and he's mesmerized by every single one of his muscles, by every part of him; Will moans and whines under him, grabs his shoulders, bites his neck and his collarbone and the man smiles at him and there are blades and dangers hidden in that smile.

He always fucks him like he thinks he's something fragile and delicate in his hands, like he's afraid to break him if he presses too hard, if he uses to much strength in handling him; so Will claws at his back, tries all he can to get a reaction out of him that is not condescending and amused gentleness.

Sometimes, he catches glimpses of the real Hannibal, of the terrible and merciless god under the mask, and that fuels his arousal more than every caress, than every touch, makes him whimper and plead like he's physically hurting to be used, to be taken hard until he's left hurt and boneless on the bed.

Will wants to be fucked so hard he'll break in Hannibal's arms, aches for those cold hands to be rough on his skin; but what he gets instead is the slow burn of him moving inside him, leaving soft marks on him, nothing that will stay more than a couple of days, leaving behind only a faint and frustrating memory.

He imagines all the things that Hannibal could do to him if he wanted, if he just stopped pretending and faking, if he just let out the beast inside him, giving him the power of knowing that he can make Hannibal Lecter absolutely lose it, instead of insisting in treating him like a the broken teacup he no longer is.

When he comes, he whispers his name and Hannibal kisses him, caressing and guiding him through the orgasm, holding him until his body stops shaking.

Will falls asleep in his arms and doesn't dream.

He goes to visit Georgia Madchen and they talk about death. She has soft spoken voice and looks at him like she believes he may be some sort of light at the end of a tunnel so dark it's hard to think it could ever be over.

Will doesn't have the heart to deny her this little solace, these small moments of tranquility, to tell her that there's no light and that even if there were one, it certainly wouldn't be him. Georgia tells him about what she saw, the hidden faces, the terrifying masks that haunted her and took away everything and everyone she loved and trusted.

When she tells him about the man at the hospital, the one with the skull mask that put the scissors in her hand and left without seeing a world, the only trace of his passage the horribly gaping mouth of doctor Sutcliff's corpse, Will has to suppress a shudder not to give himself away, even though he's sure Georgia wouldn't even notice it.

He closes his eyes, tries to breathe as slowly as he can to calm down and get a hold of himself, but instead feels another weight landing on his shoulders, another victim that trails back to him, another ghost ready to join all the others in following him around like a silent royal guard.

Sometimes, when the girl turns towards him, her face changes: an old crone with a pale, ghastly face, with deep sockets under eyes, puffy and red from weeping, and hands like claws appears in her place.

Will knows she's not aware of it, of what's hidden in the deepest recesses of her being: her mind is too damaged and tormented to be able to, and it's probably a blessing anyway. But he can see, and every image carves itself into his brain, new material for his nightmares. And he already knows what discovering the truth can do to someone, how terribly having to face a new and unexpected reality that has no kindness can hurt.

But ignorance can cut as deeply as knowledge; can carve a hole in your heart that it's impossible to fill, until you find the courage to face your demons.

He doesn't know which one he would choose.

Will wakes up and the room is so cold he can feel his teeth rattling furiously and his body shivering uncontrollably; the absolute darkness around him seems to engulf him whole, choking him, pressing on his lungs until he feels about to pass out. The bile in his stomach threatens to make him throw up and he can taste vomit in the back of his mouth.

The last shreds of the nightmare are slow to leave him, clinging to him like a vice and Will takes his head in his hands, closes his eyes, lets out a strangled and desperate moan, cold sweat on his skin making him feel even worst; like he's trapped in an ice cell and cannot get out of there no matter how hard he tries.

His lungs burn, his head pulses painfully and behind his eyes he can still see the gaping pits of despair he was falling into in the dream, filled with hands that tried to grab him, to bring him down with them; he can still hear their screams and their moans of pain in his ears.

It seems to takes hours for his body to calm down and after, he feels exhausted, every bones aches and cracks under the weight of the others, every muscle is on fire: he still gets up, stumbling in his steps, and takes a long, long hot shower.

It doesn't make him feel any better, but at least washes away the sweat and the last remains of sleep that still lingered on his skin.

The clock on his bedside tells him that it's almost two in the morning and he knows he'll never fall asleep again, not in the state he's into.

Without thinking, Will gets dressed, ignoring his worried dogs, gets in the car and drives.

"Were you expecting me or something?"

Hannibal smiles and lets him in, looking at the snow pooling on his jacket with a disapproving but amused expression on his face; Will can feel his stomach clench painfully.

"No, but my house is always open for you, no matter what time it may be. I am sure you know that."

When he tries to take his jacket off of him, Will backs away from him and Hannibal frowns; without waiting for him to say or do anything, he walks into the house and goes to sit on the couch, looking at the floor and refusing to make eye contact even when the other man follows him in the room, sliding his hands on his tights, unable to stay still. He feels like a trapped animal, desperate to find a way out from a prison he entered himself.

"Will?"

Will doesn't reply.

"Are you alright?"

He starts laughing without really wanting to, but he just can't stop: of all people, Hannibal is the last one who should have the right to ask that question and yet is the only one who does these days.

Will almost feels like crying, crying and laughing at the same time, feels his breath caught painfully in his throat, but doesn't stop, until Hannibal touches him and he slaps his hand away like he has been bitten.

He finally looks up and the expression he sees in Hannibal's eyes is dangerous, tiptoeing on the edge of pure anger; Will can't help but staring, trapped by those flaming eyes, conscious of the game he's playing, of the fact that he's toying with a savage beast that should not be provoked.

It only last for a moment, then Hannibal regains his composure and takes a chair to sit in front of him, keeping a respectful distance.

They stay in silence for a long time.

I want to sleep, I just want to sleep, I don't want to have nightmares anymore, I don't want to be afraid of closing my eyes when I'm alone in my bed, because you're not there to chase them away. I don't want all the horrible thoughts that fester into my brain anymore. I want them to go away.

His thoughts are so loud he's sure Hannibal can hear them; it's oddly comforting.

"I don't know if I can do this."

His voice is soft but surprisingly steady; Hannibal sighs.

"The choice was yours, Will. Yours alone."

"Maybe I made the wrong one. Maybe I've always made the wrong choice and now I'm paying the toll for it, for all of them, because my mind won't let me be. I can't stop thinking; I can't shut... the questions I have in my head. I have so many of them and they don't want to go away."

He doesn't look up, but can feel the heat of the other man's gaze burning on his skin, making his whole body ache to touch, to feel his hands on him; it's a reflex he just can't help to feel: every time they're too close he's compelled to go even closer, grab Hannibal's face and kiss him. To let Hannibal fuck him wherever they are, it doesn't really matter, until he's left completely broken and helpless.

It never mattered: they have fucked among bloodied corpses on a battlefield, between the softest sheets ever created, against hard walls that scratched his back painfully. He could never say no, wanted it too much to look the other way, to push Hannibal away and say goodbye forever to the only thing that made him feel whole, that made him feel alive.

But Will resists now, waits for him to make the first move, because he doesn't trust himself enough, doesn't know what could come out of his mouth. He can taste blood and human flesh in it and how much he seems to be perfectly calm about it, scares him.

When Hannibal finally speaks, his voice is as sweet as honey and as poisonous as venom.

"You should ask your question then. Free yourself of these burdens. Maybe, this way, your ghosts will finally stop haunting you."

“What if I don't want to hear the answers? What if I don't like them, once I've heard them?”

Hannibal doesn't reply.

Will looks finally up, his mouth slightly open, like the words are just about to come out; he drinks from a glass of wine he doesn't remember being offered and takes a breath so deep his lungs hurt again.

“I had a nightmare. There... there was a man. His chest was cut open and he was missing...” Will points at his own chest and then has to take another sip before continuing “I thought he had no eyes at first, all I could see were two empty holes. But they were coins. He had coins on his eyes.”

Hannibal nods absently while slowly savoring the wine in his own glass.

“An offer to ease the voyage of the departed and ensure the benevolence of the ferryman. A gesture of kindness.”

Will licks his cracked lips and the words the words seem to take hours to come out of his mouth.

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal's voice is flat, like he doesn't care; and he doesn't, Will thinks and feels anger rise inside of him, burning the blood in his veins. He feels a lump in his throat and the savage desire to hit him, to do anything to just... move him, making him react, because that absolute lack of emotions he can display makes him see red right now.

“Was I going to be food too? Were you going to kill me someday and... and offer me to...”

To the one who would have been in my place now if it hadn't been me, he wants to say, but it dies in his throat.

“To everyone just to prove that you were more clever than them? Do you even care about anyone but yourself?!” Do you really care about me? He thinks but can't find the strength to say. “Can you even feel something?”

He doesn't realizes he has raised his voice until he sees Hannibal frown deeply; Will looks away and takes his head in his hands, rubs the temples, his brain feels on fire.

Will imagines himself laying down on Hannibal's table, naked, blood dripping from the wounds on his body, that become deeper and deeper at every cut.

He moans, he can hear himself moaning, accepting his fate with a smile on his face, happy at the idea of belonging completely to Hannibal, of being a part of him forever.

His attention returns to reality when he sees him getting up from his chair and walking the few steps that separate them; then the man grabs his face hard suddenly, forcing him to look up. And his eyes... his eyes are terrible.

The grip is so strong he moans in pain, but doesn't try to free himself.

Will can't look away, can't even move; he's paralyzed, staring at Hannibal and in his eyes he sees something even worst than Hell, worst than anything he could possibly imagine; his true and most hidden desires.

Hannibal's fury is almost solid, fills the room and the space between them, slides on his skin and makes him want to moan out loud, but he can't break the silence; so he waits, tries to breathe as slowly as he can, feeling the raw burn of the intensity of Hannibal's feelings, scratching his skin until he feel like he's bleeding out in front of him.

When he lets him go, his jaw is sore; Will massages it and takes his eyes off of Hannibal, can hear him sighs and inhale deeply, to make the fury inside him recede and put it again under his control.

"You have thought about it, you have fantasized and dreamed about being consumed by me. And what disturbs you the most is that you feel disgusted and aroused at the same time."

Will swallows and refuses to look up, shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to see, so he doesn't have to face what's in front of him; he doesn't realize he has been biting his lip until he tastes blood and that seems to trigger something inside him.

He wants to grab Hannibal hard, use him for balance, wants him to take doubts and obligations away from him, and wants to be owned so he doesn't have to think or chose anymore.

"I can still make you forget. If you think you are unable to handle all of this, I can free you from it. I will become a stranger for you again; you'll not even remember I have ever been in your life. But you must chose, Will. You cannot remain divided between what you really are and what you used to be. You need to embrace it so you can live with it, or you need to let it go forever."

Will lets out a sad laugh and hides his face deeper and deeper in his hands, pressing the fingers hard against his eyes until it hurts.

"You make everything sound so damn easy... Even murdering and eating people seems reasonable when you talk about it. I don't know how you even manage to do it..."

He feels so tired, he always feels tired; all Will wants to do is hide away, curling on himself and sleep his whole life away, tucked safe somewhere where no one can reach him. But he also craves Hannibal's touch, needs to feel his hands cold and bloodless and his skin, dragging him over the edge and into the deepest pits of Hell. Wants to be smothered by his body, to be crushed by a love that tastes like blood, death and poison.

Will looks at him finally and the man must read something in his eyes, because he kneels in front of him in one fluid motion, caressing his arms, kissing his fingers, his palms, his exposed wrists, following the veins with his tongue.

Hannibal holds him still and rubs his scalp, bringing him closer and closer until their lips meet; Will opens his mouth and the thrill that runs through his body makes him moan and whimper in the kiss.

“Do you want me to make you forget, Will? Do you want to leave all this behind?"

Will makes a strangled sound and tries to kiss him again, because when they touch and kiss he doesn't have to think. He can focus on his body alone and forget about everything else.

But Hannibal pulls him back holding his hair tight, making him gasp.

"What do you want, Will?"

Will licks his lips.

"I want you to feed me."

Will is sitting on the kitchen's counters and watching Hannibal working in silence: he knows that the man probably hates it, he doesn't like having people in the way while he cooks, but something tells him that right now they both need to be close, to feel the other's presence around.

Hannibal made him take off his shoes and socks and his feet are cold; his whole body is torn between the remains of the heat generated by their kiss that still lingers on his skin even now, clinging to it like a vice, cocooning around his whole being, and the actual temperature of the room that sends shivers along his back.

He watches Hannibal cooking in silence; he hasn't taken the meat out yet, but Will knows that he's not being considerate: he's waiting for him to say something about it, to ask and make the first move, like a cat playing with a mouse.

Will feels the need to laugh hysterically at the whole situation; because they used to be Gods and now they're arguing over meat. And the fact that the meat in question happens to be human's, seems to leave him less and less disturbed as the time goes by.

It's nearly four a. m. and he feels his whole brain tired and numb; so he focuses on Hannibal's hands and licks his lips without realizing it.

Hannibal looks at him and smiles in that dangerous and ambiguous way that makes Will wants to kiss him hard until they both can't breathe.

"Starting to feel hungry, Will?"

He can't help relaxing and his mouth curves barely with a hint of amusement; and stays like that while Hannibal chops vegetables expertly with a large knife that seems to belong there in his hand.

His smile freezes on his face, replaced by the image in his mind of the knife making its way into his body, cutting through the layers of skin and flesh like butter; Will looks away and has to suppress a moan. He doesn't reply to Hannibal's question.

"What have you done with the body?"

Asking this feels so weird, wrong, yet he can't help it.

"I have disposed of it already, do not worry."

"Do I want to know?"

His eyes go red as boiling blood for a moment, his smiles stops being amused and turns cold and cruel.

"I suspect you will soon anyway."

Will nods and realizes that he already knew the answer to that question; deep inside, he always felt the killings as a message, a serenade meant only for him, but before he could not see, he could not hear the voices of the dead calling with the clarity they have now. He was blind, deaf and confused; but now everything is too intense, too much and he feels overwhelmed.

Hannibal observes his face, but Will turns his head the other way and takes slow, deep breaths; he rubs his hands on his tights, trying to warm them as much as he can, just to have something to do and keep his attention away from the other man.

He goes back to his work and the minutes stretch around him, the room filling with the inviting aroma of the food getting cooked. It makes his stomach growl; he doesn't remember the last time he ate.

“Maybe... I should leave you to it. Stop being in your way, you know.”

Will hears him put the knife away and clean his hands, that then are on his tights, making him jump in surprise, suddenly looking in front of him and finding Hannibal so close he can feel his breath on his mouth; it's a feeling that goes straight to his groin no matter how much he wants to focus on something else.

“You don't want to see.”

It's not a question and Will finds himself nodding, biting his lips and looking away.

“You will most likely have to, one day.”

One day, yes, maybe, but not today, please don't make me look today...

“I know.”

“Does it scare you so much? Accepting that deep inside you, you don't find the idea of eating human meat revolting? That you are simply, but slowly, accepting that you are not completely of this world and that its conventions and rules do not affect you as they used to anymore?”

Will wants to tell him that he's wrong, but there's a truth in those words he cannot deny: he feels Hannibal's lips against his forehead, in a gesture that feels tender and violent at the same time, a way to make him open his eyes and look at him.

When he does, Hannibal takes a step back and he misses the contact as soon as it's gone.

They simply observe each other, Will has the clear feeling of his skin becoming thinner and thinner under Hannibal's gaze, of his whole body getting consumed slowly.

He turns his head and settles his eyes on the frying pan, on the little pieces of meat in it, mostly cooked already and looking delicious in ways that make his mouth water and his brain fight against his body basic needs.

Will takes one and it's almost painfully hot against his fingers: he stares at it for a long, long moment, before eating it, chewing as slowly as he can, savoring the last shred of humanity leaving his body.

Still, he doesn't feel different at all, incomplete or lacking, quite the opposite: he feels whole like never before and the meat is tender and delicious in his mouth.

When he finally swallows, Hannibal lets out a sound that could almost be a laugh; Will looks at him.

“Good?”

He nods.

“Yes, good. Can I have more please?”

Hannibal's smile is all teeth.

Will lets out a desperate moan when Hannibal pushes inside him, his nail digging in his tights, leaving deep bruises that will follow him for days; but it's not enough, it's not nearly enough: he needs more, he needs to feel more and more, wants the memory of this moment to be burnt on his skin, so it can stay with him forever and never leave him, to leave a deep scar in his soul and in his flesh.

But Hannibal moves slowly as always and he can't stand it, can't stand the soft sheets under his back, can't handle gentleness right now, because there's human flesh in his system and his lack of remorse and disgust doesn't deserve kindness and attentions; so Will grabs his shoulders hard, pushing him slightly away.

Hannibal stops and tilts his head slightly, half amused and half annoyed by his gesture.

"Not like this. Harder."

His voice is sounds so hopelessly broken, completely distraught and that earns him a smile from Hannibal; but instead of doing what he asks, the man kisses his collarbone, licks the sweaty skin, almost worshiping it with his hand and mouth. Will wants to scream but there's not enough air in his lungs.

"No! Not... don't... just... Fuck me! Please, I need to feel it..."

"To feel what, Will? You will have to be more specific about what you need."

His voice sounds as steady as always, but there's a subtle faltering in it, and the hint of pure lust he hear is enough to make him grabs his face and kiss until he can't breathe.

"I want you to break me..."

If he had been still the man he used to be, he would have hated the tone in his voice, like a child pleading and begging: but nothing matters anymore when Hannibal bites his neck so hard it hurts, when he starts moving inside him, pressing his whole weight on his body, surrounding and dominating him.

It hurts, but the pain is so sweet on his lips he wants more, he needs more, needs to feel everything he can, to forget what's around him and the aftertaste of blood, flesh and damnation in his mouth.

Hannibal kisses him again, making him moan and grab his shoulders, scratching his naked back until he draws blood.

They look at each other for a moment; then Hannibal smiles and does what he's asked.

Will closes his eyes and finally lets go.

Jack calls him around eight in the morning, leaves three messages and four texts: Will rolls over on the bed and rests his head on Hannibal's chest, listens to his heart beat under his ear, allowing the man to surround him with his arms, holding him close to him and kissing his forehead.

“I'm hungry.”

Hannibal maneuvers him so they can kiss, and his lips are insistent against his; Will moans and embraces him.

“I am sure I can find something suitable for a quick breakfast.”

Will smiles, ignoring the phone and the faint stab of guilt he feels in his heart only for a moment.

Then kisses Hannibal again.