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Hannibal has never had an issue discerning reality from the imagined. Prison served as an exercise in stamina - in that regard. How long can you live somewhere invented, while still retaining your tether to the world your body inhabits?
Sometimes, in weak moments, he stumbles. The slip has become reflexive, taking him to golden chapels and Baltimore offices against his wishes when the real world warrants escape. Technically, it’s a side effect related to trauma, but trauma is the scaffolding that keeps the palace itself as strong as it is. A give and a take.
Will, historically and for the projected future, makes Hannibal weak. It’s a curious thing, to love. To feel so unstoppable at their side and so small under their touch. And under Will’s touch Hannibal knows: only his touch, and only his side.
Will noticed it the first time they were intimate but felt it unnecessary to mention. Hannibal loses himself when they fuck, and to say only sometimes would be generous. He’s no stranger to losing himself, so he’d thought nothing of it. Will’s world goes a bit fuzzy when it all comes crashing to orgasm (particularly excellent orgasms) but sometimes he’ll open his eyes and catch Hannibal slipping away from him. He’d attributed the far away, glassy eyed look to Hannibal’s release- maybe his o-face just looks sad.
Will was wrong.
One hand is braced on Hannibal’s broad chest and the other works his cock, eyes closed, chasing it. Will focuses on the bruising anchor of Hannibal’s hands on his thighs, the drum of their heartbeats, the hitch of Hannibal’s breathing - the pulse of his cock inside. All of it pushing toward a white hot crescendo, and Will’s head lolls back to let it take him. Regardless of how prepared he is, he always cums suddenly. And suddenly, Will’s pulled tight and clenching and clawing, unable to hear the noises pushed from his own throat. He’s twitching down from his peak, teeth in his bottom lip, when he opens his eyes again.
Will’s stare locks onto Hannibal below him and he sees the glass drip away as tears, lips quivering. Suddenly, Hannibal’s arm moves to cover his face, the other hand holding onto Will like he’ll disappear. Notably, he’s still rock hard inside of Will.
“Hannibal?” Will’s seen him cry only once - and never thought he’d live to see it happen again. And the world is still blurred and tingling around the edges - so he isn’t even sure if that’s what he just saw. He slips off of him with a mutual wince, wiping the cum off his hand before leaning forward.
“Did I -” It sounds stupid in his head too, but Will says it anyway. “Did I hurt you?”
Hannibal lets out a bitter laugh, but he can’t hide the way his mouth twists and breath shakes. Will slips his hand over Hannibal’s where it holds his thigh, soft fingers soothing iron knuckles. And Hannibal breaks.
The first soft sob shocks them both and Will’s left confused and naked on top of him while Hannibal shrinks into himself. Seeing someone you love fall apart in front of you for the first time feels like you’re crumbling into matching pieces. The tears that night in Hannibal’s kitchen felt empty and angry - meant to be mixed with blood. But these tears were new and syrupy, terrified and reverent.
Will keeps his hand on his, a reminder to both of them, and leans down until his forehead touches the arm covering Hannibal’s face. They have a shared thought that, should he want to, Hannibal could break Will’s nose with the blunt force of his forearm in this vulnerable position. It’s the same kind of thought that shadows every kiss, asking for teeth. Or every night’s dinner, both armed with knives. But trust is bigger and brighter than those shadows. “Hannibal,” he whispers.
“Will.” He sounds sardonic.
More stupid words, raw and lacking poetry. “Do you want to talk?” They were naked, but the question felt more embarrassing than bare skin.
Hannibal sighed, still clipped. “Always.”
Will moves off of him, laying on his side flush with his warmth, his leg still hooked around Hannibal’s by the unyielding hand holding it there. One of Will’s hands moves to Hannibal’s chest, and the other underneath him to hold the back of his head where it’s statue-still against the pillow. Hannibal’s arm slowly unfurls from his face until it’s flat and Will uses it to pillow his head and look at Hannibal - pointedly not looking at Will. Remarkably, Hannibal is still hard.
Will waits for him to speak first, thumbs rubbing circles where they’re magnetized to Hannibal’s skin. Hannibal’s throat bobs with a swallow, and he doesn’t turn to Will when he finally speaks. “Usually you don’t see.”
Will feels strangely betrayed. “You cry every time we fuck?”
“Not to this extent - no.” But it feels as though I could.
“But you still cry,” Will clarifies. Hannibal closes his eyes, which is confirmation enough. “Will I get an answer if I ask why?”
Hannibal’s smirk looks more like a grimace. “The answer depends on what kind of explanation you’re looking for.”
“I would prefer the truth.”
The truth was too much to breach the narrow passage of his throat. Not meant for the light of day, and better kept where it was born. It sits in a coil under his lungs and stirs only when disturbed, which was too often when almost every second was spent with Will. Usually, gods are aware when they are being worshipped.
“Should I guess?” Will asks, and Hannibal feels him rearranging them. He yields, allows himself to be trapped, aware of the shadow behind this prone position. His head is turned to face Will by the strong hand on the back of his neck, and Will moves his own face close enough to kiss him. But he knows not to - not when Will has a design in mind.
Will moves the leg Hannibal had been gripping until it’s out of reach, hooking it under Hannibal’s, the cool skin of Will’s thigh pressed under his hot erection. It should be distracting, but it feels like teeth are sinking into his scruff - he does only as he’s guided to do. Always, he’s surprised.
“I know it’s not from pleasure,” Will murmurs, lips near Hannibal’s ear. “You’re not shy when it comes to your pleasure.”
It feels rude to smirk, but Hannibal smirks, because he’s correct.
“And I haven’t hurt you.” Will’s even quieter, and the statement has two sharp edges on its blade. Their thoroughly braided thoughts do not require clarification: serious transgressions require blood. “I would know if I hurt you, correct?”
It’s not a question. Hannibal is annoyed with the sound of his own voice - too small. “Correct.”
“You know, I wish I would have known about this sooner. I know it’s partly my fault, but this feels like a lie.” Will traces feather light fingers over Hannibal’s sternum, on a downward projected spiral. He may as well have been holding a knife.
“I wouldn’t.” We don’t, not anymore.
“No more lies.” Will reassures with a soft kiss to his jaw. “This is deeper.”
Will’s hand flattens over his ribs, like he could sense the truth hiding under them. Hannibal waited for him to reach between the bones and take it.
“This is a secret.” Will kissed his cheek, and Hannibal couldn’t breathe. “Something you made that hurts you.”
We made it together. “To have a rose you must also have thorns.”
“Where does this rose grow?” Will asked.
It’s less of a single rose and more of an invasive entity, flowering and pricking where it pleases, setting roots into Italian tiles and sneaking into forbidden places. The core of it is untouchable and cold, a nest of brambles in a place of its own creation.
“Everywhere you touch.”
Will stilled at Hannibal’s words, and slowly rose on his elbow to look down at him. His eyes were dark, and under his stare Hannibal began to see different walls. Columns of golden light through high chapel windows; Will illuminated, looking down from above as gods look down from their kingdoms in the heavens. And thorns, a crown of them, blood dripping from the sharp points and between his apathetic eyes - cold blue. And Will scrutinized and studied until he saw something in Hannibal, got to the sentence he was looking for.
“Do you struggle with reality, Doctor?”
The look on his face must have been enough of an answer, because Will settled back beside him. Hannibal attempted to form a real answer, shivering as Will’s hand ran over his stomach. He could feel Will’s scar on his own skin. “Not in the traditional sense.”
“Please, define traditional.” Will’s kiss against his throat was canine sharp, a reminder and a threat. Hannibal grit his teeth, painfully aware of how exposed he was, and how his cock twitched at the thought of Will ripping his throat out. He felt Will’s smirk, then Will’s hand ghosting below his navel.
“The palace of my mind is a safe place of my own design.” Hannibal swallows down the sigh when Will finally touches his cock. “I find myself returning there out of habit.”
“Habit,” Will repeats, twisting his hand around the head torturously tight. “During sex.”
“Not just sex.” Hannibal felt his face heat, his eyes closing again.
“Tell me,” Will’s leg shifted, thigh pressing up into Hannibal’s taint. His voice was steady and pitiless. “What warrants a return to the palace, Doctor.”
Hannibal bucked and moaned, held down by Will’s weight. With all the warmth pooling in his stomach, the cold crept closer at the corners, into his fingertips as they gripped the sheets.
“The sight of you” - a misplaced gasp in a serious confession - “reminding me of the time I couldn’t have you.”
“You have me.”
The cold was a ghostly hand, wrapping around his throat. Tears pricked closer. “Sometimes having you also warrants a return.”
Will sunk his teeth hard into the juncture of Hannibal’s neck and shoulder, ending with a merciful swipe of his tongue. The tears were hot under Hannibal’s eyelids. “Am I too much for you?”
“I am not enough.”
Then Hannibal was there, snow under his shoes. Nighttime, and even darker in the shadow of Will’s home, where moonlight couldn’t touch. The black silhouette of Chiyoh beside him, another ghost haunting the moment where the roses begin, where the thorns cut like knives.
The air hurt to huff into his lungs, streaks of tears frozen, he could feel it all rooting inside him insidiously. A dark hole to haunt under the rooms he’d built to escape inside of. But he’d let it happen - he did this to himself and he knew it. A shattered teacup stays shattered. He asked for roses, thought himself prepared for thorns, and he bled and bled. Until the snow was black, and he was in pieces. All he coveted, the pieces falling through his fingers in sharp shards.
I’m not going to miss you. I’m not going to find you. “Hannibal.” Will’s whisper is faraway wind, but he begins to feel the warmer tears wetting his face in their bedroom.
I’m not going to look for you. “Look at me.” Will’s hands are hot anchors holding him to the bed, pulling him close.
I don’t want to know where you are or what you do. “Talk to me.” Will kisses his tear-stained cheeks, his fingers rooted Hannibal’s hair. It’s too hot where their bodies touch and too cold where he’s still elsewhere, standing in black snow.
“Will,” Hannibal moans, heaving for relief, sobbing for mercy. His name was a prayer.
I don’t want to think about you anymore. “Focus on me.” Will had him torn between places, pulling taut and ripping apart. Who was he to cry, after everything he’d done? He had no claim to the teacup after breaking it, no claim to the warmth of love without repentance. He prayed to be delivered the vengeance he deserved.
Goodbye, Hannibal. “Stay with me,” Will whispered the words against Hannibal’s lips, punctuated with a kiss, and Hannibal was gone. No longer in the black snow, no longer in the sweaty bed, in no other room of the palace either. Melted into a singular form, unbarred, transparent. Twisted together and firmly rooted.
Usually, this is when Hannibal would leave, compose himself in the bathroom and return to Will stitched together as if he hadn’t fallen apart and cried. But their bodies remained tangled in the bed, sweat and cum and tears drying, breath syncing. Nothing and no one could pry them apart now - as if it were ever feasible before. Centuries later, or minutes, and Will spoke into Hannibal’s bare shoulder. “How do you feel?”
“Seen.”