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Will knows the moment he feels them. Out of the corner of his eye, there is a glimpse of those clean checkered suits, the neatly combed hair; the lean figures patiently waiting for him. He does not sees it, exactly, but he knows they're there. They are the floating dusts under the seeping sunlight. They make noises. He can hear the light footsteps of polished dress shoes. He can hear the light scratch of pencils dancing on a paper. And he can smell the phantom dishes in the air.
Will thinks they're his ghosts.
Will sees ghosts, in the shape of fine dinners and reflective conversations. Will hears ghosts in the sound of clinking silverwares and ticking clocks. They're there when he hold his breath. And they're there in each step he takes. He will feel a faint brush of hands on the nape of his neck, on the inside of his wrists, and seldom on the tender skin of his cheeks. Each time it happens, the ghosts will linger for half a second more; and more if God forbids him.
The ghosts are persistent beings. He can brush his teeth, heat his meals, clean his chimney, and fix his boats while the ghosts wait for him. Maybe he will sit on the porch, on cold dead nights, and the ghosts will also be there; like a silent company, like a dead lover.
And then Will sees the ghosts in his dreams, clothed in his nightmares.
Where he is accustomed in his killer's nightmares following him to his waking hours, Will has never felt the quiet yearning for a gruesome crime scene. He realizes, much too early, he does not like a more gentle dream where his ghosts can meet him.
Will hates those figures in his dreams. They will feed him intricate dishes with the hands of cruelty. They will hold lengthy conversations with him in warm, cozy armchairs. They will clean his wounds and bruises with delicate fingers. They will rest his weary head on broad shoulders. They will brush his hair out of his face when he is sweating, trembling with fears of his own mind. And then they will take his dearest treasure and throw it to the bottom of the sea, a place far away from his reach.
Will hates the ache he feels when he wakes up, and the ghosts are nowhere beside him.
+
It was a few months ago, when he started seeing the ghosts. The sky looked like it was in a perpetual gloom. Alongside the noises of the machines that kept him alive, he heard faint clicks of rain on the window. His eyes could barely open, even without the blinding lights above his head. Maybe it was the effect of the drugs they gave him, but he saw. In the corner of the room, a dark clothed figure was sitting in an armchair; a contrast to the stark white interior. Will knew better than to be hopeful. He was hospitalized, then, because the doctors had to stitch up a gaping wound in his stomach.
It was nights after he was gutted, left to die, with three other bodies he knew too well.
The ghosts, the things he sees, they have a name. Though, they left nothing but a poignant memory. He hates himself because he cares for the memories, and he will always find a way to relive it. He can walk up to the office or a house in Baltimore, both have the furnitures covered in cheap, dusty plastics. With the air smelling like old books and aging leathers, he can stay. He can sit on one of the armchairs, but he will find nothing of the man—the ghosts—he is looking for; nothing lifelike.
He will then visit the cemetery, missing a certain cheerful smile. Of clear blue eyes framed under brown hair.
+
Not often, usually on the days he goes to fish, Will finds himself checking his own mailbox; looking for a specific type of envelope with cursive writing of his name. Will is not a sentimental person. And yet he turns at the sound of every wheels on his property. He looks for a certain pattern of footprints when his dogs bark at the front door. There will be nothing on the other side of his door, but an empty dead land of a past. His mind is cruel, and he will feel a hand on his shoulder; not because it is there but because he wants it to.
But nothing is more vicious than God's own plans.
He is home from a river near the forest surrounding his house. It has been weeks since his last conversation with Jack, nevermind Alana; they understood that he cannot go back to how things were and they let him go. He feels like he is a world away from everything, disconnected. His mind, not fragile, but floating amidst realities. His body merely an empty vessel, leftovers from whoever took his insides; living as a corpse from his visions.
Following his pack, back to the house, he walks to his mailbox. His body is ahead of himself, chasing a presence he is starting to forget. Letters, a dozen or more unfolded—being left there for so long on purpose, fall from his full hands. He picks up a few of them, barely interested in any to do more than just flip it to see the senders. Until his eyes catch the sight of a clean envelope. The name reads Will Graham, written with a familiar cursive. There's another name inside; the writer of the letter. Will used to think that his brain has gone numb after all this time, but he has never felt more alive at that moment.
As if he was electrified, Will drops his fishing rod and his lures; alerting his dogs. He stumbles his way through his porch. His feet dashes to his front door and finds it locked just as he left it. The handle gives when he yanks it impatiently. For a blink of a second he is seeing a place, a different place and not an inside to his house. No, his brain is mixing up memories with realities. There is nothing inside but a gust of damp, summer air. The vacant room feels like it's mocking him. So he spins and goes to the equally empty shed behind. His nerves are going haywire and he's shaking like he can't control his own limbs. He is searching for a sign in his dead memory. Searching for a pair of slender arms to pull him aside, away from his lies.
Before he can think better of himself, he opts to the forest and he doesn't stop looking for what feels like days, months, or years. Head snapping to every noise his ears catch. He is overly aware of his surrounding, yet he has little to no clue of what he is looking for. His sleeves are frayed, caught by twigs and barks, as he carelessly wades through the woods. A name is perched under his chin, ready to be screamed with all the air left in his tired lungs. But nothing much comes out of him the moment he opens his mouth, except for an agonizing cry; torn from his hoarse throat. It is the last sound he makes for the next hour.
A stumble into a clearing and a desperate attempt of inhales later, Will realizes that the ghosts—the man, Hannibal Lecter—has long gone, for all he cares.
+
It is well after sunset that he goes back. His pack is waiting for him in front of the door, anxious at his disheveled appearance, and goes to drown him in a pile of fur and warmth. Will goes with it, planted face first into his porch with Winston's heavy weight on his back. The envelope stay crumpled in his grip, he is unwilling to let it loose.
He figures he cannot be bothered to continue until he has a few glass of whiskey in him, maybe a little more inebriated than he cares. He opens the letter in front of his fireplace; for easy disposal he thinks, which was his first thought before he gives up. Despite the neat writing, Will finds it hard to read through the first paragraph after his name.
Dearest Will, the first sentence was written tenderly.
I believe it will be shocking to you to find this letter after so long without a word. I would apologize if not for the wreckage that we had left behind all of those months ago. I am certain that you are well past the weight of it by the time this greeting reached you.
Have you taken good care of yourself, My Dear?
I hope time did you well. For I, myself, have find settlement amidst those which I love. It is beautiful in here, Will. Oftentimes, I think about the promises I gave you, the ones I have yet to fulfill. I hope you will forgive me, one day, as I yearn for the days I will be able to bring you along the streets of Florence, to indulge you in your hobbies here in the northern coarse of Italy. I have no greater wish than to take you with me for a stroll around the bright streets of Paris. But some things are better left undone.
Have no doubt, that you will see me. I will see you in your safest place.
Yours,
Hannibal Lecter.
His name, written with the sort of confidence he had always been associated with, burns the tip of Will's fingers when he strokes it.
Will's arm itches with the desire to fling the letter into the heat. But his eyes lingers on the paper, rereading it, like he is memorizing every curve of the words. He wants to burn it, destroy it, torn it apart, and throw it into the nearest trashcan. So, he does none of them.
He leaves the letter in his drawer, in the very bottom, hidden by his old t-shirts and socks.
+
The water is warm from the sun by the time he gets both of his feet in the river. His lures, and his bag, are set by the riverbank. His dogs are scattered around the area, playing or napping under the shades of trees, one or two will sometimes join him to take a dip in the water. The air around him is crisp, the sunlight warm against his arms. He feels most content in moments like this.
Sometimes he will imagine a long brown hair peering from his side, with a smile of thousand suns. And then he will feel like he's back in the same mind palace as the one when he was being incarcerated. When he glances to get a look, there is another rod set besides his own, with unsure, smaller hands holding it. He imagines laughter as the girl besides him struggling through a hard catch, and he will help her with his own hands.
Abigail Hobbs had never considered him as her guardian, let alone her father. But she was a child that Hannibal gave to him, and sometimes he thinks about it. If he had never betrayed the life Abigail was supposed to have, maybe—then maybe—the vision will become real. Maybe he can see Abigail window-shopping in the busy street of Paris, or drawing underneath the sun in their backyard somewhere in Italy. He wonders, then, what a cruel man he is; for he let her drowned in her own blood twice. He wishes for things he cannot give to her.
That man would say, "to protect her, and to give her what she wishes for. It is what we—as her fathers—ought to do. We shall do what Hobbs could not." But how the irony, that man was the one who took her away from him.
Will thinks if he stop thinking, maybe he will find peace.
There's a crack, like branches crumbling under soles of shoes, in the distance to his right. He peers his head to the side, looking to the woods opposite of where the path leads to his house. The crunches sound like steady rhythm, like feet dragging slowly. So he comes closer into it, out of the water and into the rows of trees. He knows better than to ask, "Who's there?"
He hears a whooshing sound of leaves coming from behind. Like something is watching him. Like something is about to jump out of these bushes. He sees, then, in the corner of his eye, a dark figure with antlers walks behind the trees. And all of the sudden he feels a hot breath of the well-known feathered stag behind his neck. So he flips to the opposite direction and lunges into the woods, his brain resorting to fight or flight instinct.
He brings his feet to move faster as he hears hooves and growls behind him. He tries to widen the distance between them, but Will feels like it's closing instead. His limbs are sore but he can't feel the pain behind the adrenaline. His boots feel scrapped, thin like there is no barrier between his feet and the damp forest underneath him. He can hear his own pained breath as he tries to make out what is in front of him. It feels like centuries, of dodging roots or logs under him, of pushing himself against a tree to gain speed. Rows and rows of barks he passes. He is starting to worry about going in a loop until he step into some kind of clearing. Will is back to the woods he was in two weeks ago, but he is not chasing the ghosts. Now they're chasing him.
A screech to his side startles him, and his legs lose the control he has been forcing to maintain, sprained his ankle as it brings him down to a hill. He rolls down with a few too many scrapes on his sleeveless arms. He hits a log on his way down with a yelp. Then when he stops, he lies on his back with his heart hammering inside his chest cavity. He tries to muffle his staggering breath, wary of his surrounding. He tries to crawl back, panic roaring its gears in his head, when he hears hooves stomping quickly from above.
A loud screech brought his forearms in front of his face as he prepares himself for something to lunges at him. But he doesn't feel a jab of antlers to his torso, instead, he was pounced by a group of dog hairs in his face. Some of his dogs have come to his aid, apparently; he assumes that the rest are still by the riverbank. He falls back against the dirt with a thud. A snout comes into his line of vision, Buster is wailing in distress, while Winston and Max snuggle to the side of his head.
And there is no sign of the feathered stag, or the man with antlers. He is alone with his dogs, at the bottom of a hill. He lets out a huff of relief and only then does he realizes that his body is sore. There's a messy gash on his left arm, bleeding, covered in dirt and sticks. His ankle is screaming with pain when he tries to move them. Will's head is pounding when he tries to sit up straight, his face contorted as blood trickles down his temple. He hisses as he gently pushes Winston's away from licking at his wounds. The walk back to the riverbank, where he left his stuff, is hell.
+
Sometimes he wonders, just how easily he gets used to pain in some form. Will is not a cop, not a real FBI agent even when they drag him out to the crime scenes far too many times to be a side job. There will be wounds, and they will scar him, and there will be roaring pain that only lasted until two glasses of alcohol in his system. By the next day, the pain will only be a nagging throb behind his eyes. He thinks, at least, being in the head of psychopaths and their kinds of madness should have the side effects of getting their tolerance of pain. But then again he did get eviscerated not too long ago. So maybe the tolerance comes from the understanding that nothing is deadly if it's not making him lose too many gallons of blood. And he finds out that scars do heal, with time.
Currently, Will is slouching in front of a brightly lit monitor in a barely lit study, composing a new Power Point for his next class. A headache is stubborn in the back of his head. It’s not overwhelming but persistent nonetheless. He is used to that, at least. Though there might be a slight concussion, he doesn't think about it too much. He survived encephalitis, hardly any different now. It'll go away when it does, he thinks flippantly. His nails idly scratch the sloppy gauze covering his arm, while he sort through his files. He has had a drink before starting and the glass sat empty within arm reach.
From here, Will can hear his dogs playing with themselves near the hearth in his living room. The slow whisper of winds like a lullaby. The insects, chirpy in summer, feel like a constant static. It feels like a good night, it should be. But he is Will Graham and nothing good shall ever grazed his short life.
Will's desk in the study sat right in front of a window with the woods as a view. It's a bit eerie in the night, what's with the vast darkness being a constant reminder, but he thinks it's the appeal. There's no curtains on the window. It fell down last time after being chewed on by Ellie. Without the curtains, cold seeped through the glass, past the rusty railings, overtime. His old radiator and his frayed sweater can only do so much. So he goes upstairs to grab a thin blanket, stuffed inside a cupboard in his unused bedroom.
When Will comes back to his study, his view straight past the window, he sees a shadow in the woods. Someone, or something, is standing still in the dark, covered by the trees. He walks back to his desk slowly, watching the figure staring back to him, like it knows precisely where he is even with the distance. He stares at what he assumes is a pair of hollowed eyes. Chills run down his spine. Will is half expecting a set of antlers sprouting out of its head. He should be wary, maybe go fetch his gun and lock the doors, he knows, but he can't do anything as he is transfixed. Minutes, maybe hours, has gone by before the shadow finally moves.
And then Will hears his dog snarling in the next room. He snaps out of his rigid state and goes to his living room, checking the back door on his way. Will locks his front door and double check. He shuts all of his windows and closes the curtains. His pack growls at the window to his porch, glaring at it like they can see through the fabric. He goes near where his rifle stands beside his bait crafting table, walking backwards, eyeing the door.
His ears picks up a rustling sound from the window beside him. Panic tastes like a bile rising in his stomach. The hand gripping the gun feels clammy as he tighten his hold. Will reach to switch off the lights. In the dark, he walks back to the front door; gun already in hands. Max's growls have gone louder, it seems to have agitated the others to do the same, and Will tries to shush his pack to calm down.
It is silent for so long that he might assume the invader is gone. Cautiously, he leans, pressing his ears to the surface of his front door. He prepares himself for the sound of hooves stomping through his yard or shoes coming closer with long strides. Yet he hears nothing on the other side but the sounds of crickets and frogs. His pack has become quiet for a while, but they're still looking outside, on guard. He stays there a minute longer just to make sure.
That night, Will goes to sleep with his gun under his bed.
+
While most of the time, Will sleeps bathed in nightmares, sometimes, he will stumble through his sleep. When that happens, he stirs in his sleep, closing his eyes for one second and then waking up three hours later with sweat and lethargy. His shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back, and his hair dampening the pillows. His digital clock is red, staring at him menacingly. And the moon outside his window lights the whole room, glaring like a lighthouse. Whenever that happens, he will only get a few hours of sleep and woke up even worse than before.
Tonight, though, he stirs in his sleep because he feels like being observed. Like a prey that has been marked. His own house unsettles him, as if the walls are not actually there. Will is asleep, and yet he hears every sound of his surrounding. The dimming clicks of fire licking the last log in the hearth, the soft snores of his dogs, the crickets outside, and his own ragged breathing. He blinks his eyes open.
He lays silently as his eyes accommodate to his surrounding, waiting for the blur around his eyes to dissipate. It's three in the morning, his clock says. His living room is dark, the fire has gone out for quite awhile, with the moon being the only light that shines through. He can make up a few shapes, like his dogs and the rifle he left standing just beside him in an arm reach. He walks to the window where his dogs saw a visitor some days ago. He looks outside and found a figure in his yard.
Someone is standing there like he is waiting for Will to welcome him in, a gesture he had once seen quite often. His posture is straight but patient, hands in his pockets. He is wearing a coat and slacks like it will be enough for the cold night. He looks back to Will's front door like he's sure on kicking the door down himself, but he stands there, unmoving. Will glances back to his pack and find them soundly asleep.
So he wraps a blanket around his shoulder and goes outside with nothing but his t-shirt and boxer briefs.
Will's barefoot walking soundlessly on top of dry grass, feet no longer limping as he gets better day by day. His blanket dragged, a little bit longer. The crisp air tickling what skin he leaves open, seeping through the feeble armor. His body is shivering a little, but the cold is far from overwhelming. And he goes to stand in front of the man in his yard. There are so many things left to said and yet his mind is static, nothing but white noises drowning his thoughts. He stops when his toes almost touched the man's loafers.
Hannibal smiles at him like everything is back to how they were a year ago.
"You were right. It does look like a boat in the middle of the ocean," Hannibal says. "Such an experience to see it with my own eyes."
"Why are you here?" Will is not bothering with greetings either.
"Where do you want me to be?"
Will pulls his blanket tighter around him, his breath warm in front of his face. "I don't know, France? Somewhere else in Europe? You don't belong here anymore."
"Do you want to come with me, then?" Said with certainty that makes him wavers across his answers. Will turns his head to the side, glaring at the darkness like they offended him. He has a clear answer before but he's not sure if he wants it now.
There's a silence between them, filled with soft exhales and whispers of the wind. Hannibal's hands move out of his pocket to lay loose by his sides. One of them reaches out to Will. As opposed to his words, there's uncertainty in his hand as he gives Will an option to push back if he wants to. As his mind wanders through the memories lies in Hannibal's kitchen, he lets the warm hand grabs his wrist from under the blanket. The hold is gentle, like the hands who cleaned his wounds after Randall Tier. He almost sigh, he misses those hands.
"Will," he says with an underlying tone of questions. When Hannibal raises his wrist to his face, the gesture makes Will expecting a brush of lips to the back of his hand. But he doesn't pull his hand back.
"I forgive you," Will finally says. It isn't an answer to the last question.
Hannibal is silent. And then he does kiss his hand, the inside of his wrist, and a few little ones towards his bandaged arm. He stops for a bit at Will's knuckles. His breath, warm, fanning over his cold hand. The wind blows softly on their hair, messing Hannibal's fringe. His fingers clench and unclench in Hannibal’s hold. He is willing to let eternity passes them. He wants to keep this sacred minute tucked away from everything else, unaffected even by his own indecisiveness.
Taking a step back, Hannibal has not yet to let go of his wrist. He pulls Will to take another step by taking his hand like he would to offer a dance. Will lets him, body leaning towards Hannibal, pressing close. One of his hand is holding the blanket around him tight, like a robe around his shoulder. So Hannibal rest his other hand on his waist, and pull him to the side and a few more steps, and they're dancing.
The open space is surrounded by the woods, the pitch black, like a stage. The world is blurring around them. And suddenly they're somewhere else. Like the ground opens, swallowing them like graves, preparing a special place in hell just for the two of them. It sounds out of a fairytale, under the moonlight with the devil, but with the history of them together it will not be the ones with a happy ending. Because they will rot together, disaster ever after.
They spins and they step slowly around each other, hand-in-hand. Hannibal pulls Will close to his body while motioning him to mimic his footsteps, and then he push Will again. It goes for a long minute and Will doesn't want to stop. When Hannibal pulls his body close again, flush against him, Will lets his head drop to his chest. Hannibal stops his movement. They stand still, holding each other close, under the glows of the moon.
Hannibal lets go of his hold on Will’s hand, only to rest both hands on his waist. Will lets go of the hand that has been gripping his blanket. The thin piece of fabric slips down from his shoulder and bunches up in his waist where Hannibal's hands lie. And he circles both of his hand around Hannibal. From his waist, then move to the arms caging him, and drags them all the way until they find settlement around Hannibal's shoulder. Will lets his fingers play with Hannibal's hair on his nape, idly scratching the scalp. His exhales are heavy, like it's too much to be able to breathe.
Will takes another step forward, pressing them from chest to hip; Will wants to be closer and closer like he could merge himself with Hannibal. Hannibal drop his head then, one hand to Will's lower back, and he presses his face to Will's neck. He's inhaling like he needs Will to be able to breathe.
"Your gift," starts Hannibal. "I cared for her."
"Not enough, apparently."
"Do you want to know more about Abigail?" Hannibal says to his collarbone.
"No," Will says, unsure if what he fears are real. "Was she crying?" He asks anyways.
Hannibal breathes before he speaks again. "She was not. She was consenting the whole time, excited for a rebirth," He says finally.
He can conjure the images. Of Hannibal slicing a sharp knife through Abigail's ears as he explains what they're about to do in calm. Then he imagines Abigail smiling despite the blood dripping down the side of her face. He's thinking now, if Abigail ever dream about their life after all the sacrifices, the price, as a family, away from this mess? Was she excited because of that sole purpose?
Will filled the hanging silence with mumbles of something he doesn't even know what it means himself, but Hannibal seems to understand. He sighs, again and again. Hannibal sounds tired. He is clutching to Will's blanket, covering him waist down, and he sighs. Will's hands has gone to pat his head, running his fingers in what he hopes is soothingly across Hannibal's unmade hair. They sways, rocking from side to side. He noses Hannibal's shirt collar when he hears another heavy sigh—more like sobs now that he thinks about it—and he smells a mix of spice and pines.
He wonders, then, if he could erase both of them tonight. If they could restart everything. If he could make them vanish, no trace left behind, like they were just a fragment of each other's illusions. He wonders if he could hide Hannibal and all of his spirit inside him. To be able to live together, as one being.
"What if we're not real," Will says quietly, and then he regrets ever breaking the trance between them.
Hannibal presses his cheek to his temple and hummed. "Perhaps living inside each other's version of ourselves is the only way we can truly live."
"Dissociation or derealization?" Will chuckles despite himself. "Sounds good."
Hannibal sighs, a few times now. He slide his head back to Will's shoulder and clutch to his back. He grips like if he lets lose just a little, Will might slip under and disappear forever. The fear is not unfounded. Will himself seems unsure of the lines between what he's supposed to do and what he wants to do. But whatever thought is left in his head is washed away as Hannibal turns his head to the side. He noses along Will's neck, lips brushing lightly, and Will stands stiff.
He doesn't realize that he has taken a hold of Hannibal's hair and pulling it while the owner left a few ghosts of kisses from his collarbone to his jawline. Will shivers, maybe both from the cold and something else. Moments like these reminds him how Hannibal sees him. His actions speak of clarity. They have gone through so many mistakes and decisions before they're here. Will is tired of himself.
He pulls his head back, his movement causes Hannibal to do the same. Then he grabs Hannibal's jaw, without thinking, and press his lips to the corner of his mouth for half a second.
Will thinks Hannibal is like a puppet, sometimes. Not necessarily controlled by someone other than himself, though. But the show, the masks, he puts on. He's afraid if he so much as startles the strings around him, he could potentially tear it apart and left Hannibal open. Faceless, limbs all over the place, while what remains are being dragged up as the curtains drop. He rubs his thumb gently on his cheekbones. He feels Hannibal's jaw tighten under palm, and he stays frozen staring at Will's eyelids slowly closing—waiting, anticipating—with dilated pupils. He is lifeless, for a while, before a desperate inhale brings him back to his own body and he crushes their mouths properly. He can feel the strains on those strings, thrumming beneath his veins as he cups Hannibal's face.
He nips on Will's lips, biting once, and swipes his tongue after to soothe the bruise. He laps gracelessly at him, his tongue tasting inside like he is hungry. He is devouring Will and Will lets him. They breathe the same air, warm, swirling around them. Will's hands go back to bury themselves in Hannibal's hair, pulling lightly. Heats runs up his neck up to his face, he fears he might catch a fever. Hannibal moves to slide the blanket back to Will's shoulder and left his hands on his back again. He sighs into his mouth as Hannibal eats the sounds he muffles between the nips. His mind running back and forth, chilled and warmed up at the same time.
"Don't go, stay," Will whispers desperately between kisses. Please, never come back for me again, he should say. "Stay." Don't leave me here.
"I am here, Will," says Hannibal against his lips. "Wherever you want me to be."
Even in times like this, hands gripping every part of Will he can reach, Hannibal sounds controlled. Will wants to rip the strings with his teeth. He wants to cut his face to see what lies behind, to know what Hannibal is made of. Gypsum, clay, or flesh. Hannibal could eat him, right in this moment, tear his throat and break his spine, instead of pressing kisses down to his jaw, and Will doesn't mind.
So Will drags them back to his house.
+
Will prefers using his spare bed in his living room, for efficiency reasons. The rooms he has upstairs are where he keeps his stuff. The biggest room upstairs, the master bedroom, only has a bed, a nightstand, and a cupboard. It has been so long since the last time Will slept in that bed. They choose to use the room anyways, though dusty as they are. Clearly they care less about it than about the durability of the bed. Or at least, Will is. Hannibal probably has something to say about it but judging by the way he is busy pushing Will down to the old mattress, it's not his first concern.
Hannibal is heavy, so much for the lean body under the suits. He still puts his weight on Will, barely holding himself up with one forearm beside Will's head. His other hand is pushing Will's t-shirt up as though he detest the only thing covering Will's torso from his bare hands. They struggle getting the cloth off Will as they refuses to part from one another. Will shoves his jerky hands against Hannibal as he holds back the urge to just rip the shirt from him. Hannibal spares him the trouble and goes to takes it off and throws it down to where Will shirt is currently resting. The sight of it shouldn't affect him so much but he shudders anyways.
The desire to explore each other is overwhelming, and Will is shimmering with want. They pant into each other mouth, feed their breath to the other like they're giving life with every exhales. Will bites, puts his mouth to any exposed skin he sees, as Hannibal maps his body. Hands brushing like painting the picture of Will he sees in his head. Though his limbs are gentle, his eyes are ravenous.
Will feels like a sacrifice. Like a vessel left open with flowers and skull and bones replacing what's left of him as the god feast on his insides. He feels like he is bared open, like he leaves nothing untouched. Hannibal is tasting him, and Will is a dish he needs to savor, like he is a carefully made being that deserves the sentiment. Hannibal takes his ankle, the bruised one, and Will hisses as Hannibal raises it. Will spread his knee to give a space to Hannibal, instead, like he did to his life. Hannibal always has a space in Will reserved for him, with bold letters glowing red made with blood of his own veins. And Hannibal knows, for he does the same. Will changed him like Hannibal did. Hannibal sees the well carved hall occupied by him in Will's life, and he positions himself on the gate.
He fucks Will, as he possess the whole palace of Will's vast, disastrous, and gorgeous mind.
Will wants to scream, to yell, until his lungs gave out. Hannibal feels like too much, too much inside him, too much even for his life. He wants to bite his hand, so he does. The bite muffles any sounds that comes out of him, his ragged breathing. His other hand is gripping the sheets tight. Until he can't bear it anymore and grabs Hannibal's back, nails tearing skin between his shoulder blades, holding on to him. Hannibal gives a rough thrust, too soon, and he draws blood from his hand, staining his lips red, a snarl turns into a muffled whine. Hannibal is solid above him, staring at his face, and he feels like it's burning.
He watches as Hannibal's hand slide down his chest to press against his abdomen, to the scar he made, and holds it down. His mind wanders to cold metal slicing through his flesh. He feels like dying. He is fire inside, licking his own guts as they turn into ashes. Will grabs him by the neck to pull him down and bites his upper lip. Hannibal eats the sounds he growls, his hitched breath, his cries, his chanting of Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal. "I wanted you," he forces the words out like it is painful. He wants Hannibal to touch him everywhere as he leaves trails of lava on his skin. He feels too much and he feels empty, and he wants Hannibal to shape him. Hannibal gives him what he wants, like he always will, like he knows Will better than Will himself. Hannibal sees him like his flesh is glass, transparent and prone to any damage.
Hannibal is persistent, like the ghosts, like the creatures following him around. He gives Will what his power is capable of. He gives Will something he never once had before. Will finds himself drowning as Hannibal grips his hips and leaves marks. He leans down to bite Will’s neck, and Will cries as a bruise form on the delicate skin; he leaves a picture of rows of teeth. Dry sobs echoes in the room as Hannibal drives him to a finish. So he finally lets himself shout as he comes undone. A little death, he reminds himself.
He doesn't let his eyes slip away from Hannibal even as tired as he feels when Hannibal will not let him go yet. Will is concerned that if he closes his eyes for a second, Hannibal will vanish. Swept away like dusts.
+
He wakes up that night, but not because of his nightmares at last. A pair of arms is crushing him, pining weight to his bandaged arm, and he struggles to spins himself. Hannibal is plastered to his back and he blows warm breath to Will's nape. Will realizes, then, that Hannibal's breathing are wet and staggered. The arms around his middle are trembling slightly. Hannibal is rigid. Will is surprised he hasn't heard him screaming yet. But he envelopes his hand on top of Hannibal's anyways.
When Will finally be able to loosen the hold and turns to face Hannibal, he sees a terrified child. Hannibal looks younger when he's scared, Will notes. There's a deep frown growing between his brows. His mouth forming a snarl. Hannibal's hair, long, reaching his past his brows, disheveled from sleep. Will wonders, what lies behind those eyelids, pressed shut. What kinds of horror can provoke such a reaction from Hannibal himself.
Will reaches out. His thumb slowly rubbing the frown, as he runs his hand through Hannibal's hair, petting him. He leaves his hand on his neck as he leans forward to bump their forehead together. He stays petting Hannibal's nape until he calms down. He stays for a long time.
+
Hannibal is not there when he wakes up.
Will hastily grab his pants and a t-shirt, the one he uses last night is ripped on the side. He goes downstairs with nimble feet. And he finds his front door wide open. He can see his dogs outside, running in the yard.
He finds Hannibal sitting on the small chair in his porch, hands crossed on his lap, attention far away from here. He wears the clothes he was wearing yesterday. He looks contained, not a hair was out of place. He is not the Hannibal Will sees clutching to him with shaking hands last night. Now he sees nothing on his face, faced with a brick wall of some sort. He is a puppet.
"I came here to see you," Hannibal says, after quite some time. "I didn’t let myself to feel expectations. I did not intend to ask you to come with me."
"But you wanted me to," Will replies.
"What I want is not what you should want."
As Hannibal rises to his feet, he leans to his doorframe. He watches the ground as Hannibal hesitates, his hand hovering between them. "Sometimes I think a part of you have become a part of me," Will looks at him, finally.
"Do you feel condemned?"
"I feel like I'm in debt," Will replies. He crosses his arm so he won't have to touch Hannibal. Nails scratching the ends of the day old gauze. He should change it soon, he thinks distractedly.
Hannibal was silent, either selecting his choice or regretting his next words that he will have to say. "Then perhaps we should pay."
Will feels like the ground before him has refuses to hold his weight. He feels swallowed by a limbo he created himself. He wants to take his words back. He wants to kiss Hannibal until he empties his lungs. He sees across the hollow eyes in front of him. Blank, a mask, and he sees himself inside of it.
Hannibal takes a step closer. Cold hands lifting his jaw. Will lets his eyes closed, he is waiting for the final moment. The apocalypse of their own becoming. This is their own deathbed, crafted with blood and flesh and bones of the people touched by The Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal gives him a release, then. He feels lips to his forehead, between his brows, to both of his eyelids, to his nose, and Will leans back as they settles down to his lips. He is dying and Hannibal is taking what is left of him to seal it inside a coffin.
He does not let himself watch as Hannibal walks away from his lot. And Hannibal vanishes like he was never here.
+
A letter is delivered to a farmhouse in Wolf Trap, Virginia, with no written address of the sender. The house sat alone with no neighbors in sight. And inside it is nothing but a void.
Dearest Will,
Have you come to pay your debt?
I am sat here, impulsively, as I have just remembered about the date of today, five years ago. It was your resurrection. The rebirth of Will Graham in the Hobbs' kitchen. Do you remember? As you knelt beside Abigail, in a desperate attempt to close the wound.
It was the first time I have seen you.
You led me down the path of languish since then, Will Graham. To truly want something, for once, in my mortal life. You saw me. You wanted me. And you know me better than I can ever let you.
You and your righteousness. You suffered and you wailed, alone, for the betterment of those around you. The heathens who knew nothing more than to use your very being until no remain is left of you.
Until no remain is left of you, for me.
You have a place for me, as I have you. But my place in you is banished, now. Though, I have yet to let you roam in mine.
Let this be my wish, for the day you roam the abyss in me will be the day I pay my debt.
Yours,
Hannibal Lecter.
No one came to pick up the letter.