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Everything lights up around him with an overwhelming, suffocating, scream of white hot pain. It singes up from his toes and spasms across every aching inch of his body, sparking bright and sharp behind his eyes. The pain doesn’t subside, it doesn’t pulse dully or ebb away as shock sets in, it stays torturously vivid and distinct as Will’s body sinks, his body rigid and unwilling to properly converse with the muddied, panicked signals from his brain.
The pressure in his skull is getting unbearable, feeling like it’s going to explode. He’s only vaguely aware of what’s happening, tied to the experience only by the pain anchoring him there. The rest is like he’s viewing it from far away, like he’s merely an observer to his own pathetic end.
His vision is becoming an inky black, the pressure behind his eyes makes him want to scream- and maybe he does scream, because suddenly his body spasms, startled out of the sated catatonia from before and he’s sucking in a lungful of icy saltwater, choking and gagging, only to fill his aching chest with more liquid. He’s drowning, and he’s not sure if the pressure of the sea will kill him first, everything caving internally, or if his aching, suffocating lungs will give out first, starved for air.
He can’t make out which way is up, he’s blinking rapidly even though it burns his eyes, even though nothing clears up, and everything is just churning grey sea. Everything’s dark and his vision is marred with black splotches. Still, he forces his body to move, thrashing blindly, to try and reach the surface as his chest tightens, burns with the need for oxygen. He tries not to suck in anymore water, but he’s only marginally successful, his body is hardly listening to him, his brain’s autopilot apparently satisfied with the terror of an agonizing, slow death at the bottom of the ocean, lungs full of water.
Every uncoordinated movement as he tries to resurface sends sharp shocks of pain through his body, every muscle and bone screams out for him to stop. He’s so weak, he can feel himself sinking more than he’s pulling himself up, weighed down by his clothes, his exhausted body.
He thinks he feels the moment his brain stops trying; frenzied, panicked signals fizzling, his neurons blinking out, leaving his head filled with a long, drawn out ringing.
He’s reaching up, hands grasping desperately through the sea like he might suddenly be lifted from the water, like he might suddenly wake up, still in his bed, shirt clinging to his back. He kicks, once, twice, three more times. He feels the water filling him up, feels it settling heavy in his chest, in his lungs and belly. The burning in his chest is dissipating slowly, giving way to a dull sense of agony that he can’t quite comprehend. It feels physically easier to handle, yet the finality of what that must mean is so much heavier.
He doesn’t want to die. Not like this.
His eyes are rolling back, but it hardly changes anything. He can hardly see, anyways. His fingers break the surface between a crashing wave, the air above almost feels sickly warm compared to the frigid water he’s dying in. He almost misses what that means, his consciousness slipping away-
He forces himself to push up again, it’s an agonizing, terrible movement that feels wrong, wrong, wrong, -something in his body makes a sickening crunching sound that echoes loud in his ears, piercing through the rushing sounds filling his head. He can barely control his limbs, barely manages to even figure out what part of him he’s moving, (all of him, he thinks?) tries to reach his hand out again and eventually manages after what feels like hours- can only be seconds- because Will is dying, and quickly, he knows. His hand breaks the surface again and he stifles the urge to sob, or scream, something terrible and anguished sitting poised on the back of his tongue.
He manages to kick himself up again, a pathetic, thrashing mess of limbs that makes everything go completely numb for a blissful second, before it all returns, pain crashing back around him. He forces his head above water, can barely get his head tilted back enough that he’s not dipping back under the angry waves before his body is heaving in a wet, ragged breath without his permission. The action makes his body lurch, and he’s practically doubling over, head slipping back under for only a moment again as his body attempts to expel the water in his lungs.
It’s a mess of nearly futile struggling and wet, violent, heaving as his body chokes and gags, a disgusting and sour mix of sea water and stomach acid forcing its way out of his raw throat. Every time his body forces him to try and choke up the rest of the water lodged in his lungs, more tries to go right back down, barely able to keep himself above the water long enough to breathe in any actual air. The waves are violent and dark, and it’s impossible to navigate, especially while his body is so busy just trying to get him to breathe. Everything is tilting and spinning in a never ending blur of nauseating ocean blue, and he feels his back connect with the hard surface before his brain can scramble together what it is, and longer still before his kaleidoscope vision is able to settle unevenly on what he’s being thrown against by the back and forth rocking of the water.
The jagged edge of the rock cuts into the centre of Will’s back and he can’t tell if the pain shooting through his spine is from new injuries or if it’s all the same wounds from the dive off the edge, aggravated by the harsh connection against the rock with his broken body, but it ignites hot and angry all the same. Will manages to turn, just enough that he can grasp onto the algae slicked surface, nails clawing desperately to not let him slip underneath the water again. He can taste the thick, coppery tinge of blood in his mouth as he chokes up the last of the water that his body is able to expel, thick with coagulated blood and phlegm. His body won’t stop heaving, wet, ratting breathes that make everything constrict painfully; his vision threatening to blot out on every inhale.
His grip isn’t strong, but it’s enough that his exhausted body sags against the sharp edges of the rocks in the water, a line of tall, slant rocks, just barely avoiding the crest of each wave. His head falls forward, just barely missing the sharp corners and brittle edges underneath him as his forehead thumps against his arm, almost resting in the crook of his elbow. He’s clutching at the rock like a lifeline, because truthfully, he supposes, right now that’s what it is, and he’s digging his fingers in so deep that he can feel the way his nail beds threaten to bleed from it, the brittle, bitten down edge of his nails ground down and torn, rough and raw.
His body’s starting to shiver now, and it’s quickly crescendoing from a general tremor as he heaves in air, still trying to grasp and hold onto survival, as his body works itself into an almost violent fit of shaking. His teeth are clicking together loudly, echoing nauseatingly in his skull. He’s only been above the water for seconds, maybe a minute at most, and he can feel something strange trying to settle over him already. His body is so tired, his brain just wants to rest. The idea of closing his eyes, letting his battered and screaming body relax, rest for a while, it becomes a rather alluring idea, and Will’s not sure there’s much of a reason to deny himself of that.
Rest.
Just for a while.
Will’s eyes roll, everything’s cloudy and wrong even when his eyes are open. He can feel blood running hot and thick down the left side of his face, over his brow bone, matting in his eyebrow, clumping in his eyelashes and dripping down over his cheek, wetting the bow of his lips. There’s blood clotting in his nostril uncomfortably too, finally trying to stem off the bleeding from what’s likely a broken nose, making it hard to breathe right. His body jerks, a rough startling motion amongst his body’s shaking and he isn’t sure if it’s from how cold he is or how much he hurts. Regardless, the twitch of his arms and neck forces a wet, tortured sound out of his ruined lungs as it jostles his sore body. Everything’s blurring together now into an indistinguishable mix of pain and icy cold, until all his brain will supply him with is a blanket of bone-deep pain. His body feels heavy and strangely numb, overwhelmed.
He slumps forward, sags heavier into the side of the rock he’s against, knows he’s slipping backwards into the water at least a little, but he’s so tired that he isn’t sure he could do anything about it even if he wanted to. Everything starts to feel soft around the edges, dampened out and slow. Sluggishly, his brain supplies him with the fleeting thought that he’s dying. Slower still, he realizes how pathetic that seems, to have fought so hard to claw his way to the surface, to fight against everything while the ocean around him runs red, just to let himself bleed out against a rock at the bottom of a cliff. It’s not how any of this was supposed to go-
He chose their fate. He chose how to end this, to press himself into the clutching arms of Hannibal and let themselves tip back- he can still feel the ghost of Hannibal’s lips against his skin.
Hannibal.
The thought makes Wills stomach roil, another wave of vicious tremors running through his body. Will forces his eyelids open, the act feels physically draining, there’s blood trying to glue his left lid shut. His limbs feel numb, he can’t tell what parts of him are in and out of the water.
He doesn’t know where Hannibal is.
Will’s fingers twitch, grasping uselessly along the rough surface under him, feeling along the dips and cut outs of the rock, where the algae is thick and wet, and where he can get the best grip.
Will doesn’t know when he let go of Hannibal. His hands had been so, so tight on him, clutching at him desperately as they tumbled over the side.
Will wasn’t supposed to wake up halfway to his grave at the bottom of the ocean. That had never been a part of his plan. This was almost unnecessarily cruel, to have to die alone anyways, after everything.
Not like this, please.
Will wants to call out for Hannibal, feels his name caught in his throat as he tries to get his body to work under him even as everything gets impossibly heavier. Everything around him is a storm of grey and hazy blue, sea spray blinding and stinging at Will’s exposed skin. He can hardly see two feet in front of him, much less make anything out besides the constant, angry roll of waves.
There’s panic trying to ignite in his chest, sparks catching and trying to burn through all of the cognitive haze that’s slowly enveloping his brain. Under the feeling of rock cutting into his fingers and the soft meat of his hands he can still feel the soft material of Hannibal’s shirt, wet with blood.
He can feel the vowels of Hannibal’s name on his tongue, tangled in his mouth.
Hannibal is dead, lost to the sea, and Will is dying, choking on regret so thick he can taste it, can’t breathe around it.
Selfishly, all he can think of, a repetitive and intrusive mantra in his head, is that he doesn’t want to die alone. He wants to feel the sure pressure of Hannibal’s arms around him, his large, steady hands. He wants to sink back into the certainty that he had when he had thrown them both off of the cliff only minutes ago, because there had been nothing else- but that feeling is so far gone now that Will can’t remember what it was like at all. It’s barely a ghost, now.
God, how had he been so wrong?
He tries to pull himself up higher, but he can’t seem to find the strength in his body to do so, even with the leverage he has with his hold on the dig-out in the rock. Will moans miserably, shaking too badly to hold on tightly like he wants to. He doesn’t want to drown, above all else, he desperately doesn’t want to feel that again. The delirious, frantic fight that his body puts up despite the inevitable as he sinks is hell, and he can’t handle that again, he can’t.
It’ll be easier to die here, like this. Will squeezes his eyes shut, tries to remember the feeling of Hannibal’s skin against his, tries to remember what the warmth of it had felt like, his own flesh so incredibly cold now. His chest rattles as he breathes, slow, uneven inhales, each harder than the last.
Terrifyingly, it’s hard to recall the feeling of Hannibal’s touch, or hear Hannibal’s voice, the deep lilt of his accent. His mind keeps scrambling, chasing after the familiar memories, only to have them slip out from under him.
Copper sits heavy on his pallet, floods everything else out until his senses all sting with that bright, tart scent of blood. The sound of the waves muddies with the gradually increasing ringing in his ears, until everything is a constant roar of white noise. Will can’t remember if he closed his eyes or not, but they sting, sharp and uncomfortable in their sockets, and he can’t make anything out in front of him, everything faded into a watered down smear of black and grey.
The pain starts to burn out, like a fire reduced to coals, and Will’s body sags with it, feeling the sharp cut of the rock against his skin as he loses his grip for a moment. The anxieties wound tight in his gut start to fade, too, when the thoughts become too much to stay focused on.
He drifts, somewhere between nothingness and the heavy weight of his body, to the point that he’s unsure if he’s even breathing anymore. There’s a bone deep cold spreading up his body, biting into his limbs and numbing as it goes until he can’t tell where he begins and ends.
Somewhere through the haze he can feel Hannibal’s hand stroking through his hair, a wet tangle of curls and gore. He can feel the heat from Hannibal’s body, as distant as it is, it’s there, worlds warmer than Will feels now.
He wants to cry, and he can’t tell if the stinging in his eyes is from the sea water or tears. He feels relieved. If he has to die, he wants this more than anything- to remember what it was like to have Hannibal there.
“There you go, it's alright, Will.”
The hand pets along Will’s cheek, gentle.
The touch feels miles away.
Distantly, Will wants to thank him, unspeakably grateful for Hannibal’s understanding. For not letting Will die alone.
Hannibal shushes him, and Will feels the last of his energy in his hands slip, the grip he’s holding on the rock finally gives away. The rough, grating surface under him scrapes against his skin, but Will can’t feel it. He can barely feel Hannibal’s hands on him anymore, but he wont let his focus slip from that. He won’t-
Hannibal’s touch is grounding, gentle. Will feels himself sag, body heavy against the surface under him. He feels his chest stutter out a breath that doesn’t fill his lungs, and somehow, it isn’t scary when everything finally gives in. The too long burnt wick of a candle, finally snuffed out.
—
He doesn’t expect to wake up again. When Will’s eyes blink open sluggishly, bleary and confused, everything presses in with claustrophobic, sharp waves of pain that roll over him, choking him, and causing his chest to heave, lungs contracting and spasming uselessly.
His body forces him to inhale finally, after what feels like minutes of painful, breathless gasps; a sharp, angry and ragged breath that burns the whole way, ripping his throat raw just to fill his chest with air. As soon as the oxygen fills his lungs, his body jolts with the violent and sudden convulsion of ridding his lungs of the bloody humidity sticking to his throat, choking and coughing in rough hacks that makes his body twitch horribly, too weak to do anything else. Every cough creates a sharp, ripping pain throughout his abdomen. Distantly, Will feels his head tip up slightly, causing the world to tilt off of its axis, everything spiralling into a nauseating swaying motion that makes saliva flood his mouth, bloody and awful as he fights the urge to vomit.
Something strangled escapes his lips between ragged heaves of air and his choking, trying to force the world to stop spinning so wildly around him as the contents of his stomach threatens to expel itself, creeping up his burning throat. He can hear the distant rattle of his chest and the sound of what he thinks might be the ocean, the crashing waves and the wind, but everything else sounds muffled and distant, too far away to focus on or detect. He coughs again, harsh enough that he gags on it and that’s all it takes before he’s being maneuvered to the side to vomit the meagre contents of his stomach, every muscle constricting and begging out for it to stop.
The taste of bile and blood clings to his mouth as he pants, salty air doing little to help ease his stomach. Will’s head feels stuffed full and weighted down, and his eyes flutter uselessly at the expanse of grey before him. His vision struggles to come into focus, like a camera lens, until finally the grey becomes a stretch of rough, yellow sand, as far as he can see, and Will feels tears stinging his eyes, warping the image.
His body startles somewhat belatedly to the sensation of fingers stroking along his forehead, pushing wet, sea-stiff hair from his face and Will tries to get his eyes to look back, to find the owner of the hand stroking his face- of the hand that must still be cradling his head, too, stopping him from choking on his own sick. The attempt at movement makes his head pulse with pain, neck spasming weakly in protest and he groans brokenly in discomfort, a weak and wretched sound that barely claws its way out of his mouth. In response to his sound, the hand returns, petting down the side of his face, cradling his cheek, fingers tracing the line of stubble there.
Will tries to press back into the touch, to find comfort in the contact, real or not, but moving now that he’s no longer choking has become impossible and he can tell there’s something very wrong with his body, his abdomen feels hot and agonizing, like every breath he takes goes through the muscle of his gut. His legs are a strange mixture of pain and numbness, the feeling is almost far away.
“Easy, Will,” the words filter through the haze in his head slowly, like it’s moving through molasses just to register in his brain, and Will wants to sob at the feeling that twists in his chest at the sound of Hannibal’s voice in his ear. He sounds tired, his voice is rough and thick, the words slurred together a bit, but the soft cadence of Hannibal’s voice and the gentle lull of his accent settles something deep inside Will all the same.
Will's fingers flex, scrambling uselessly against the sand under him to try and reach for Hannibal, to try and feel his skin against Hannibal’s and know that it’s real, that he’s there. The sand under his fingers is wet and coarse, and the texture bites at his raw fingers. He tries to rasp out his name, but nothing comes out except a wet exhale, pitched up and desperate at the end.
“I’m right here, relax,” Hannibal shushes, coughing around the end of his words, and it sounds rough and painful. He keeps his hand against Will’s cheek, a gentle and physical reminder that he’s there and alive, and Will aches. “There you go.”
Will blinks, the action takes effort, his eyes burning and unfocused, eyelids heavy. Hannibal shifts just slightly, and it’s just enough that Will can see his shadow above him from the corner of his vision, swimming in and out of focus. Will’s only vaguely aware of the sound that escapes him at the relief that crashes over him. He clings to that silhouette like it’s the only thing keeping him alive and tethered to the earth, refusing to close his eyes and let it out of his sight for even a moment.
“I’ve got you,” Hannibal says, coughing again, wet and rough.
Will feels the hand on his face shift, helping maneuver his head carefully back until it’s resting back into the sand, eyes staring up into the vast, grey sky.
Will’s eyes flutter at the way the world around him swims again at the movement. He rasps out a painful, wheezing breath as he tries to keep the fragile grasp he has on consciousness. Somewhat frantically, he realizes after a moment that his eyes have slipped shut again and the shadow of Hannibal’s figure is gone- but when he wrenches his eyes open again, a panicked sound catching in his throat that makes his abdomen sting with white-hot pain, he can see that Hannibal’s crouched over him, hair matted to his face and dripping, skin white and ashy where it’s not sliced and bloody.
Something akin to a sob bubbles up in his chest, worms its way out of his mouth; and it tastes like sea water and fear, and relief, and like Hannibal’s lips on his own, only moments before everything turned to grey.
Hannibal’s looking down at him, his own breathing is laboured and wrong, and Will can just make out the way Hannibal’s holding himself, stiff posture and his shoulder is hanging loose from its socket. Hannibal’s lips twitch up into a cracked smile, eyes tired and dull instead of their burning maroon, and the flash of teeth behind his lips makes Will want to fucking laugh, he feels delirious with it.
He tries to get Hannibal's name out again, only managing a choked garble of syllables that barely pass as anything at all, but Hannibal just keeps smiling, leaning over Will to press his lips to Will’s temple.
Will shakes like he’s coming apart at the seams. He isn’t sure if it’s with the force of the sobs that are wrenching themselves from his body or if it’s the pain, the deep rooted cold in his body, but he can’t stop. Hannibal shushes him, tries to calm him as the pain blooms sharp and wrong in his stomach-
“I know,” Hannibal breathes, reaches out with a shaky hand, battered and bruised, to press against the blood slicked wound on Will’s abdomen- one he’s only been marginally aware of, outside of the pain. “It’s okay, I know.”
The pressure hurts, it’s hot and alive, and it’s burning him up, the way Hannibal presses into it, but he lets him, tries to choke back the strangled cries still pouring out of him.
“We’ll be okay,” Hannibal promises, and Will thinks through the haze and the pain, that if they aren’t dead already, and this isn’t some beautiful, torturous heaven that Will doesn’t deserve, that he believes Hannibal. “It’s going to be alright.”