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Love is the emblem of eternity; it confounds all notion of time, effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end. —Madame de Staël.
The salted air roared past his ears, drowning out the crash of waves below, the frantic whisper of his heart. Everything but him. He was warm, solid, safe, and he pressed his head against his chest as if he alone could shield him from death. The smell of his skin, his blood, soothed him. Made him think of him, and not how the water would butcher them like saws. Nothing of death ever crossed his mind. He was calm, compliant.
Complete.
As gravity crushed them down, he wrapped his arms around him tighter as if he were his only plausible life vest. And wasn't he? Hadn't he saved him from maddeningly polite? Hadn't he freed him from his self-imposed prison? When he slipped his arms around him, he felt free. They fell together into darkness, clutching each other, and for once, he didn't fear death. Mortality was beyond them.
The impact punched at their ribs, rending skin, stealing their breath away. Cold water filled the spaces their bodies, so close together, hadn't. No matter how tight, how desperate he clung to him, waves like claws ripped them apart. It wasn't the sea that threatened to drown him, but his absence. The taste of seawater was bitter, but the void of his touch was even more. He didn't gasp for life at the water's surface or fight the rolling tide for his own sake. He simply couldn't bear dying somewhere that wasn't next to the man he'd sold his soul for. So, he fought—and lost, drifting aimless, drowning, until strong arms rescued him from the dark.
Then there was only Hannibal and his lips on his own, his voice demanding him to breathe. Sand curled under his fingertips as he struggled for air. He tasted saltwater, blood in his mouth...
Blood.
The cut on his thumb brought him back to Bedelia's home, far away from fractured memories. They had tumbled from the cliff and survived. He was breathing, bleeding, in Bedelia's kitchen, holding a knife lined red. Chopped figs dotted the cutting board like mangled kidneys, and Will stood there, staring, rubbing the blood between his fingers. The coppery scent, the pain... it reminded him of the jagged wounds they had sustained from the Red Dragon; their nights spent in seclusion, hidden from the world, places where Jack and the FBI wouldn't find them. Their wounds healed, and they emerged, together, into a new age where the memories of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter were TattleCrime's fifth-page news. They had died and been reborn again. Baptized by the sea, they committed themselves to each other. Their new life. The long list of victims they would claim.
Bedelia was the first meal they'd share together after their rebirth. Hannibal had insisted, and Will hadn't argued.
The bead of blood slipped down his finger, but it was inconsequential like dust motes in sunlight. Inconsequential because Hannibal was there with a hand gentle between his shoulder blades, slipping it down, down to the small of his back. His body trembled with the touch. Hannibal must've noticed—he always did—because he closed the gap between them. His body heat blazed a trail over his skin, and Will took in a breath through his nose, savored it, savored him, before daring to look up. They shared a lazy glance as if they had nothing more to do than contemplate each other—then Hannibal touched him. His fingertips brushed over his arm, down his hand, to the underside of his wrist in a way that asked for permission rather than demanded. It lured him in, and Will watched as Hannibal lifted his hand to his lips. A simple kiss to his thumb, another one. Then Hannibal licked his cut clean and smiled as if he were the best thing he'd ever tasted. Something coiled around his spine, hot and needy, and his breath involuntarily hitched. Hannibal noticed that too, and with a devil's smile, sucked his thumb into his mouth.
He remembered choking on water vividly now. His chest burned in the same way right then, air stolen from his lungs. Will recovered quicker this time, and he yanked Hannibal close, sealing their lips together just to find out how he tasted on Hannibal's tongue. His mouth was sweet and warm. A note of damnation had him clinging to Hannibal, and when he swept his tongue into Hannibal's mouth, he tasted a slight undercurrent of surrender that was... utterly breathtaking. The thought that Hannibal could be anything but a force of destruction...
Will jerked him closer, as if skin to skin wasn't ever going to be good enough. Hannibal returned the kiss without a need for urgency. It was gentle, soft, and more tender than Will thought him capable. When their kiss broke, he broke too, gasping for another breath. Choking on that same dark water that had threaten to kill him. Hannibal soothed him with a kiss along his jaw, down to the meat between his neck and shoulder. Another sweet kiss—then everything changed. Will had chummed the shark-infested waters, and the cannibal bit, hard enough to break skin. Will gasped. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. His head swam with... elation, of yes, and he groaned, leaning and panting against the side of Hannibal's neck. Will teethed his earlobe, and Hannibal dug blunt nails into his hips, forcing their bodies together in a reaction that was both violent and hungry. Aroused, needing more than this, Will fought violence with violence—and bit him.
Time and space didn't matter anymore.
He didn't catch the transition between standing in Bedelia's kitchen, bleeding, to being thrown onto her bed. Decorative pillows were dumped like rotten bodies on the floor. Then Hannibal was over him, spreading him out, plucking open shirt buttons, unbuckling his belt. Hannibal was already naked to him, skin soft—scarred by the gunshot wound the Red Dragon had inflicted on him. Will fluttered his fingers over the pink discoloration, tracing its circle with a touch barely there. Hannibal froze above him, watching his fingers caress it lovingly. In adoration. It wasn't horrifying, but beautiful, marking their new passage into the world as one. Hannibal gave Will a small smile, as if he knew what he'd been thinking, then thumbed his cheek. His touch was warm and soft on his scar, his fingers even more tender on his chest, where the mark of a stab wound still existed. Neither had healed as well as he'd hoped, but Hannibal didn't mind and Will couldn't either.
They explored each other by touch alone, until they couldn't take it anymore. Will grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down. They kissed until their lips ached, until their skin was raw with need and desperation, and finger marked with bruises. They'd done all the banal things—condom, lube—before Hannibal pushed inside. Will was full suddenly, almost to breaking, and arched his back in the purity, of the simplicity in it. It was him and Hannibal, as it always should've been, and the pleasure of them together, of Hannibal rocking slowly into him, filled him with joy. Will groaned and spread his legs wider, giving himself over to him, and Hannibal took every inch, harder and harder. Faster. Will clung to him as heat burned at the base of his spine. He sucked in a breath. Then Hannibal whispered his name... the reaction his body had to it... he remembered violent waves crashing against him, the force of them nothing compared to how his orgasm completely destroyed him. It left him broken, panting in gusts against Hannibal's heated skin. Hannibal kissed him, and they came off their high together, wrapped in each other's arms. Listening to Hannibal's heart, Will wondered how any of this—them, sex, their new life—could've ever been anything different. Them as enemies... seemed a lifetime away—if they were ever enemies at all.
They dressed in suits that were clean lines and sharp like knives. In the dining room, the fireplace blazed, and Bedelia sat at the head of the table, eyes drooping. Her leg was a grotesque centerpiece, smelling of cinnamon, honey, spices he'd never heard of, and other things Hannibal had mentioned but he had ignored. Hannibal had promised their first meal as lovers would be divine, and Will never doubted him.
As Hannibal took his seat at the other end, Will stood behind him, watching Bedelia fade in and out of her drugged state. Their eyes met, and Bedelia smirked, sickly amused. "So you do... ache for him."
They both knew it was never a question.
"I hope you find me... delectable... and sophisticated."
Will placed his hands on Hannibal's shoulders. "Oh, we will, Bedelia."
He smiled—and it was a wicked thing.