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Hannibal doesn't realize what has happened until it is too late.
Just one wrong movement playfully sparring, cleaning up their abilities as the FBI could be on their tail at any second, and he makes one grave mistake. The knife sinks into Will's stomach easily, ripping out the sutures from the first time he stabbed him there. But this time there is no intent, and it goes deeper than before.
"No," he gasps out, immediately taking Will in his arms, bringing him to a table to try and stop the bleeding. He's a doctor, of course he knows the procedures, but amidst the sheer panic of seeing his husband bleed out he misses something. In the aftermath, he's not sure what it is, but Will doesn't live. As much as he could've fixed it— he knows he could've fixed it, Will still slips out of his reach, right there, almost ready to be held but not quite.
"Hannibal," Will says, eyes wide, looking at him desperately.
"I did not mean to," Hannibal says, hands inside him, pressing. "I did not mean to, Will. You understand that? I did not mean to. I would never — I would never mean to. I am so —" His voice gets a little broken up. "I am so sorry, Will."
Will gives him a smile, shakes his head. There is a trail of tears, hot as they slide down his cheeks.
"Hey. It's alright. You can — you can finally eat me now, can't you?"
Will slips through his fingers, his life so fragile, as it is with every other person out there. All it takes is one wrong move, and he is dead on the table, his blood coating his hands as he pulls away to look at them. He was so panicked he didn't even think to put gloves on.
The stench of death— of urine and feces— overwhelms him, as much as he is used to it. He swallows thickly and cleans it up before he does anything with the body of his beloved, sprays the room with perfume so he can almost pretend that Will is just sleeping.
The meal he can get from him is glorious, of course. After such a mistake— he has never killed anyone by accident before— he needs to commemorate him, some way or another. He needs to fix this, and there is no way for it but making him into a meal. Into a dinner, just for himself to enjoy his husband one last time.
He makes quick work of getting his heart out, looks at it for a long time before getting the rest— some of his blood, his lungs, his kidneys. The feast he makes for himself takes a while to do, but the body never seems to start to rot. It remains there, impassive, no smell coming from that godforsaken room.
It takes him ages to go and do what he needs to do, but he goes to their backyard. They've managed to find a good place in Argentina, a place where they are left alone for the most part. He starts digging him into a shallow grave, knowing that if anything someone will notice the smell (when he eventually starts smelling) and will alert the neighbors. He will be identified as the creature he is, and he will go to prison once again. Perhaps he will even manage to swerve right back into the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
Amidst his grief, he finds nothing wrong with the idea of going back to prison. Without Will, it all seems wrong. It all seems worthless, to be freed when he is not there. It is similar to when he rejected him, when he told him he didn't have his appetite— it wasn't worth it to still be free when Will wasn't by his side. And now he's dead, and he isn't by his side again. It feels like damnation; not that Will was ever saving him.
He stares at the shallow grave for a long, long time, looking at Will's restful expression in his face, the way he's managed to make him almost look like he's sleeping. If he wasn't completely still, his chest not moving, he would almost be fooled by it; if he couldn't see the stitches from where he got the meat, he would almost be fooled by it.
But it is not the truth, so he moves on. He starts to cover him with dirt, and tears slide down his cheeks with each shovel full of it, until he is not there in his sight anymore.
He goes back to their house, and he can hear Encephalitis bark.
He pays him no mind, goes up to their bedroom. His bedroom now, he supposes.
He caused this. If Will was to die before him, he had always imagined it as an accident, an illness, even hopefully old death— not at his own hand. For once in his life— for the very first time in his life— he holds regret, deep inside his body, corroding every part of him until he is swallowed whole by it.
He doesn't want to admit it, but he cries. He doesn't hunt, he doesn't do anything for the next few days. He lays motionless before going to feed Encephalitis. He keeps barking, like he knows, and he lets him out onto the backyard. He settles on Will's unmarked, fresh grave, and he curls up on it.
He knows, and the sight breaks his heart, like it could be more broken to begin with.
Will had been shocked when Hannibal had pushed his knife into him on accident. Of all the ways his life could end, a part of him always knew it would be like this, at Hannibal's hand. But he never pictured it as an accident, as something not calculated and purposeful. As their relationship evolved, he almost thought that maybe he'd die of old age with him at his side.
But no. It's with him, it's by him. Of course it is. as Hannibal took him to a table with wide eyes, tried to fix it, tried to stop it. But it was too late already, with his panic making his hands shake. He was human after all, he could tell by the way he struggled to come to grips with the fact he was there, having killed Will without even meaning to. Perhaps he wasn't married to the Devil on Earth, after all was said and done.
He gave him a shaky smile, tried to make the best out of the fact he was dying, he was dead, he was rotting. "Hey, it's alright," he had said. "You can — you can finally eat me now, can't you?"
Hannibal had nodded as tears slid down his cheeks. He looked like a painting. That's the last thought that crossed him — Hannibal's beauty in this grief consuming him whole — as he passed on.
It took five days for him to wake up.
He wakes up with dirt pressing against his mouth, his nose, his eyes. He realizes that he is alive when he feels the pressure of being buried under fresh dirt, and he doesn't find himself shocked. Like this was all part of the plan, like this was all what it was meant to be like.
His body doesn't feel any different, but there are things crawling around his skin.
He reaches his hands out, pushes against the dirt, and it gives way with ease. He remembers briefly the case of Eldon Stammets— his victims buried under a shallow grave to give way to mushrooms. An intricate web of connections.
That's why he's alive, isn't it? That intricate web of connections.
Hannibal reaches for him as he digs his way out. There's dirt and worms inside him, he can feel it all wriggle down his trachea, but it doesn't matter. It's a shallow grave, he realizes as he feels his hand press against the grass. Thank God it's a shallow grave.
When he manages to slowly pull his body out, he finds himself spitting up worms and dirt, his body covered in dirt. He lets out a shaky breath, looks at himself, as worms wriggle from underneath the suit Hannibal dressed him on. There's no blood, but he can see hints of stitches when he raises the suit, showing off the only parts of his skin that are clean of mud. So he did eat him, after all.
It feels natural as he stands up, as he walks to the house with shaky steps. He can hear Encephalitis barking, that distinct high-pitched whine-bark of his. He smiles, and he knocks on the door.
The man who opens the door is Hannibal without being Hannibal. He's still in that robe he wears around the house when he doesn't want to put a suit on — his eyes are misty and red — his face pale; a soft, deep sadness in his eyes that seems to consume him whole.
A sad smile manages to lift up his factions. "Don't tell me I've caught your hallucinations, too."
"No," Will says, like it is the most normal thing in the world, "I'm real. I'm very real, Hannibal. Could I go shower?"
"I want to… to have you, if you're real," Hannibal says. He reaches over, touches him like he will disappear. He doesn't — he doesn't melt into thin air. He wipes dirt off his lips.
"I'm covered in dirt, Hannibal," Will says softly. "I am unsure you'd like to kiss me like this."
"I do want to," Hannibal tells him. He presses against him, his robe getting ruined in the process, and he grabs him, and he kisses him. He kisses him, and he kisses him, and he kisses him. Will is filled with the sense of coming home, of dirt against chapstick, and he gags a little as he pulls away.
"I'm as real as it's getting," Will tells him, and then he goes to shower.
He spends an inordinate amount of time in the shower, simply letting the water go dark with the dirt, worms still hiding in him and slowly managing to get out. It's a mix of worms and dirt and he simply sits on the bathtub, letting it run dirty until he feels like he's ready to actually clean himself off what a grave with no coffin does to you.
When he comes back, clean and in his clothes, he goes and settles on the couch, as if nothing happened. Hannibal, wide-eyed still, takes a picture of him on his phone, just to make sure that he is there, visible and tangible and real. And he is.
Hannibal doesn't question it. He leans in close to him, wraps an arm around his waist, holding onto him.
"I missed you," Hannibal says. "I'm sorry."
"I know," he replies. "Did you make a good dinner out of me, at least?"
He sighs, closes his eyes. "Yes. I made a feast, in fact. I still have some of you left in the freezer."
"Wonderful." He hums. "I missed you, too. I wasn't awake, but I feel like I was still there."
He nods solemnly, turns the TV on and watches the movies roll on. Encephalitis gets on the sofa and cuddles up next to Will too, after sniffing him throughly.
"I love you," Hannibal says to break the silence.
"I love you too."
There is still dirt inside him, some way or another. He belongs to the grave he was put in. But he's allowed to go back to Hannibal, crawl back to his beloved, and he will take it gladly, like he could not live otherwise.
And he knows neither of them can live without the other. It is only a fair deal for him to have no grave be able to hold his body down for long, like a compass always pointing to Hannibal, to Hannibal and no one else.