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Will wakes with a yelp, bolting upright and eyes wild. He huffs out hard bursts of air and adjusts to the dim light around him. First off, he’s alive, and clearly being tended to, judging by the fresh bandages he feels pressed to his face and shoulder. Second, he’s in a fairly spacious bed, a thick and unbearably soft blanket tucked around his sore limbs. Third, judging by the rocking sensation and the quiet laps of water he hears outside, he must be in a boat. He wishes he felt more at peace with this knowledge, but an icy sense of dread begins to wind tendrils through him.
If he is alive, so is Hannibal, and he would rather have his punishment sooner.
On cue, as if conjured by Will’s very thought of him, Hannibal enters. He is dressed for the necessity of comfort in pajama bottoms and a thin sweater, and Will can see the outline of a thick bandage that stripes across his midsection. The surface area of the bandage fills him with a concern that should feel foreign but comes unsettlingly easy to him. He swallows it down and looks at Hannibal’s face, but confusion immediately knocks him off his axis.
Hannibal is smiling at him.
“Hello, Will.” Hannibal says, his lips wrapping around Will’s name in that singular way that feels like home.
“I’m not dead.” Will says, and he can feel anger forming around the edges of his consonants.
“No.”
“You’re not dead.”
“I would have found it inconvenient,” Hannibal replies, and Will snorts mirthlessly.
“Death and compassion. The great inconveniences.”
“I have learned to tolerate the latter,” Hannibal replies, and sits on the bed next to Will. Will eyes him warily, trying to read beneath his expression and finding only tenderness. He tries to reach deeper, to slip inside him, but there is only more of the same. The sensation is unbearably sweet, and he finds himself beginning to drown in it, Hannibal’s adoration sinking into and around him like warm honey.
Hannibal reaches to take Will’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and Will flinches, hard. Hannibal squeezes gently, his grip firm but not demanding, and turns Will’s head to the side.
“Your wound,” he says, and peels away the bandage, running his fingers in a ghosting touch along the stitches. He makes an approving noise in his throat.
“You are healing nicely.”
“If only you could have stitched all the other holes you’ve left in me,” Will says bitterly, and they both know he’s not referring to the physical.
“If there were a thread strong enough,” Hannibal says, taking his hand from Will’s face, “I would try.”
He shifts closer to examine the wound in Will’s shoulder, nodding with clinical satisfaction, then rises to fetch Will a cup of water, holding out two round white pills in his palm.
“For the pain,” he says. “I leave it to your discretion.”
He hands the cup to Will and leaves the pills on the bedside table. Will stares at him, a tangle of confusion and resentment.
“Why are you being kind?” He bites out the last word as though it had spoiled on his tongue.
Hannibal looks at him with calm, patient eyes.
“Love is a sickness. Kindness is a symptom.”
Will looks at the terrible, wonderful man standing before him, and he is suddenly seized with an unbearable gladness that he is alive. He wants to throw his arms around him, force the breath out of his lungs and move it into his own. He wants to hold him so fiercely it leaves marks on his bones. In this moment Will has never been so sure of how deeply he loves Hannibal and it fills his belly with rage.
Hannibal breathes shallow in the silence, not waiting, just being, and Will feels a burning need to escape. He knows there is nowhere for him to go, so he turns roughly to lay on his side like a petulant child, tugging the covers to his chin and staring into the dark.
He feels Hannibal watch him for a few minutes, stoic and implacable, before he leaves the bedroom and Will hears footsteps rise up to the deck. Will tries to close his eyes and sleep, but he’s too painfully cognizant of every shifting molecule around him.
Hours later he feels Hannibal turn down the covers and slip into bed beside him. He does not reach to touch him, just breathes softly in and out, a lulling metronome. Will feels the pull like an ache and clenches his hands and toes into hard balls of tension to try and distract himself.
It doesn’t work.
He exhales wearily and turns to face Hannibal, feels Hannibal’s arms open to embrace him before he actually experiences the touch. He rests his head gently on Hannibal’s breastbone and feels Hannibal fold around him, warm and terrifyingly present. Within minutes he succumbs to sleep.
-x-
Will refuses to speak to Hannibal after the first night. He knows the behaviour is adolescent at best, but he feels a desperate need to punish Hannibal for not punishing him. At first Hannibal tries to continue the conversation one-sided, but once he realizes he will only receive muteness he follows suit. They go about their days in a frustrating silence, Hannibal communicating only through occasional pleasantries and gentle smiles, and Will fumes inside.
His body is not as capable of holding his ire, and he finds himself seeking Hannibal’s arms each night. There is a deep comfort in his embrace that he cannot bear to part with, but he refuses any contact in his waking hours. Hannibal accepts this with maddening patience and does not seek to touch him outside of re-dressing his bandages.
After another week on the water they drop anchor, and Will finds himself nauseated to be back on stiff unmoving land. Hannibal has taken them to a small lake house, probably somewhere in Canada judging by the bitter cold, but Will refuses to ask. The house is surrounded by tall, lush conifers, the air is crisp and clean, and snow-peaked mountains rise behind them in the distance. It is breathtakingly beautiful. Will hates it.
He is unsurprised to find the house stocked with amenities and wonders absently how many of these safe houses Hannibal has tucked away over the years. Hannibal shows him to the bedroom, revealing an obscenely large bed, plush with cream throw pillows and an overstuffed duvet. It looks terribly inviting and Will wants to sink face down on it. He doesn’t.
“My room is at the end of the hall.” Hannibal says with a gesture of his arm.
Will turns to him and the puzzled question is at the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Hannibal smiles.
“Now that we are free from the confines of the boat, there is no longer a necessity to share sleeping quarters. I’m sure you would prefer your privacy.”
He nods curtly and Will dolefully watches him walk down the hall. He has gotten used to sleeping next to Hannibal. Suddenly the giant bed looks like a hollow cavern. He sits on the exceedingly soft and welcoming duvet and it feels like stone.
That evening he stares obstinately at the ceiling, tracing invisible patterns until his vision begins to blur. He finally heaves himself out of bed at 3 a.m. and treads silently down the hallway. He doesn’t knock, doesn’t have to, the door is wide open. He pads sheepishy in and peels back the covers, and of course Hannibal’s arms are already open to him. Will curls within his embrace and rests his head against his shoulder. He feels Hannibal smile against his hair and tries to kindle his rage, but he is too tired and this feels too lovely, so he sinks into sleep, his thumb rubbing absent-minded circles into Hannibal’s shoulder.
-x-
The first time he sleepwalks is the first time he actually sees Hannibal’s mood change. He wakes up ankle deep in snow, and he can’t see the house, can see barely five feet in front of him through the trees. He looks up at the sky knitted with stars but can’t place his bearings. It’s dreadfully cold and he’s wearing nothing besides his boxers. For a moment he allows himself to laugh at the fact that this, of all places and methods, could be how he dies: frozen to death in the middle of The Great White North with no one to witness it. No battles, no knives, no blood sticky between his fingers, just a soft collapse in the snow. He is driven from his cold-addled humour when he hears Hannibal’s voice calling out his name.
“WILL!” Hannibal’s panic rings clear and it tugs on a string that threads between Will’s ribs.
He opens his mouth out to answer then snaps his jaw shut. Even in the face of a maddeningly boring end, he will not break. Hannibal’s voice calls out again, closer this time, and Will can hear the soft crunch of his boots through the snow.
Whether by scent or luck, Hannibal finds him within minutes. Will’s lips have started to turn blue, and he is certain that Hannibal will be furious. Sure enough, he storms towards him in great heaving strides, his eyes wide and blazing. He grabs Will about the shoulders, taking in his appearance, and Will braces himself for a blow. Instead, he watches the fury melt out of Hannibal’s eyes and replace itself with concern and fear. Hannibal shucks off his thick coat and wraps it around Will’s shoulders.
“We need to get you inside immediately.”
He looks down at his bare feet and shakes his head worryingly. “I will need to carry you.”
Will wants to protest this, but he has already dug in his heels this far, and he lets out a soft undignified grunt as Hannibal sweeps him into his arms, cradling him gentle as a lover. Will feels his cheeks flame despite the cold.
“It would help if you held onto me,” Hannibal says, huffing slightly and exhaling white tufts of condensation.
Will does not respond, keeping his body slack and purposefully difficult to wield. He can feel Hannibal’s eyes burning into him and he sighs, shifting himself so his weight is more manageable. After a few jostling steps he caves completely, linking his arms around Hannibal’s neck and burrowing into his shoulder. He has never felt more undignified. Or more cared for.
Hannibal nuzzles him softly and carries him home underneath quiet watching stars.
-x-
Hannibal insists on keeping the doors locked at night after the sleepwalking incident, which infuriates Will. Even though he has no desire to leave, he feels like a prisoner. He knows it’s for his safety, and furthermore that Hannibal would unlock the doors if he only asked, but he bears the indignity in silence.
After a week, Will tries to escape. He is laying in the curve of Hannibal’s embrace, Hannibal’s breath soft and even, face slack and peaceful in slumber. He resists the pull and wrests himself free, climbing from the bed and heading with a fast clip towards the bedroom door, but before his fingers can touch the handle Hannibal is standing next to him, hand staying his arm.
“What do you need, Will?”
He looks at him searchingly. “It’s late. Come back to bed.”
Will shakes his head and plants himself to the spot.
“If you need something Will, you need only ask.” Hannibal says, and there, for a fraction of a moment, is that supercilious glint of superiority Will recognizes. It vanishes instantly, but the brief glimpse of cold, smug Hannibal is all he needs, and he throws a punch at him before he can think twice.
Hannibal’s hand catches his fist easily and he stares hard into him, eyes growing less tender by the second. Slowly, he lets Will’s hand go and arches a questioning brow at him, daring him to proceed. Will immediately throws another punch and Hannibal dodges it, this time raising his hand to grab Will’s arm and dig his fingers warningly into his flesh.
“Stop this,” he says, and Will watches the frustration in him start to bubble into anger. He tenses himself against Hannibal’s fingers and tries to pull himself free, but Hannibal refuses to release him.
“If you want me to let go,” Hannibal says, danger laced in his even tones, “ask.”
Will’s fury reaches a breaking point, and he uses the distraction of trying to free his right arm to slap Hannibal clear across the face with his left. The sharp sound rings out, and Hannibal snarls at him in unmasked shock and fury. He twists Will’s right arm behind his back and shoves him toward the bed, throwing him face down.
“Enough of this childishness,” he says, straddling Will’s hips and pinning him down. Will struggles under him, clawing at what free skin he can, his jaws snapping out to bite at any appendage that dares to come near him. Hannibal places a firm hand on the back of his neck.
“Stop,” he commands again, and Will can feel the thunder under his skin. He twists his body violently, thrashing uselessly under Hannibal’s weight. Hannibal presses down harder, leaning into him, and Will growls loudly.
“So you are not completely mute,” Hannibal says, and Will can hear the satisfaction rumble through him. He grits his teeth and continues to wrestle against him.
“Speak and I will let go.” Will shakes his head adamantly against the covers he is pinned to and bucks his hips back sharply.
He freezes immediately when he feels Hannibal’s erection pressing against him.
The room empties of sound, the struggle forgotten. Hannibal does not move, but neither does he break the contact. His hand is still strong against his neck and Will makes an exploratory jerk of his head, feels the fingers grip into him harder. They lay there silently, breathing hard and heavy. Will makes one last thrash and feels Hannibal push up against him, his cock twitching.
Will swallows hard and shoves his chin up so his mouth is free.
“Do it,” he spits. They’re the first words he’s said in weeks, and they come out croaked and harsh.
“Do it,” he says again, clearer this time, and arches against Hannibal, equal parts anger and blind lust.
Will feels his body spring up gently as it is suddenly released. Hannibal climbs off him, off the bed, and walks out of the room without a word. Will stares after him in confusion, the air around him suddenly cold.
Will draws the covers around himself and continues to watch the dark silhouette of the doorway, waiting for Hannibal to return.
He sleeps alone that night.
-x-
He finds Hannibal at the kitchen counter the next morning, nursing a mug of coffee, his eyes ringed in shadow. It’s clear he hasn’t slept well – if at all – and Will feels a pang of remorse within his chest. He wonders, not for the first time, if this punishment hasn’t far outlived himself, but an immovable stubbornness within him refuses yet again to give.
There is a thick tan packing envelope on the counter between them and Hannibal slides it towards Will.
“For you,” he says, and returns to his coffee.
Will opens it and frowns. Inside there are two passports, several wedges of $100 dollar bills, and three notes written in Hannibal’s handwriting. At the bottom of the envelope rests a small ring of keys. He lifts them out and looks questioningly at Hannibal, who sets his coffee aside but still will not meet his eyes.
“You will find everything you need in there to create whatever life you desire. The letters confess that I killed the Dragon and then held you hostage and tortured you until I grew tired of you. It should suffice as enough clearance for your name should you choose to return to your old life. The secondary passport will grant you a new identity should you choose otherwise and there is more than enough money to manage you comfortably until you find safe harbour.”
The keys dangle limply from Will’s fingers and he realizes that they are for the boat. He wraps his fingers around them and clenches until he feels the cold metal bite into his fist.
Hannibal is silent for a moment, then stands and crosses to the bay window, staring into an unseen distance.
“When you threw us from the bluff I knew your desire was not to die, but rather to not live. I had hoped that our survival would help show you clarity, but you stubbornly insist on existing between states and I can no longer watch.”
He turns to look at Will and his eyes are lined with tears.
“I have no desire to break you.”
Will looks at into the dark, sad eyes that ache for him and even though they belong to Hannibal, who has hurt his body, his mind and his heart, he feels nothing but regret. He takes a step towards him and Hannibal turns away again.
“You are so very beautiful, Will. I refuse to watch you wither on a vine of my keeping.”
Will looks down at the keys again and thinks about where he could go. He thinks about Molly and realizes with a guilty pang that it’s the first time he’s thought of her in weeks. He knows he can’t return to her, and he has no lasting fondness towards his old life, but the prospect of creating a new self intrigues him. He wonders if he could survive without Hannibal.
It would be so easy to throw the keys down and say Hannibal’s name, say anything at all really, and end this bitter stalemate he’s created. He could wrap his arms around him and swear fealty. He could prostrate himself and pledge his life and hands to him. He could even kiss him, and he’s fairly sure that he would enjoy it. The largest part of his heart in which Hannibal has held residency for years begs him to do this, to throw the full weight of his love at his feet.
Will does none of this. Instead he gathers up the keys and the envelope and walks out the door.
-x-
He lasts four hours on the open water before his pride cracks wide open within him and he feels hot tears slide down his face. He weeps for Hannibal, for himself, for Molly, for the life he will never get to have, and for the life he desperately wants. He lets his sorrow roll out of him in ugly broken wails that are swallowed by the sea. When he has emptied himself of it he stands quietly, breathing with the pull of the ocean. Then, he turns the boat around and heads home.
The last of the afternoon light casts a halo on the lake house, and Will can’t decide if it’s fitting or wicked irony. He feels a lump forming in his throat and there is a restless current running underneath his skin. He realizes that he hasn’t planned what to say, and that whatever he is going to say will be his first real words to Hannibal in months and clearly they need to be important.
The house is dark inside and when Will reaches the door he finds it locked. He knocks once, feeling suddenly like an awkward prom date, but no one comes. He knocks again, three more times, until he realizes that Hannibal clearly isn’t there, or worse, has left permanently.
He turns and sits hard on the doorstep, rests his elbows on his knees, and waits.
Night comes before Hannibal returns, and Will can barely make out his outline in the moonlight as he breaks through the trees. Hannibal stops in alarm when he sees Will. He doesn’t smile but he doesn’t look angry. He walks towards him, steady and strong, and Will stands to greet him. He has had the whole evening to carefully craft his words, equal parts declaration, apology and promise. He wants to give Hannibal an indelible moment that will serve as a benchmark for the turning point in their ever-evolving relationship, and he opens his mouth to let the adulation spill out.
Instead, what comes out is
“What’s for dinner?”
Will shakes his head and swears softly at himself, but Hannibal just smiles, an honest-to-goodness grin splitting his face, and pulls Will into his arms. Will molds pliantly to him and rubs the unscarred side of his face against Hannibal’s shoulder. He digs his fingers into the soft fabric of his sweater, taking thick handfuls and pulling him closer, clutching and desperate to crawl inside and never leave.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he feels Hannibal place a whisper of a kiss to his hair.
“So you said,” Hannibal replies, and takes him inside.
-x-
Will does eventually spill out his carefully planned speech over dinner to a patient and smiling Hannibal. In fact, he hasn’t stopped smiling and the warmth of it covers Will like a blanket. Will keeps on talking through dinner, some of it babbling, some of it loving, some of it mindless observations that he had logged over the past months and kept trapped within his skull. It’s only when he’s drying the last of the dishes and talking about the particularly large fish he’d caught two weeks ago that Hannibal kisses him and he finally shuts up.
He almost drops the dish in shock, his mouth unmoving underneath Hannibal’s. His eyes are still open and he blinks rapidly, trying to determine whether he should reciprocate or whether, more importantly, he likes it. His brain begins to curl around an answer that he thinks is leaning towards the positive, but then Hannibal pulls away, reaching out to stroke a thumb along his cheek.
“You will never know how glad I am that you returned to me,” he says, eyes bright and fond, and he bends his head to place another kiss lightly against Will’s temple.
He turns to leave the kitchen and Will grabs at his wrist.
“Wait,” he says, twisting his fingers around him, eyes hesitant but curious, “again?”
Hannibal moves his free hand over the one Will has circled around his wrist and gently frees himself.
“No,” he says, tender and hopeful, “but soon.”
He smiles, infinitely adoring, and Will feels himself pitched forward and spiraling downwards into the inverse heaven that is Hannibal’s love.
“Will you come to bed soon?” Hannibal asks, and Will is already following him down the hall.
-x-
He clings to Hannibal tighter than he ever has that night, until the necessity of proper circulation forces him to reposition and he turns on his side, Hannibal spooning against him. Will nuzzles back against him and drags Hannibal’s hand around his stomach, uncaring of what it means and only caring that it feels safe and good. Hannibal shifts his head to drop a kiss down onto Will’s shoulder and keeps his mouth pressed to the skin, just breathing, soft and steady against him. He traces light lazy circles with his fingers against Will’s abdomen and Will basks in the all-encompassing comfort of Hannibal’s touch.
Will finds himself stirring lower and isn’t particularly surprised by it. Hannibal’s hand is dancing close to his cock and he’s missed this kind of contact. He knows Hannibal would probably press further if he asked, but he feels guilty pushing for more when he has already wrung his heart out today. If anything, he should be the one caressing Hannibal, begging for forgiveness and gleaning his mercy from the man’s complete submission. The thought sends a thrill through his spine and he shudders unbidden against Hannibal, the side effect being that Hannibal takes this as an invitation and begins to move his hand lower. Will feels him smile against his neck, feels his cock rising to meet Hannibal’s hand, and he tries to valiantly swallow his need.
“No,” he says, soft but firm, and Hannibal’s hand immediately stills, his mouth leaving his shoulder. He feels the tension ripple against him and begins to clarify. “I mean, you don’t have to. Really I should-”
He turns to face Hannibal and finds his mouth colliding into his. It isn’t a kiss, not really, at least it doesn’t start that way. They stare at each other in bemused shock for a moment, unsure of how they suddenly found themselves in this configuration. Will chuckles slightly, and the vibration through the awkward positions of their mouths sets them both on edge. Hannibal’s eyes close and he tilts his head to properly align their lips. Will closes his eyes in turn and slides his mouth against Hannibal’s and they kiss slow and languid, hands stilled and unseeking. Hannibal is the first to pull away, placing feather-light kisses against Will’s eyelids before turning him back on his side.
“More of that later,” he says, and tugs Will back against him, resuming the teasing stroking circles on his belly.
“Now I’m quite aware I don’t have to do this,” he murmurs against him, “but would you like me to?”
Hazy with lust, Will nods and slides his hand over Hannibal’s stroking arm.
“You shouldn’t,” he says as Hannibal hooks his chin over his neck. Will presses his cheek to Hannibal’s. “I don’t deserve – ah”
He is silenced by Hannibal’s hand gently circling his cock and beginning to stroke.
“Deserving is a flawed concept,” Hannibal says, his voice smooth and intoxicating, “no man is deserving of what he desires.”
He strokes up and down, his words painting hot flushes into Will’s skin.
“I desire you, Will.”
Will feels a moan spill out of him and presses harder into Hannibal.
“I do not care if I deserve you. I have you,” he says, and turns to place a damp kiss at the corner of Will’s mouth. “You have me,” he whispers against him, and shifts so that Will can feel the hardness brush against his thigh. The sensation sends sparks of pleasure through him, and he angles back to seek further contact, but Hannibal pulls away.
“I am not seeking release from you, Will. Not this evening.”
He continues his measured strokes as clear fluid begins to drip from Will’s cock. Hannibal smears it against his thumb, dragging it around the head and rubbing softly against the sensitive underside. Will’s hips buck slightly and Hannibal begins to quicken his pace, his hand slick and hot.
“Your release is my pleasure,” he says, and Will knows this to be absolute truth.
“I have longed to touch you in this way,” he says softly into Will’s skin, “I want to make you come for me.”
Hannibal strokes harder, sucking deep kisses across Will’s neck. His teeth scrape gently against Will’s throat and he cries out, sharp and sweet.
“The only gift I would beg,” he murmurs, “is that you say my name when you come.”
Will groans low and deep. Hannibal’s voice is undoing him as quickly as his hand and Will feels a white heat curling and tightening through him. He clutches hard onto Hannibal’s arm, bending his throat to beg more touch, but Hannibal denies him.
“Please,” Will chokes out, thrusting against his sweet and merciless hand.
Hannibal grips his cock tighter and closes his teeth around Will’s ear, biting just hard enough to make Will jerk wildly in his arms.
“Hannibal,” he gasps, and he is coming, streaking hot stripes against his stomach and Hannibal’s fingers. He turns his head wildly to seek a kiss and Hannibal sinks his mouth to his, stroking against his tongue and drinking in his pleasure as it pulses out of him.
Will pulls his mouth away reluctantly to gulp in air and Hannibal drops tender kisses against his sweat-sheened skin, fingers skimming down his side as aftershocks ripple though him.
“Let me clean you up,” he says, and rises from the bed. Will stretches his sated body against the sheets, his entire body humming with fevered joy.
Hannibal returns with a damp cloth and reverently wipes the sweat and come from Will’s skin. Will luxuriates in being tended to, pressing a grateful kiss to Hannibal’s head when it is within reach. He winds fingers in his hair and pulls him up to kiss him full and lush, sucking at his lips and tongue.
“When you said ‘soon’,” Will says against his mouth, “I didn’t think you meant that soon.”
“Neither did I,” Hannibal smiles, somewhat chastened, “but my heart was too full not to touch you.”
“I’m sorry,” Will says again, pulling back to look into Hannibal’s eyes. “I needed to leave to know that I couldn’t be away. Strange,” he laughs lightly, “you already knew this, I’m sure.”
Hannibal drags his thumb across Will’s lips and looks worshipfully into him.
“He who binds to himself a joy / Does the winged life destroy.”
Will squints and frowns, trying to place the words.
“But he who kisses the joy as it flies / Lives in eternity's sun rise.”
Hannibal bends for a kiss at the same moment the source of the quote hits him and Will has to smack Hannibal’s chest for his gall.
“Really?” Will says incredulously, “You’re quoting Blake of all people?”
“The aphorism applies,” Hannibal huffs, stroking the nonexistent mark Will has left on his skin.
“I hate Blake,” Will mutters indignantly.
“Yes,” Hannibal says, pulling at Will and tugging his head to tuck it against his neck, “but you love me.”
Will closes his eyes, leaning into the calming pull of Hannibal’s fingers running through his hair. It’s so incredibly easy to be this that it almost frightens him, but the thick net of Hannibal’s love is wound so tight around him that all he can do is be held by it. It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world.
“I do,” he says quietly into his chest, and he can feel Hannibal’s smile in his bones.