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Nothing had come of the incident in the tub. The teasing and touching and one-sided nudity be damned, it had all ended abruptly, with Hannibal excusing himself from the tub to dry off and change into warm clothes.
They didn’t breathe a word to each other for the rest of that night.
Despite himself, Will still can’t get the interaction out of his head. It has been a week, at least. It must’ve been. Fuck, it feels even longer than that, especially with the aura of awkwardness that now constantly stifles the air of their shared hotel room.
Okay, well, maybe he’s the only one feeling awkward about it all. Hannibal, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed, going about his days in much the same way as before, only now, he is simply not paying as much heed to Will… Or maybe he is and it just no longer feels like enough.
Will groans.
He lets his skull thud heavily against the desk he now sits at, tucked away at the back of the room. The sound is enough to get a certain someone’s attention.
“Will?”
Will doesn’t budge.
“Will,“ Hannibal exits the small en-suite kitchen, drying his hands with a dishcloth. “Are you feeling alright?”
Hannibal’s tone isn’t particularly concerned. In fact, there’s even a slight spark of amusement in it, enough for Will’s temper to be set alight. He lifts his head and turns it to shoot an icy glare over his shoulder. “Just tired.”
Hannibal’s eyes crease in an entertained squint. “That desk is a poor substitute for a bed.”
Will stares through his brows, unamused.
Hannibal seems predictably delighted by his fury. “Lie down for a bit, Will. Dinner will be a while yet. I’ll have no company of mine be too tired to be able to enjoy all of the delicacies that life has to offer.”
That I have to offer.
Will senses the hidden words, the subtext that Hannibal frequently implies, but never speaks aloud. It sends a jolt down his spine and he feels a heat prickle within his belly. He cards his fingers through his hair, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk.
Hannibal looks curious now, which, for him, is close enough to concern. His amusement gradually fades as Will’s demeanor seems to sour further. “Are you sure you are not unwell? Will you be hungry for dinner, or should I leave you to rest?”
Oh, Will was hungry, alright.
He doesn’t turn to face Hannibal and he sinks down into his arms, wishing to disappear entirely. “Leave me alone, Hannibal.”
Hannibal smiles at his reply. “Very well.”
Will can hear his footsteps vanish back into the kitchen. He sighs in relief, but his thundering heart mourns the loss. The smells emanating from where Hannibal is located are heavenly—perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to make his way in there under the pretense of taste-testing whatever was on the menu tonight.
Will rises up to his feet, unsteady, as he trudges less-than-gracefully to the kitchenette. It is small, cramped, clearly not meant to be totally functional, but Hannibal seems to be fully in his element and making the best of it. There are countless seasonings and ingredients laid out, but there is absolutely no mess. It all seems meticulously organized. If Will wasn’t so beside himself, he’d likely be impressed.
Hannibal is so engrossed in stirring a pot on the stove that he does not seem to notice Will at all. The older man is dressed in a burgendy satin button down and black slacks, with a white chef’s apron hugging around his hips. Will finds himself annoyed by how clean it is, as hardly more than a speck dots the white cotton. His eyes trail up the shapely slope of Hannibal’s back to his forearms, fully exposed with his sleeves pinned neatly back above his elbows.
Will becomes acutely aware of his mouth watering.
“Hello, Will.”
Will snaps out of his daze quickly. “Doctor.”
Hannibal smiles, but it is faint and disinterested as he confines his attention to his one, true love on the stove. “I’d like you to try something.”
Will steps forward and Hannibal dips a small spoon into a pot containing an unknown substance. The older man cups his hand beneath the spoon, blowing lightly to cool it before turning and bringing it gently to Will’s lips.
Will can hardly focus on the taste when Hannibal’s eyes are focused so intently upon his mouth wrapping around the spoon.
“Allow yourself to indulge, Will. Open yourself…” the thought seems unfinished where Hannibal leaves it, but the man makes no effort to continue it.
Will swallows and hums. “You made me chicken soup,” he pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Again.”
Hannibal smiles. “Chicken soup is good for the soul,” he dips the spoon back into the pot and draws up a mouthful for himself. Will notes how he doesn’t bother to cool it first. “Together, may we share a moment of sensual delight.”
“You’d call this sensual?” Will scoffs at the rather mundane dish, a childhood food for sick kids in bed.
“Food is always sensual. It speaks in a wordless language. In consuming my love for the culinary arts, you allow a part of me inside of you, Will.”
Will pauses, face screwing up slightly at Hannibal’s odd wording, but he still asks a follow up question. “And we only share it for a moment?”
Hannibal nods, tilting his head slightly. “Moments are all that any of us have, Will.”
Will goes quiet, briefly most in thought, before taking the spoon from Hannibal’s strong hand, trying to hide the way he shivers as their fingers brush. “It’s… really chicken, right?” He asks hesitantly as he inspects another spoonful.
Hannibal’s eyes squint up as his lips pull into an amused smirk. “Never ask.”
Well, that reply is less than comforting, but Will knows Hannibal well enough to know this mood. This is a game, like any other, but it’s one Hannibal has played before. The cannibal is being kind, which means this is an honest dish, there are no secrets to be found... Not in the ladles of soup that Hannibal is now pouring generously into two white bowls, at least. He’s being kind. Oh, yes, Will knows this game.
“What do you want, Hannibal?”
Hannibal seems to struggle to hide his pleasure at hearing his own name, grinning down as he garnishes the bowls. “Whatever do you mean, good Will?”
Will raises a brow in response.
—
Hannibal smiles as he catches that brow raise. It strokes the purring feline in his chest, thrusts him into the throes of temptation, despite himself.
“I only long for our further entwinement, Will.”
“You mean ‘ enmeshment ’.”
“I mean entwinement. To weave, not to blend.”
“You already have everything you want, Hannibal. You have stripped everything from my life, it is now— I am now—devoid of everyone and everything… except you,”Will growls lightly behind Hannibal, leaning back against the counter, bracing himself with his palms. “Don’t get greedy.”
“I always have been prone to moments of… overindulgence...” Hannibal replies, voice thick with humor and a nuance that he knows Will won’t be able to quite place. “But I am pleased to hear that I am your exception, Will.” He privately delights in sharp scowl his words earn from the other man.
In a flash, Will lunges forward, grabbing a knife from the cutting board beside him and pins Hannibal precariously against the front of the stove with a blade to his throat.
Hannibal inhales deeply, collecting himself behind closed eyes. He swallows his nerves. It is easy enough to do so, he could see the exact moment Will snapped. He could predict his next choice just as easily as he could behold the moment it was birthed.
Gradually, he allows his eyes to flutter open, a small, measured smile gracing his lips as he looks down into those steaming pools of fire and fury. “Marvelous,” he begins, voice slightly rasped as Will presses the blade against his skin. “The days had become so bland… I thought you had lost your flavor.”
There is a brief pause while Will searches Hannibal’s steady gaze through a heated glare.
“… and what is it that I normally taste like, Doctor?”
Hannibal’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, gaze never straying. This time, they both maintain eye contact for as long as the other... Hannibal is sure they’re about to set a new record. “ Fervor .”
Will face twitches, his expression faltering as his grip on the knife relaxes slightly. “That’s not.. that’s not a flavor.”
“Is there no flavor when one licks hot coals, Will? When one extinguishes a match in their mouth, or brings a burned finger to the wet comfort of their lips?”
Will stares. “They aren’t.. tasting anything.. not heat, at least. Maybe themselves?”
Hannibal nods. “The altering of the flesh gives it new flavor. They are tasting themselves, though changed by an ancient force of nature.” His lashes flutter as the pressure against his neck relaxes further.
“The way you changed me?” Will’s voice sounds smaller now.
“The way you changed me.” Hannibal replies.
Will lowers the knife slowly, eyes still trained on the older man as Hannibal relaxes.. until Will grabs one of his wrists. Hannibal’s brows furrow in minute surprise before his expression shifts into something like tepid glee. Oh, now this is getting interesting.
Will holds onto that wrist firmly, lifting it up vertically, as if pinning it to an invisible wall. Without breaking eye contact, he brings the knife to Hannibal’s palm and drags the blade slowly down the center, leaving a deep, oozing gash in its wake.
Hannibal flinches. Not out of pain, nor surprise, but hunger. A very particular hunger, one he would not be able to paint prettily enough with words to ever speak the desire aloud to the man stood before him.
Those stunning blue eyes that he had drawn over and over in countless renditions of Primavera and Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus are still locked firmly upon him. Oh, and if Hannibal had flinched at the cut, he all but buckles as Will brings him hand-to-mouth.
Many would find what happens next nothing short of grotesque, revolting, deeply and horribly macabre, but to Hannibal, it feels more like rapture. Will is leaning in, eyes unwavering as he drags his tongue flat up the heel of Hannibal’s palm, closing his lips and suckling on the open wound like a parched man in the presence of an oasis.
Will’s eye contact finally breaks, and Hannibal feels something almost akin to relief when the other man’s eyes flutter shut.
Will continues mouthing at the wound in a way that leaves Hannibal entranced. He could fight back. He could easily overpower the smaller man, he had every physical advantage in the book, but.. why would he want to?
He ponders that as Will finally pulls back, lips smeared with a deep, scarlet stain that Hannibal can’t help but picture wrapped nicely around his—
“Here, you taste like iron.” Will interupts Hannibal’s warming thoughts with a chilly growl.
Before Hannibal has a chance to reply, he is being whipped around and pinned with his chest flat against the wall. His satin shirt hisses as it is yanked up and out of its neatly tucked position in his slacks. Will continues to drag it up unceremoniously until a puckered, circular scar is made visible upon Hannibal’s spine. Will leans in, breathing heavily against the old wound, and Hannibal notes that the sensation is identical to being branded all over again as the other man trails his hot tongue over the mark.
“Here, you taste like salt.”
Hannibal cannot stifle the low noise that rumbles in the deepest pits of his chest as Will straightens up. He expects to feel that tongue lave over another area soon.. but it doesn’t happen. He can’t lie, he both feels and mourns the loss.
Instead of a tongue, the next thing Hannibal feels is the blunt pressure of the back of a knife pressing against his hip. He swallows harshly, eyes fluttering shut as he processes the sensation and considers how to respond. However, as he turns his head slightly over his shoulder to assess the threat, he notices that both of Will’s hands are empty and moving to slide up his back in a slow, soothing way.
“Are you going to be honest now, Doctor?”
“…Will..?”
“Or am I going to have to threaten you again?”
Hannibal shifts against the wall and he feels a firm, rough hand grip the back of his neck to anchor him in place.
“ What do you want, Hannibal? ”
Hannibal shivers at the icy chill in Will’s voice, endlessly fascinated—and equal parts impressed—with his beloved’s newfound affinity for domineering violence. “Only a shared closeness.”
Will’s grip tightens.
“I anticipate a oneness…”
The squeeze on the back of his neck starts to shift to the front, digging into his pulse points.
“I desire a oneness…”
“Try again, Hannibal.”
Hannibal swallows. His throat is dry and strained by the pressure, but most of that force is being directed to block the flow of blood to his brain, not the breath to his lungs.
“Intimacy has always been the goal between us, hasn’t it, Will?” He can almost hear the other man’s eyes narrow in response.
“ ‘Intimacy’? ”
Hannibal grunts out a low sound as Will’s free hand wraps around his waist and under his shirt, intruding digits sliding around the warm skin of his torso, looking, searching… until they find their treasure. Will’s index finger digs sharply into a long-healed bullet wound embedded in Hannibal’s lower abdomen. Punishment. It seems that Will is looking for a particular answer, one that Hannibal has yet to give.
“Yes.. intimacy.. ‘camaraderie’, ‘companionship’… ‘proximity’… ” the last word seems to catch Will’s attention.
“How close, Hannibal?”
“‘Blood of my blood… bone of my bone… I give you my body, that we two might be one.’”
Will audibly laughs at this. It is a crushing blow. “I didn’t know you were a sap for romance novels, Doctor.”
“I would hardly call those books ‘romance novels’.” Hannibal defends quickly, earning him a tighter squeeze around his throat as a swift penalty.
“Answer my question. No quotes, no stories, no fancy words or flowery language,” Will growls. “Give me something real, just once.”
The sound of gravel in Will’s angered voice sets Hannibal’s nerves alight, as if the older man had spoken back against God, himself, and was now condemned to an eternity in the flaming pits of Dante Alighieri’s 6th ring.
He prayed it wouldn’t be eternity.
“I wish... to explore you... ”
Will raises a brow. “In what way?”
Hannibal bites back a snarl at the other man’s expression, his shoulder blades rolling. “In all ways.”
That torturous grip is displeased by this response, as well.
Hannibal hisses as the lack of blood to his brain begins to take a toll. “ Physical union… ”
Incorrect again.
“… Shared desire… ”
The squeeze lets up a bit to allow for the briefest moment of clarity, just long enough for the reality of what Will wants to hit Hannibal like the full force of a breaking wheel to the face:
“… Fucking. ”
—
That singular word sounds implausibly—and deliciously—filthy as it exits Doctor Hannibal Lecter’s sophisticated mouth. Little more than a whisper on the wind, barely more than a breath on the breeze.
And Will is satisfied.
But that doesn’t mean that this torture has to end.
“ Again , Doctor.”Will can see the building rage release like sparks through the flexing of Hannibal’s fingers where his hands remain braced against the wall.
“ I want… to fuck you …”Hannibal’s voice is heady and low, throaty in a way Will has never heard before.
Is this the side of Hannibal that Alana had been ensnared by? That she had willingly handed her most private self over to? That she had welcomed inside of her with gasps of gusto? The thought alone makes Will’s grip instinctively clench around Hannibal’s throat, winning him a sharp, strangled grunt from the man who is—by all accounts, willingly— at his mercy.
“ Tsk … all of those pretty words are just a crutch for you, aren’t they? A costume. Just another piece of your ‘person suit’…” Will chides daringly. “Doesn’t it feel nice to let go ?”
“I haven’t ‘let go’,” Oh, God, Hannibal sounds broken… or, at least, close to it. Not damaged, per se, but broken into sharp fragments that litter the ground around bare feet. Broken in a dangerous way. This knowledge thrills Will in a way he’s never experienced before. “ Not yet .”
“ Neither have I .”
Hannibal seems to finally have had enough, his hands flying up to tear Will’s grip from his neck before he lunges, barreling into the other man with enough force to send him across the kitchenette and into the wall beyond the threshold.
Will, lacking Hannibal’s near-psychic powers of foresight, did not see this coming. The most he can do is grunt at the force and shake his head in a daze after it connects hard with the wall. He sinks to the floor and Hannibal is quick to meet him there, grabbing him by the shoulders and wrestling him flat on the floor.
Will begins to thrash immediately after he comes to his senses, putting up a decent fight against the—inarguably— much stronger man. He grabs Hannibal’s arms and flips them both, connecting a hard fist with the older man’s jaw. Barely so much as flinching, Hannibal’s head cranes up, sinking barely-human teeth deep into the already scarred and battered flesh of the other man’s right shoulder. Will cries out at the sensation, eyes squeezing shut.
Tearing away from the tussle as quickly as he can manage, Will dashes across the room, one hand pressed to the open wound gushing over his shirt as the other grips the writing lamp on the desk and yanks it free from the wall outlet. He stares at Hannibal, eyes wide and red with primal fury. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”
—
Hannibal marvels at his beloved, tongue darting out to collect the blood from around his mouth. He savors the flavor for a moment, eyes fluttering shut before flicking back open and locking upon Will. The older man is surprisingly agile, quick on his feet as he jumps into a wide stance, as if bracing to pounce as he sizes up Will’s choice in weapon.
Waiting? Oh, he wasn’t waiting.
He was smitten.
Hannibal lunges forward, swiping low and knocking Will’s feet out from beneath him. Will responds in kind by leaping onto Hannibal’s back and looping the lamp cord around the older man’s neck, lassoing him as if he were nothing but a bucking bronco. Hannibal lurches in surprise, feeling his air supply begin to get cut off.
Will had learned his fighting style.
The younger man had predicted Hannibal’s movements and reacted quickly enough to gain a sizable advantage. If the blood was still able to reach Hannibal’s brain, he might consider audibly voicing his pride.
Clever boy.
—
Will holds the position, pressing his full weight down upon Hannibal’s back as he white-knuckles the power cord in his hands, strangling the consciousness right out of his company.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the older man goes limp, head dropping like an anchor against the floor. Will falls back, breathing heavily as his whole body shakes from the overproduction of adrenaline. He rubs his face and hair in a dazed attempt to collect himself before crawling back to Hannibal’s unconscious body.
For whatever it’s worth, he knows he isn’t supposed to do what his body is currently positioning itself to do. He soothes his mind with the idea that he isn’t in control. Whatever force is spurring him into action right now is not one that is within his power.
Will soon finds his body draped over Hannibal, his lips breathing heavily against the other man’s neck as he holds those inert, lead-heavy wrists down against the starchy hotel carpet. Will’s hips are flush against the older man’s rear in a way that makes his cheeks burn hot with fevered discomposure. Oh, god, this is wrong … So, why can’t he bring himself to stop?
Hannibal begins to stir, amber eyes glinting in the low light of the bedroom-area as the dazed man attempts to process his surroundings.
Will stares down, frozen to his spot as Hannibal’s gaze pins him with wordless weight.
“ Hannibal…? ”
Hannibal shifts slightly, clearly trying to figure out how trapped he really is and what he needs to do to get out of this situation.. if he wants to get out, that is. And, by the looks of it, he doesn’t, remaining still and calm beneath Will, his only sound being the labored huffs of his breathing.
Will finds this placid silence unnerving more than anything else. Experimentally and only to trigger some semblance of a response—or so he tells himself—Will begins to roll his hips slightly.
Hannibal’s head drops back down against the carpet and, to Will’s surprise, Hannibal arches into the sensation.
Will cannot push down the roiling electricity beginning to spark in his bones. Energy is heat, it is movement. It is the thrusting of the knife and the turning of the blade. His head aches, his vision blurs, his hand rises up to clutch familiarly at the smile engraved on his abdomen before he stops, directing the subsequently developing hallucination elsewhere. He slams his hand down upon Hannibal’s spine, pinning him down between the shift of his shoulder blades. “ Don’t move. ”
Oh, now he can see it. Red pooling around Hannibal’s torso, a firey lake around the cage of the other man’s heart. Glowing saintly, all blood and brimstone. A halo fit for a beast.
Then, he blinks, and the vision is gone.
And he wants it back .
“F-fuck, Hannibal…”
Hannibal makes a nearly inhuman sound in response.
Will leans forward, his body weight supported by two hands pressed squarely upon Hannibal’s upper back. His head follows the downward lead of his rough fingers, planting his hairline against the crook of the older man’s neck as he begins to mouth gently at the sweat-drenched skin he finds there.
“Here… you taste like need… ”
—
Need.
Any other time, Hannibal might have pointed out Will’s transparent projection, might have denied the claim entirely, might have moved on to other topics.
But the words ring true. Need . He feels it, hot and heavy, coiling within his abdomen.
“ Yes, Hannibal? ”
Hannibal would pray to every god he doesn’t believe in just to hear Will’s voice sound that low again.
His prayer does not go unanswered.
“ Is that good? ”
Good? No. It is dessert fresh from the oven, manna from Hell, honey on a knife . As mouthwatering as it is dangerous, but even so, all Hannibal wants is to drag his tongue over that blade until it encourages him to bleed. Oh, how he would gladly release—
“ That’s it, take it, Hannibal… ”
The grunt is low and breathy, spoken right by his ear, but slurred and quiet enough that Hannibal is certain he isn’t meant to hear it. The words almost sound involuntary, the way they tumble from Will’s lips, the same way a prayer escapes a desperate heretic.
“ Will— ” Hannibal grunts out roughly, testing the unfamiliar waters. He sensesa danger, as if a bucket of chum has been dropped. Where there is blood, the sharks will soon come in a frenzy, and Will certainly feels like a shark, the way he is digging his teeth into the warm flesh of Hannibal’s shoulder.
“ Shut the fuck up. ” comes a sharp and breathy reply.
But Hannibal just can’t help himself.
“Breathtaking…” he coos, his voice little more than a rasp at the back of his straining throat. “You are splendor elevated to divinity…”
A short pause, then a reply, snarled through gritted teeth. “What would you know of the divine?”
“Enough to smell the love of the blood on their wings.”
“And what do you smell on me?”
Hannibal merely smiles.