He paces the room, tugging at his unruly curls, the damp air in the room stifling him to no end. He knows Hannibal’s watching him patiently, but Will’s been dying – for the lack of a better word – to get this itch under his skin scratched. Part of him does not give a fuck that Francis is out there, ready to tear them apart.
He needs answers before he completely ruins himself for this indelibly cursed bond he shares with Hannibal.
“Tell me about Anthony Dimmond.”
He knows he has no right to care, to feel threatened or jealous by a dead man, but he remembers Bedelia’s smirk, the way she curls her words around a story about a man whom Hannibal considered giving himself to before he banished him, not from hate or disgust but from desire and want.
Part of him wants to know all there is to know about Hannibal before the curtains fall, before the Great Red Asshole makes his grand appearance and deny him from closing the chapter he’s been holding open all these years.
It is unwise to turn your back on a cannibal serial murderer but Will does not want to study Hannibal’s face as he speaks, for the sheer fear that he may come to realize the weight a name could carry to this unfathomable menace.
“Mr. Dimmond was someone I met in Europe. An acquaintance, at most. He figured out that I had disposed of Dr. Roman Fell and found great interest in my performance.”
Will waits for Hannibal to continue but it appears that there is nothing else to be said.
He remains steadfastly turned away, still unwilling to look at Hannibal.
“How did you kill him?”
“Bashed him on the head. Then, I broke his neck.”
The sky is rose-gold, painting his skin pink. He imagines he can smell the fresh blood from Anthony Dimmond’s skull spilling onto the floor.
What a mess he must’ve have made.
“Why did you kill him?”
He hears Hannibal rise from his seat, the click-clacking of his shoes slow but certain, a predator approaching a skittish prey. Will knows he is the furthest thing from a prey but he sometimes likes it when Hannibal undermines him so.
“He wanted more than to be my acquaintance. He wanted an alliance.”
“What’s wrong with wanting an alliance with you?”
He wants to hear it, wants to hear what Bedelia refused to let him have.
“It’s wrong because he wasn’t you, Will.”
He hears Beverly Katz, the glint of her smile flashing against the sky of his mind.
Hannibal tastes like he’d imagine Hannibal to taste.
Iron-heavy and knife-sharp, but Will wants Hannibal all the more for it.
Will had been the one to initiate the kiss, turning around to finally face Hannibal, a hand on his nape as he tugs him down to press their open mouths together. He’d always known Hannibal wanted him in the most carnal ways possible, and the three years apart had only helped him see that his choice to marry and keep Molly to himself was his own way to bury and deny his primal desires.
When he feels Hannibal break skin with his teeth against his neck, he can’t help the pitiful cry that surfaces from his throat.
“You’ll be my undoing, Will.”
He clutches Hannibal’s shoulders harder, moving him back so he would fall onto the couch. Will straddles him immediately, kissing that dangerous mouth again.
Francis may come in and kill them both in this very moment and Will would not give a fuck. He pries himself apart, cupping Hannibal’s jaw with his hands as he looks down on him intently.
“Bedelia told me you were emotionally invested in Anthony Dimmond. You spared his life the first time he was invited for dinner.”
He feels Hannibal’s cock grow hard under the prison overalls, clearly enjoying the display of possessive behaviour. He allows Hannibal to caress his cheek.
“He had blue eyes and dark curls. Well-read and articulate. He reminded me of you.”
He shoves Hannibal’s hand aside, barely able to contain himself from slapping Hannibal’s mouth with the back of his hand. He wishes he didn’t care. He had no right to care, and yet he recalls the mirth in Bedelia’s eyes and he wants nothing more than to kill Anthony Dimmond with a knife to the man's throat.
“You killed him with your bare hands.”
He tightens his grip on Hannibal’s jaw, infuriated by the way Hannibal’s lips curl up in the slightest way.
“Yes, I did. It was what he deserved.”
“He deserved intimacy? You should have run away with him. How foolish of you to kill him instead.”
Will gasps, the wind knocked out of him as Hannibal twists his body and overturns them off the couch. He finds himself on the floor, knees pressed apart by Hannibal’s, hands pinned above him.
“I suppose you’re right, Will. I have never been more foolish in my life than when I killed him.”
Will isn’t remotely surprised that Hannibal’s still far stronger than he is even after being imprisoned for three years but what he didn’t expect was the desire coursing through his veins at Hannibal’s show of strength. He could bash his head up against Hannibal’s to rattle him, but he strains his neck up to kiss Hannibal instead.
He knows Hannibal better than to expect him to falter from the sudden assault, and he relishes the way he’s being kissed in return.
He rocks his hips up, the minute movements enough to get Hannibal grinding down on him as a reward, and he wants all he’d repressed inside these past few years. He couldn’t resist taunting Hannibal one last time.
“You’re a fool, Hannibal.”
He laughs, unpredictably light and loud, amazed that he’s not yet torn into shreds by Hannibal or Francis, appalled that there’s a real possibility that this is the end for him, for them, and he’s just as quickly shaking from tears, unequivocally emotional from the chaos that tosses and turns within him.
The waves of the ocean crash upon the cliff outside and he can taste the salt on his tongue.
He peers into Hannibal’s eyes.
“He’s watching us now.”
He licks his lower lip, biting onto it harder than necessary to make his point.
“Then let’s give him a show.”
There’s something about looming death that makes one terribly reckless.
Will knocks his head back against the wall a little too hard at the sight of Hannibal on his knees, those dark eyes watching him as Hannibal’s lips stretch over the girth of his cock. He runs his hand into Hannibal’s hair, holding him still as he fucks into Hannibal’s willing mouth.
Fuck Anthony Dimmond. And fuck Bedelia too for good measure.
He groans at the way Hannibal’s fingers inside him probe deeper, the olive oil Hannibal procured from the kitchen serving its purpose to stretch him further than his imagination could. Will whines from the overstimulation, overwhelmed from the multitude of sensations as he rocks his hips back and forth. He’s helpless at the way Hannibal rubs against his prostate, fucking his hips up into Hannibal’s mouth in inelegant jerks.
When he comes, his mouth falls open in a silent scream.
Before he could melt onto the floor at Hannibal’s feet from his orgasm, he’s turned to face the wall, Hannibal’s cock pushing into his wet hole. Will rests his head back against Hannibal’s shoulder, letting himself be used, body and mind so willing to be taken hostage.
He reaches out for Hannibal’s face, until they’re nose to nose, and his heart is full from the way Hannibal looks at him like he’s worth more than foolishness, more than impulsive whims and wants.
“You’ll be my undoing, Will.”
“And you’ll be mine.”
Will loves the way Hannibal’s eyes see nothing but him when he comes.
When the deed is done and Francis still hasn’t made his move, there were no words left to speak.
They showered separately, dressed in cleaner clothes, and looked away from each other as the sun is swallowed into the night, plunging the outside world into darkness.
Will blinks slowly up at the moon, wondering what secrets remain untold between them.
“My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will.”
He recalls the way Hannibal had admitted to being a fool.
His fool, to be exact.
When Francis does finally attack, Will knows that this wasn’t a game of forced alliances.
He knows as much as Hannibal does that they were never predator and prey; that they’ve always been two predators meant to fight and kill other predators together, for each other.
He would have torn at Francis’ flesh even if Francis hadn’t laid a finger on him. Seeing Hannibal wounded by a cowardly bullet was enough motivation.
Will watches Hannibal tear at Francis’ throat with his teeth and knows for sure that this is His Becoming. This was his calling all along and years of solitude, marriage, and pretense did nothing but let the monster grow stronger inside his belly.
And it is.
The ocean calls out his name and he runs into its embrace, taking with him the only person who could make the rest of his life worth living.
Who knew a beginning could feel so endless?