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The ocean rumbles in the distance as Will sits, alone with a bottle of whiskey.
He stretches his legs off the porch steps, sinking his feet in the cold sand. He’s not sure how many glasses he’s had—too many, probably, and yet nowhere near enough.
The light is on in Hannibal’s study, the door left ajar as always, and it’s calling at him like a siren. He’s all too aware that Hannibal is such a short distance away, painfully so, yet here he sits, too chicken to get up and do something about it.
He swallows what’s left in his glass, and he’s filling it again before he can think better of it.
It’s easier to let Hannibal take the lead. Will has done it for years, fighting him every step of the way as they inevitably collided like black holes, devouring and destroying everything in their path, first and foremost themselves. It was easier; easier to pretend that Hannibal was dragging him kicking and screaming all along. Easier to keep telling himself that he was too good to want what Hannibal was offering him. To embrace the darkness that lay growling inside of him, that Hannibal saw so clearly and endeavored to bring into the light.
Will Graham the righteous, who was too much of a goddamn coward to admit that he’d wanted it all along. That he’d wanted Hannibal all along.
He’s well past denying Hannibal anything, in this new life they’ve pieced together from the ruins of their old ones. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Will’s mind, Will’s body—he’s given it all to Hannibal, though he can’t still quite believe that Hannibal would want him, royally messed up as he is.
Maybe that’s why it’s still easier to let Hannibal be the first to touch him. Much as Will wants him, reaching out first seems to require a measure of courage he still does not possess.
He throws back his whiskey in one gulp, and has to struggle not to smash the glass against the wall. The salty breeze blowing from the ocean does nothing to cool the anger curling tight and ugly in his gut.
Because Will does want him. Wants him with an intensity that should frighten him—wants to devour him, to consume him, and Hannibal has to know that. Will can’t hide his hunger when they are together, that hunger that grows ever more desperate as he clutches Hannibal hard enough to leave bruises, when he moans so loud his throat feels raw, when he kisses Hannibal like he might die if he doesn’t. He has to know it.
Yet, Hannibal hasn’t touched him in days, and dying is pretty much what it feels like.
Will pours himself more whiskey and chugs half of it, hand clenching too hard around the glass. He’s doing it on purpose, there’s no doubt about it; Hannibal’s every action is on purpose, deliberate and calculated.
Hannibal never had any qualms about his desire to see Will shed his inhibitions, forcefully ripping them from him with blood and violence, or with his silence. That’s a far more effective weapon. Sometimes, Will lets himself admit that the years they’d spent apart, that gaping, screaming void had been that much worse than the slaughter. Now, be it out of shame or insecurity or just old habit, there’s another limit Will is too chicken to cross. But this time, he’ll have to fucking do it himself.
If Will wants Hannibal, he’ll have to come out and say it.
He gulps down another mouthful of whiskey, stands up on unsteady legs and heads to the study.
Hannibal is sitting at his desk, books and papers spread before him, a folder open on his crossed legs as he writes. Will stops for a moment at the doorway, watching. Of course Hannibal knows he’s there, but he doesn’t stop writing, doesn’t even turn to look at him.
So Will steps forward, glass hanging from his fingers.
He moves slowly, with purpose, as he pushes the papers aside and steps between Hannibal and his desk to lean against it, forcing him to lower his leg. He knows he’s being rude, intruding on Hannibal’s work this way, but there’s no trace of annoyance in Hannibal’s eyes when he looks up at him, pen stilling on the paper. There’s no surprise, either, nor any questions. He just looks at Will, and waits.
Will clenches his hand on the edge of the desk, standing his ground.
Hannibal calmly closes the folder on his legs, then sets it aside. He folds his hands, every gesture measured and deliberate. It does nothing but fuel Will’s hunger, twisting into something dark and desperate.
Hannibal raises his gaze and his tone is detached and polite when he asks, “Is there something you want, Will?”
Yes. The answer is a detonation deep inside Will’s chest, threatening to tear his ribcage apart. He wonders if Hannibal can smell his arousal—he can feel it radiating off himself in dark, smoldering waves. His cock is hard under his jeans, the bulge under the fabric all too conspicuous, level with Hannibal’s mouth.
Hannibal, who is still deliberately not lowering his gaze. Still waiting.
Will downs what’s left of his whiskey and drops the glass on the desk, feeling it burn down his throat as he swallows.
“What I want,” he says, his voice rough, “is you.”
His fingers are just this side of unsteady when he starts undoing his shirt. One button after the other, until it falls open to expose his chest, his abdomen. He can feel Hannibal’s gaze on every inch of bared skin, moving slowly down to stop on the edge of his scar.
Slowly, deliberately, Will pushes the hem of his shirt aside to place his fingers over the raised tissue. He follows it slowly with his thumb, tracing the line of phantom pain of when Hannibal’s knife sank into his flesh. A physical reminder of how Hannibal tore him open, violently brought to light every bloody, twisted, fucked-up thing that lay dormant inside him, where Will had fought so hard to keep it hidden. Hannibal wanted him, ugly and wrecked as he was, and Will—Will wanted Hannibal just as fiercely, and he’s done playing coy about it.
Hannibal shifts forward, just so that his mouth is inches from Will’s body, his hot breath through Will's jeans enough to drive him wild with need as he whispers: “And what is it you want me to do?”
A shiver runs down Will’s back. Of course Hannibal is going to make him say it. He has no intention of making this easy for him.
He brings his hands to Hannibal’s face, cupping his cheeks as he holds his gaze. Hannibal’s eyes are impossibly dark, and he couldn’t look away if he wanted.
Will doesn’t want to. He won’t look away from Hannibal now, nor ever again.
His words are little more than a breath: “Have me.”
Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling. He’s the one who reaches out to unbutton Will’s jeans and push them open, revealing the bulge in his boxers, but before he can touch him Will snatches his wrists, trapping them in his grip. And Hannibal lets him. Will’s calling the shots, here, and being in control goes straight to Will’s head, incinerating his thoughts, leaving nothing but roaring fire.
“Your mouth,” he rasps, voice gone rough with need.
Hannibal’s eyes have a dangerous gleam to them, his lips curled in the smallest grin as he leans until they’re brushing the scar on Will’s abdomen. He kisses him there—he follows the curved line with his soft mouth, his tongue, and Will’s gasp makes them both shudder. His eyes flutter shut as he tips his head back.
Hannibal’s tongue on his skin has him trembling, and his mouth opens in a shameless gasp when Hannibal grazes the scar with his teeth, the shock of fear and desire slamming into him and shooting straight to his cock. Will’s so hard he’s aching with it. He grabs the lapels of Hannibal’s jacket and yanks him up, breathing over Hannibal’s parted mouth, heart beating like a war drum in his chest. Hannibal’s eyes are burning, and might as well be flaying Will’s skin off, leaving him raw and bleeding and drunk on such desperate hunger he can’t think straight anymore.
“I want you.” Will’s voice is shaking. “And I’m a mess. I know that, but I—”
“You’re beautiful,” Hannibal interrupts, murmuring on his lips. And Will crashes into him like the ocean, biting at his mouth, and all he wants is to devour him.
They kiss like they’re fighting, yanking at each other’s clothes, hands pushing and grasping and leaving bruises in their wake, until Will’s spread out on the desk, head thrown back and throat exposed. He’s naked but for his shirt, hanging off his shoulder, legs spread open. And Hannibal’s between his thighs, shoved deep inside of him, hands clenched on his hips, holding him in place as he fucks him with hard, punishing thrusts. It hurts like Heaven and sends dizzying shock waves of pleasure through Will’s body and his cock is achingly hard, heavy and leaking on his stomach.
Will feels like he’s losing his goddamn mind, pinned and spread open and fucked. Hannibal’s still dressed, his shirt open down his chest where Will tore at the buttons, and time was Will would have felt ashamed, so wanton and debauched, but not anymore. He watches Hannibal’s muscles move as he pulls back before slamming back in, and moans like a whore clenching around Hannibal’s erection, shuddering with pleasure. He’s at Hannibal’s mercy, mouth parted in a constant stream of ragged gasps and filthy moans that trickle from his lips like dark honey.
Hannibal’s eyes are closed and Will hauls himself up to bring a hand to his nape. He grabs a fistful of Hannibal’s hair and pulls hard until he opens his eyes, and Will must be hurting him, but he can’t let go. He wants this. He wants Hannibal with such ferocious desperation he’s consumed with it, and he wants Hannibal to know.
“See me,” he growls between gritted teeth, and Hannibal’s rough moan sinks into him like a knife.
Hannibal obeys. He watches him as they fuck, a storm raging in his eyes, and Will lets him see. Lets him see how he arches back in pleasure, lets him see as he wraps his hand around his straining cock to stroke himself, lets him see as he shudders and comes, spilling all over his fingers, his stomach. He wants Hannibal to see him. All of him.
Hannibal was the only one who saw him all along, and Will is done hiding.
Will feels him throbbing deep inside his body when he comes with a growl, a sheen of sweat over his throat, hands clenched on Will’s hips so hard it hurts. Hannibal looks feral, eyes smoldering like embers, chest heaving, and Will’s breath catches in his throat.
He’s beautiful. He’s so damn beautiful Will wants to tear himself open with his bare hands as an offering, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
He lets his head thump back onto the desk, gasping for breath, barely able to keep his eyes open. His gaze falls onto the empty glass, carelessly pushed aside, on the verge of falling. With a sweep of his arm, Will backhands it to the floor.
Let it shatter, and let the whole world come crashing down with it.
Will Graham has the only thing he wants, and he doesn’t need any of it anymore.