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His focus is on their strained, ragged breathing. The sharp-dull, sharp-dull ache of his leg pulsing with added weight on every step. Pain, clean and fresh like ginger, cleansing the ashy taste of betrayal just long enough to allow him his joy. Warmth draped along his right side, an arm wrapped tightly across his broad shoulders, and the answer of his own fingers curled around the hip of a man he had once trusted and still, foolishly, even loves.
And Will. Beautiful, fearsome Will, with blood dripping down his right arm and pooling between the grooves of his fingers, wasteful little splashes catching the light like precious rubies scattering behind them, lost. There is nothing to go back for, now. Perhaps there never was.
Hannibal and Will trudge together, unremarked, through the narrow streets of Florence, and Hannibal tries not to allow his thoughts to stray. This moment—the weight, the iron-cedar-gunpowder-righteousness scent, the sweat trickling down Will’s brow, the groan and clench of his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, and the close, codependent lean they have quietly accepted—deserves his attention. It deserves to be remembered.
Will deserves to be remembered.
Sogliato’s apartment is not the ideal location for their final meal, but Will has left him with no choice. He had hoped, dearly, that when Will came to him here in Italy it would be as a partner and an equal, not as an adversary still trying to bring him to justice. But, bitter disappointment aside, part of him thinks it may be better this way. He can carry Will’s memory and his potential far into the future, where it otherwise would have been tragically wasted in the halls of law enforcement agencies with no appreciation for what Will truly is.
He helps Will onto a sofa, retrieves his medical kit, and—before Will can protest—injects Will with enough morphine to kill the pain and dull his senses significantly but not enough to render him unconscious.
Will hisses and jerks away from the needle, which thankfully does not break. “What did you—?”
“For your pain,” Hannibal murmurs, tearing open the shoulder of Will’s red-soaked button-up. “I’ll need to extract the bullet.”
Will winces as he rolls the shoulder back, but already the lines of anguish are beginning to fade from his face and he lays his head back, accommodating and vulnerable.
Hannibal prods the wound and a fresh gout of blood pours over his fingers. He stares for a moment, the heat and the scent and the life of Will Graham like pure temptation, and he is brought back to reality by a sharp, derisive huff.
“Why not? You want to,” Will manages, through the lingering pain and the rising tide of the morphine. “And why fix me at all? We both know how this ends, Dr. Lecter.”
Hannibal watches a bead of crimson trickle down his knuckle a moment longer and then reaches into his medical kit. “It would be unsanitary. As for treatment—”
“Lemme guess,” Will says, eyes half-lidded. “Bullet hole. Not part of your… design.”
Hannibal smiles, and his heart aches as Will smiles back.
He digs a long pair of forceps into the hole until he strikes metal, and gently pulls the bullet free. The wound bleeds excessively now, and he moves with precision and grace into his next routine steps to ensure the wound will be clean, sutured, and bandaged, but Will’s bloody fingers catch upon Hannibal’s sleeve. His eyes are closed.
“What are you going to do with me?” he asks, softly. “What’s the end of my story going to taste like, Hannibal?”
And Hannibal is lost in the rumble of his voice and the torn-open shirt and the sluggishly-bleeding bullet hole and the loss of him, that this should be the final evening the world ever knows there was a creature like Will Graham. The curse and the great tragedy of time, slipping away, sliding through his fingers like drops of Will Graham’s untasted blood, like the drag and the glide of Will Graham’s pale and untouched flesh, like the unknown timbre of Will Graham’s voice raised in pleasure and muffled in pain.
How can he let this go, without knowing the expression Will would have made for him nightly?
Decided, then. Hannibal leans down over the wound and licks a stripe of pooling blood from the crook of Will’s shoulder, the taste rich and sweet and intoxicating. He had been foolish to deny himself so long. His tongue traces around the outside of the wound, probes until more blood spills forth, and Will is beginning to struggle beneath him.
“What the fuck are you… doing?”
Hannibal shushes him, one hand firmly pressing his arm against the sofa, the other upon his neck. Will is far too weak to move, but Hannibal isn’t interested in interruptions at the moment.
He wraps his lips around the wound and sucks, a flood of metallic viscera coating his teeth and tongue. He groans as he bites down, and Will shudders, whimpering, a scream caught beneath the hand around his throat. Hannibal sits back, breath erratic, mouth red, blood dripping down his chin, eyelids fluttering.
More. More, more, he needs more. He should have had this. He should have known this taste, known the soft, shuddering noises like the beat of his own heart. And now? Now there was so little time. It will be a mere hour or two before Crawford is upon them. And the Questura, he suspects, very shortly after that. He’ll be lucky to finish his display and leave Florence in time.
But, oh, he cannot leave it like this. He must have more of Will. A room full of whimpering, trembling, begging. The taste of him, the feel of him.
Hannibal’s grip tightens around Will’s throat as he straddles his beloved on the sofa, and he cards his other hand through Will’s soft, luscious curls, tugging here and there. Will’s eyes are still closed, and he’s taking quick, sharp little breaths, like a frightened rabbit.
Hannibal leans down and places the gentlest, probing kiss at the corner of Will’s mouth. Will is unpredictable, after all—he may bite, or try to smash their heads together, or any number of things.
Hannibal whispers, “If it is to be our last meeting—”
“No,” Will says, though his voice shakes.
“You won’t even allow me to ask?”
Will swallows hard, the pulse of it rather pleasant beneath Hannibal’s hand. His eyes are still shut tight, and he presses his lips together, his nostrils flaring, defiance and fear and indignation and beauty in one blood-spattered package.
His stubble creates a delightful rasp against Hannibal’s caressing thumb.
“My dear, stubborn Will. Let us see what other precious moments we can find, then.”
Off goes Will’s tattered shirt. It’s fine—there are others Hannibal can dress him in, when all is said and done. He does take the time, while he is perched in Will’s lap, to finish cleaning and stitching the bullet wound. After all, it was not of his making and he would like Will’s body to be as near as possible to pristine, otherwise Hannibal’s vision for him will be tainted.
Though it is not good medical etiquette, Hannibal indulges a few more long, slow licks of the surgery site. His tongue probes the muscle and bone inside, and when he sits back he finds that he has left a rather sizable suck mark around the hole. His teeth marks from earlier are also still visible, though he doubts those will stay long enough for dinner.
He finishes cleaning, sterilizing, stitching, and dressing the wound, patting his little love bite.
Then, out comes the scalpel.
“I have tasted the sweetness of your suffering and pain,” Hannibal says, his lips catching upon the side of Will’s neck. The dull side of the blade trails down his bare, beautiful body, and a stuttered red line appears wherever the point drags against skin. “Let me taste your pleasure, Will. Let us have this, before it is taken from us.”
Will’s eyes crack open, a bleary, blazing, accusatory blue. “Never,” he slurs.
Hannibal sighs and glides the scalpel back up to Will’s collarbone, this time deliberately dragging the point up the ridges of his abdomen, his ribs, his delicious chest. He follows the line of blooming blood with his tongue, pausing for a playful, experimental drag of his teeth against a dusky pink nipple. The sharp little gasp, the slight arch, and the smattering of goosebumps will live on their own shelf in his memory palace until the end of days.
When he begins to undo Will’s belt, however, the reactions go from cute and subdued to a sudden burst of adrenaline-fueled refusal, which is very rapidly curbed by the fresh scalpel pressed against the underside of Will’s jaw.
Those fast little breaths are heavier now, those eyes more alert, the grip of that dried-blood-flecked hand strong around Hannibal’s wrist.
They stare at each other, hands poised at knife and at beltline, and Will licks his enticing pink lips, glancing down for just a moment before his attention returns, unflinching, to Hannibal’s raised eyebrows and cool, unfazed eyes.
“You’re not going to cut my throat, Dr. Lecter. It’s not part of your design.”
“I have already stitched you up once, Will.”
Will works his jaw, considering, then minutely shakes his head again. “No. Everything you want to do to me, you want me alive for. If you kill me now, you’re just running your own clock out even faster.”
Hannibal pauses. “You’re suggesting I will allow you to prevent me from experiencing these moments with you because the alternative is that I lose time with you overall?” Will nods, and Hannibal sighs. “That presupposes I would keep you alive for a specific period of time regardless. I merely wish to use the time we have for something pleasant and worthy of remembrance. If you have no interest, I can simply increase the dosage of your painkillers. If you force my hand, I would take something from you I was not intending to take, create my display, and leave. I would be immensely disappointed and you would sour the entire affair for me. Is that what you want?”
Will scowls. “Well, now that you mention it, yeah, kind of. Seeing as how my options are you touch me while I’m conscious and then you kill me, you touch me while I’m unconscious and then you kill me, or you just fucking kill me. I’m not exactly in favor of how any of those turn out.”
Hannibal sighs. “That is unfortunate.”
“Oh, is it.”
“Yes. I had hoped that given our uniquely intimate connection, you would at least appreciate the offer to explore it, in your final hours.”
“Wow. What a shame for you.”
“I’m disappointed that you chose this, Will.”
Will’s body fully tenses, his grip nearly bone-breaking upon Hannibal’s wrist, his eyes practically sparking with rage.
“Fuck you.”
“Do I need to give you more painkillers, Will?”
A long beat. Intense, sizzling eye contact. Slowly, Hannibal begins to slide the scalpel down the side of Will’s neck, opening a thin line that traces his jaw and esophagus, then along his collarbone. Will doesn’t stop him. He shakes off the hand restraining him, a shower of blood-flakes glittering like scales upon Will’s dark trousers. Even with his attention split between carefully mirroring the lines on Will’s neck and chest, Hannibal is able to deftly tug open Will’s belt and slacks.
He is making a slightly deeper line down the center of Will’s chest when his fingers wrap around Will’s cock. Hard, throbbing in his hand, the tip sticky. Will’s throat clicks as he swallows, and his breath stutters. He still stares at Hannibal, defiant, as though he is not thick and wanting even with a dozen scalpel lines drawn up and down his chest and neck, as though fluid does not bead at his slit as he is palmed by a cannibal with every intent to eat him in a matter of hours.
The scalpel clatters down onto the floor and Hannibal kicks it away, in case Will should get more ideas. It isn’t exactly safe sharps disposal practices, but right now he has more important things on his mind.
Will’s neck is slick now with thin lines of his own blood, but Hannibal’s grip is tight and sure. He can’t resist—he tastes, and the flavor wrenches a groan from deep in his chest. If he could afford to drop to his knees and explore to his heart’s content, he would happily do so, but given Will’s resistance thus far and his time constraints, that is quite sadly an opportunity lost to time.
The tragedies continue to mount. He allows the grief to wash over him for a moment, then forces himself to focus again on the moment. On Will.
He may not be able to use his mouth, given he does not have the hours he would wish to take, but he can certainly use his hand and taste afterward.
Will’s hips jerk ever so slightly and his head tilts back just so when Hannibal finds the correct rhythm. Will is delightfully responsive, gorgeous, his body and his face flushed, his nipples peaked, his arms tense and corded where he’s pressing them into the couch cushions, his huffs and sighs like music, his cock heavy and twitching and leaking with every swipe of a thumb beneath the dark head. His eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes positively hateful, but his pretty mouth hangs open, his tongue and teeth chasing his lower lip, chewing and wetting and scraping and making Hannibal want.
When he finishes—with a soft, restrained cry that Hannibal will play for himself often—come spatters his bloody chest and Hannibal descends upon it, groaning at the blended taste, his touch gentle upon Will’s ribs and hips. His tongue maps the entirety of Will’s chest until there is no trace of his climax left, though the thin lines of blood do still weep in places. He closes his eyes and inhales the taste like wine, cataloguing the palate, storing it away. He is building a beautiful vault of Will, a recreation so lifelike it astonishes him, and he marvels at it for a while.
It occurs to him only after a few minutes that he should not linger here when he still has current real-world issues to attend to, no matter how beautiful and perfect a recreation his Will might be.
The present waits patiently, to his surprise. Will hasn’t moved, even to readjust his trousers. He simply watches Hannibal, eyes cold and flinty, while an intricate pattern of red continues to blossom across his body every time he shifts his weight.
Hannibal clicks his tongue behind his teeth and tucks Will back into his pants, though he does not zip or button them.
“Does that mean you’re done, then?” Will says, quietly.
Hannibal considers. Considers the time, considers his other fantasies.
Considers his own aching, neglected cock.
“No,” Hannibal says.
Will doesn’t seem upset, though nor does he seem relieved. “What else did you intend to do?”
Hannibal sighs. “So much, Will. I would have shown you so much pleasure. But, given our time is running short…” Will says something under his breath, and Hannibal’s eyes narrow. “I can think of a better use for your mouth than making unsavory comments.”
“You don’t think I’ll bite?”
“There are methods to prevent biting down. I would prefer not to have to use them.”
Will only glowers, silent and motionless, until Hannibal stands, gesturing to the floor just in front of the sofa. When he slides off the cushion and to his knees, the sight of him—bloody, shirtless, fly wide open, glaring up with impossibly blue eyes through a cascade of dark lashes and curls—renders Hannibal speechless. Will’s pert ass is pressed right up against the heavy sofa, his feet tucked beneath it, and he is at the perfect height to take Hannibal into his throat.
Hannibal’s hands don’t shake as he frees himself from his silk boxers but he feels like they should. Will doesn’t look at Hannibal’s cock, doesn’t look at the exits, doesn’t look for the scalpel which could be almost anywhere—no, he only looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he slackens his jaw and lets his tongue hang over his teeth. Even when the taste of precome and musk hit his tongue, Will’s attention doesn’t waver. He simply allows Hannibal to slowly rock forward, a little at a time, until more than half of him is wet and slick and sliding in and out of Will’s mouth.
Only when Hannibal places a gentle hand in Will’s hair does the behavior shift. Will pulls all the way off, forces the hand in his hair to hold tighter, and refuses to move.
Very well. Hannibal Lecter is a man who is capable of taking his cues, and he can permit Will some insolence given this is likely his last ever act of defiance.
He takes a rough, painful hold on Will’s curls, as evidenced by the sudden and sharp ah! which is ripped from Will’s chest, and then he forces Will’s mouth back where it belongs, and deeper yet. It feels like soft velvet and hell, hot and sinful. Will drools obscenely, his lips stretched, his cheeks hollow, and as Hannibal’s hips begin to roll with more purpose, Will’s throat relaxes further and further, as if in invitation. Hannibal experimentally pushes his way deep into Will’s throat, watches Will’s eyes water and feels the pulse and twitch as he tries to keep from gagging, holds there a little longer until Will’s face reddens and his eyes begin to shine with panic.
A huge, gasping breath, three small panting breaths, then Hannibal thrusts back into the tight cavern of Will’s throat. Tears track down Will’s face, and still he doesn’t try to tap out. His face turns pink, then red, then purple, and still he lets Hannibal do as he pleases. How far will this go?
He pulls out to allow Will to breathe and says, “If you lose consciousness, what do you suppose I’ll do?”
Will, on his knees, drool on his chin, blood on his neck, rasps, “Whatever you want. Like fucking always.”
Hannibal holds Will on his cock until he starts to struggle due to lack of oxygen and comes so hard he sees spots for a moment. Will struggles weakly against him, a last fight-or-flight response, and when Hannibal releases him he falls, coughing, strings of drool and come pooling from his lips to the floor while he sucks in gulp after gulp of life-saving air.
Hannibal tucks himself into his trousers and retrieves a fresh syringe from the medical kit. He shows it to Will, and while there is still defiance in his eyes, Will doesn’t fight the needle.
This time it is meant to knock him out, but only for a while. Hannibal takes the opportunity to undress, bathe, treat his own injuries, and then undress and redress Will. It is his last opportunity to touch or taste Will’s wounds.
He kisses and licks along Will’s chest, murmuring the affectionate words he couldn’t bring himself to say in the face of such rage.
He can say he wishes things were different, while Will is unconscious. He can say he adores Will, that there is no one as beautiful or as interesting. He can say he loves Will, and he wishes they could be together, if only Will felt the same.
He can say all of that and more in twelve languages.
It doesn’t make a difference.
He straps Will to his chair and puts the nerve blocker in his neck. Wakes him, gently, and feeds him a bit of the thyme infusion. Will slurs something about bad soup, and Hannibal’s heart aches.
“It’s more for my sake than for yours,” he says, gently, and Will’s sharp eyes, at long last, can no longer meet his.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Will tells him, and he wishes he could believe that.
In fact, he wishes it more than anything in the world.
The elevator kicks on downstairs, and Hannibal knows their time is up.
He kisses Will’s temple. “I wish that were true,” he says, and crawls under the table with a fresh syringe.
Capturing Crawford is easy. A jab in the leg, tackling, a struggle, Hannibal sinking his teeth into Crawford’s ankle. At last, the big man goes down, and Hannibal can set the table for dinner. The last, terrible dinner.
Will doesn’t say anything when the saw comes out. The blade whirs, closer and closer to Will’s skull. To his ending.
Jack begins to bellow and the saw whines and there is blood, rich red blood that tastes of iron and life and love, and Will… Will is letting this happen. Will isn’t fighting or screaming. Will is beautiful and brilliant and alive and what in the world is Hannibal doing when they could have had so much more? And the scent of bone dust and blood and fear and foolishness is interrupted by the squeal of metal twisting as the door is cracked open and suddenly Hannibal doesn’t have to kill Will Graham anymore and isn’t having time with someone you love such a beautiful thing?
The next days are a blur. They are together, at least they are together, but they are not together because they are drugged, and then Mason Verger is there, the rabid little parasite, and Will is biting a ragged chunk out of the manservant’s face and at last he looks at Hannibal and it is as though nothing between them has changed. There is joy, shared and secret, and there is love. Has that always been there, from both sides? How could Hannibal not be sure?
Carrying Will’s body across the snow reminds him of the inevitability he felt in Florence. The weight, the heat, the scent of blood, mingling together with his melancholy sense that all things would have to come to an end. But, now, safely tucked into the back seat of Chiyoh’s car and on the way back to Wolf Trap, Hannibal can only feel a sense of hopefulness and possibility. He holds Will in his lap, chin tucked tight against the crown of Will’s head, and he is grateful for the searing, clarifying pain in his back just as he was grateful for the clarity his injured leg gave him in Italy. Though, that time, the clarity was based on false information.
Hannibal adjusts some of the formulas in his notebook, murmuring into Will’s hair that everything will be alright now, and he will be home soon, and they will have time, plenty of time to talk.
Chiyoh disapproves of Will. She waits outside.
The Wolf Trap house has none of the warmth and joy of the days when things were right between them. There are no dogs, no presence of life. Hannibal lays on the bed beside Will and holds his hand.
“It will be some hours before you are well enough to move, but I suspect you should be able to speak,” Hannibal says. Will makes a small, annoyed huffing sound, and Hannibal squeezes his fingers. “I am aware that… Things could have been different. Everything could have been different. We have betrayed and hurt each other now for so long it would feel like violence in a way to treat each other better.” Another huff, this one perhaps more positive. “I thought our time was coming to an end and I wanted to keep what pieces of you I could. Even if they were stolen pieces.”
“Christ. You and I both know that wasn’t the problem,” Will says, his voice gravelly and gruff. “I found you because I wanted to find you. Even though I knew you were going to kill me. Whether or not I was going to try to kill you first is up for debate, I don’t know the answer myself, but I was definitely going to stab you. The sex was—” He pauses, sighs. “It wasn’t the problem. The problem was you kept saying we should do it because our time is running out, and time is being stolen from us, and that just… You’ve never been the type to outright lie.”
Stung, Hannibal turns, sharply, to look at him. “It wasn’t a lie.”
“Yes. It was. You decided to kill me. You were perfectly capable of deciding you wanted something else.” After a beat, Will’s eyes tick from the ceiling to Hannibal’s face. “If you wanted to have sex with me before, Hannibal, you could have. Pretty much any time outside of when I was locked up.”
He swallows. “And now?”
Will shrugs minutely, about all he can manage at the moment. “If you want. I can’t stop you.”
“I would… prefer it if it was something you were interested in as well.”
“It was,” Will says, softly. “Even when I hated you, it was.”
“And now…?”
Will’s laugh is a gentle, rolling thing, like wind across a grassy hillside.
“If I say no, are you going to believe me?”
“Not anymore.”
“So why does my answer matter, then?” He manages to turn his head fully to the side. “You just want to see if I’ll lie, huh?” Hannibal nods, and Will laughs again, low and slow, and tapering off with a sigh. “Yeah, Dr. Lecter, I would still be interested in sex. With you. Despite… everything.”
Hannibal rolls to his side and tilts Will’s face up toward his. Will’s forehead is cool beneath his lips. He kisses his way down Will’s unbandaged temple, his cheek, his jaw, the razor-thin scabbing on his neck. He delicately undresses Will, careful and reverent.
There is a half-used tube of lubricant in the bedside drawer. Given Will’s paralysis, Hannibal is particularly generous with it as he goes to slick up his fingers and Will’s body.
The muscle is already a bit loose and forgiving because of the medication, but Hannibal doesn’t want to take any chances. He pours another dollop as he stretches and widens Will’s hole with two fingers. Will’s eyes are half-closed, and his breathing is labored, and his fingers are twitching.
Three fingers, and Hannibal experimentally stimulates Will’s prostate. A low, rumbling groan fights its way from his chest, and Will’s toes twitch with the desire to curl. He moans so prettily, so delicate, like he’s trying to muffle himself even though there’s no one around for miles. Perhaps it’s on Chiyoh’s account, but she’s probably so far back in the treeline the birds would get startled first.
Hannibal drags an orgasm from him with just his fingers, and then keeps the pressure on as he expertly works Will’s drooling cock. He remembers just what makes Will twitch and groan, and though Will begins tensing and twitching and showing signs he’s trying to grab on and gain just a moment’s reprieve, Hannibal is unrelenting. The second climax is hard and clenching, and Will bites his lip so hard it bleeds just to keep himself from shouting Hannibal’s name.
Again, the lubricant, even as Will is trying to catch his breath. Again, so much that it drips between Will’s cheeks and slides to the bedspread, but Hannibal is long and thick and there’s no such thing as too slick.
He presses into Will’s body with a panting groan, feeling Will flutter and tense around him, and he wonders what the stretch must feel like for Will. When his thighs are flush with Will’s ass, he hikes Will’s knees up higher and slides just a little deeper due to the angle, and Will’s eyes roll and a little spurt of clear fluid joins the pool on his stomach.
His hips begin to move, long, rolling thrusts, deep enough he hopes Will can feel them in his heart. He could live here, make a space inside of Will’s tight heat and never leave. He buries his face into the side of Will’s neck and holds him tight and murmurs things in eleven languages that he couldn’t look the other man in the eye and say, and at some point while he’s grinding his hips into Will’s he becomes aware of arms wrapped tight around him, and that’s enough to make him groan and shudder and fill his beloved with what feels like so much of himself there’s nothing left.
It takes time for him to recover. His English comes back, slowly, and Will has been speaking to him. Hannibal is still laying on top of Will, petting his hair, kissing the side of his neck absently, and Will is asking Hannibal to get off.
Hannibal rolls to his side, a bit dazed, and Will gets up. He’s wobbly, but he makes it to the bathroom. When he comes back he tells Hannibal to get up and get dressed so he can strip the bed.
Hannibal goes to get cleaned up and, when he returns, Will is sitting, fully dressed, on his freshly-made bed with his arms crossed and a number of darkening love bites on his neck. Hannibal moves to sit with him, but Will points to a chair at the foot of the bed. Hannibal’s jacket is draped over it.
He picks up his jacket, looks at Will. No response, blank expression. He puts his jacket on and sits down.
Why is there a weight in the back of his throat? Why do his eyes sting?
There is silence between them, and it aches.
Hannibal pulls out his notebook. They could have a future, this time. Time and teacups and the rules of disorder. Love.
And Will…
Will snorts a harsh laugh. “It’s over, Dr. Lecter.” He stands, faces away. “You need to leave.”
Hannibal doesn’t understand.
“Just. Go. You got what you wanted. Go. I’m not going to look for you. I don’t want to think about you. I don’t want to know where you are. I don’t ever want to hear your name again.”
And Hannibal Lecter went, lost and teary-eyed and heartbroken, to wait for the arrival of the FBI. He would turn himself in so that Will, dear, sweet Will, would know where to find him when he changed his mind.