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Hannibal remembers hitting the water. He remembers Will’s body pressed so tightly against his own that they were able to fight the current together for some time. He remembers the undertow taking hold of Will’s body after seconds, minutes, maybe hours, dragging him off and out of sight…
He does not remember getting to the beach. He doesn’t remember hitting the sand, coughing up lungfuls of saltwater and blood, drifting in and out of consciousness, but Hannibal wakes and the stars have changed. Everything hurts, and he’s not entirely sure how he’s conscious, but nonetheless, he feels the dirt under his fingers, hears the ocean over his head, and he knows he is alive.
The first thing Hannibal becomes aware of after that is that Will is not near him.
Sharply and painfully, he forces himself up and frantically sweeps his head left and right in search of a figure or a shadow. Hannibal’s internal compass and the knowledge of the direction of the current make the choice for him after that.
It takes ages to get to his feet. There are broken ribs, absolutely, and when he moves the bullet wound pulls and tears to the point of agony, but he pushes on. Hannibal stumbles down the coast like a drunk, slow, and pitiful. He squints against the darkness, through the haze in his brain, leaving a blood trail behind his divots in the sand, and all that time, Hannibal calls. He shouts as loud as his hoarse voice will allow, battling the sound of waves in hope that his boy can hear him.
Because Will is alright. He is strong and he is resilient.
Because Will would not leave him like this.
Hannibal just needs to find him.
And just as the first pulls of desperation begin to strain his calls, Hannibal spots a figure at the end of the coast just shy of the water’s edge.
“Will.” He breathes, relief suddenly so heavy it could crush him.
Hannibal gathers his strength and pushes himself into an unsteady run, pushing against his screaming muscles until Will is close. He is lying on his back, head tilted to the left and not facing Hannibal, but he is very, very still.
“Will. Will.” Hannibal collapses to his knees at his boy’s side, heart pounding from fear. Fresh blood is spreading across Will’s shirt from a deep wound between his ribs and a deeper one in his right leg, and underneath him, the sand is soaked with it. He’s been here for some time.
Hannibal presses his fingers to the pulse point in Will’s throat, then moves to the one in his throat, then back to his wrist, becoming increasingly more desperate when he can’t feel anything.
No. No, you can’t.
“Will. Wake up.”
He doesn’t.
He begins chest compressions immediately; holding the wound in Will’s cheek closed and forcing his mouth open. This isn’t how I wanted the first time to be. I wanted to taste you over dinner and champagne, or beside the fire in our own home where our lives are intertwined, he thinks as their lips tough for the first time. Will’s lips are cold and it frightens him because Will Graham is not cold. He is warmth and fire and power and beauty, and he is never, ever cold.
“Will, please, I need you to breathe.” He says urgently, keeping his fear tightly controlled. He pumps his chest, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…
With a choking, watery gasp, Will’s eyes open and he goes rigid in Hannibal’s arms. “I have you, Will, I have you. You will be alright.” He soothes, just as much for him as it is for Will. His boy is so pale, shivering, and cold to the touch and there’s a stream of reddened seawater dripping out of his mouth onto the sand. His beautiful blue eyes are glassy and unfocused, unseeing. Severely concussed.
Hannibal curses under his breath, a telltale sign that he’s unraveling. So many things are going through his mind; save Will, help Will, fix him, put him back together. There is no time for panic. He makes quick work of Will’s shirt to look at the wound and immediately feels faint.
It is very deep. Worryingly deep, in fact, and the rate he is losing blood…
“You’re alright. Will, look at me. Just keep looking at me. Keep your eyes on me and do not close them.” A plan is forming in his mind, the proper way to heal Will as much as he can with no supplies. He takes the tattered shirt and fashions it into a very poor tourniquet, then looks to his boy who is gasping and whining out in pain. Hannibal’s heart aches at the sight. “I need to stop the bleeding here, yes? I’m going to tourniquet your leg. You understand?”
Will barely seems coherent enough to respond; his eyes are fluttering and fading. Hannibal cannot wait.
“This is going to hurt, beloved, I’m sorry.” He grits his teeth, feeling the regret deep in his heart. This will be agony for him, but I must. Pain is better than death. Than losing him.
He lifts the injured leg, wraps the shirt above it, and pulls.
If Will was near comatose before, he comes alive, but it is horrific. He thrashes and screams, sobs out incoherent sentences that sound like pleas and Hannibal has to swallow back bile from rising in his throat. “I know. I know, Will, I know. I know it hurts, my love, I’m sorry.” He repeats this over and over until the knot is successfully tied off, then he moves back to Will’s side and leans over to wipe the tears from his beloved’s torn cheek. “See? See? You did very well, you are so good, Will.” Hannibal praises, softly petting his hair to soothe Will’s pain.
Will’s eyes meet his. He’s so afraid, taking shallow breaths that sound like there is gravel in his throat, clutching at Hannibal’s shirt…
“You’re alright. My Will.” He cradles the back of his head to elevate it, aching to chase away the terror he sees. “My brave boy. You did it, Will, look.”
But Will doesn’t look. His pale, icy fingers curl into what’s left of Hannibal’s collar and he forces their eyes to remain connected. Hannibal keeps one hand pressed against the slash in Will’s ribcage and tries not to break when his boy whimpers out ‘stop’. Will’s scent is sour with fear and the cold of death, but Hannibal does not let him go, not when his sharp breaths become shorter and hitched, not when a small trail of tears falls down into wet curls.
“I have you, beloved. You will be just fine, you hear me?” He presses down harder, eliciting a sharp gasp from his boy. “I know, my love. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Then, there is the softest huff of air, like a gentle sigh, and whatever light illuminated the dazzling blue of his irises finally goes out. Will’s eyes fall closed.
“Will.” Hannibal barks, desperately grabbing onto his boy’s shoulders and hauling him up into his arms, cradling him against his aching chest. Cold, blind panic fills Hannibal’s veins, something he doesn’t think he’s felt since Mischa disappeared and a chunk of flavorless meat floated to the surface of a watery broth. “No, no, no, Will. Will. Do not close your eyes.” He cannot sleep now. He has a concussion and there is too much blood, you must not let him sleep. “I know you’re tired, beloved, but you cannot sleep yet. I must get you medical attention first.”
Please. Let me get him to safety. Just let me do that. Let me have this.
“You stay with me now, Will.” Hannibal urges, placing him back down so that he can continue compressions. He whispers please with each pump of his hands against Will’s chest and breathes life and love back into Will’s lungs. “You stay with me. You can do that, I know you can.”
Hannibal pushes and pushes and begs and goes lightheaded with the lack of air, but he cannot stop because Will still won’t wake up.
“Will. Will.” He presses their lips together and fills his boy’s lungs again, willing to give any bit of oxygen he has if it’ll bring Will back to him. “Jums neleidžiama išvykti. Open your eyes, Will. Stay awake. Stay with me.”
“Hannibal.”
He freezes, not at the unexpected arrival of another person, but at the tone that Chiyoh uses when speaking his name. Gentle and cold, almost pitying… no, Chiyoh does not pity. She felt Mischa’s loss when Hannibal spoke of her. She knows better than that. But the way she says his name now, so terrible and familiar, so careful…
“Don’t.” He hisses through gritted teeth. He isn’t. He isn’t. He isn’t.
Chiyoh appears on Will’s other side, rifle at her side and cautious of the desperate, murderous fire in her only family’s gaze. Hannibal has to resist the urge to bare his teeth and snarl at her when she drops down to her knees and presses her fingers underneath Will’s throat.
Time stands still. Hannibal watches, breaking, being torn apart at her deafening, violent silence. There is a hitched breath, a quick flash of eye contact, then a soft phrase whispered in her native tongue that he can’t bring himself to translate. Chiyoh clenches her hand in a fist as if Will’s skin has burned her, and then she buries her fingers in his sea-soaked curls and strokes them so gently. Reverent. Regretful. Sorry.
No. No, no, no, please—
“I’m sorry.” Chiyoh says quietly, mournfully, sad for him, not Will, she doesn’t understand, she could never— “His heart was too weak.”
Was, was, was.
Hannibal refuses to believe it. He won’t. Will Graham wouldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t do this.
Oh, but the way he looked at me… The way his boy held him in those last moments of consciousness, the tears that fell, the way he forced Hannibal to look at him and wouldn’t let his gaze fall away. How he looked into Hannibal’s face as his color drained out onto the sand and mixed with his blood, begging, trusting, as if Hannibal was the only thing he wanted to see in his…
“I can save him.” He blurts out, looking at Chiyoh in despair. I can do this, I can save him.
Chiyoh’s face remains blank, but her severe, dark eyes hold apologies she would never speak out loud, knowing he would never listen. “You can’t.”
Hannibal lets out a furious growl. “I can do anything.”
She doesn’t even flinch. She just keeps looking at him with that horrible, doleful expression, and he has to look away.
Will needs him, and if Will needs him, Hannibal Lecter will never give up.
Hannibal holds Will’s icy face in his hands, heart-wrenching when he sees a tint of blue in his beloved’s lips. “Will, mylimasis, I need to keep your heart beating, Will, wake up.”
“Itoko.”
Cousin.
Family.
(“You are family, Will.”)
“Hannibal,” Chiyoh’s voice is softer than he has ever heard before, low, tender, and full of sorrow. “Let him go.” She pleads.
It severs his heart in two and ignites a newfound bloodlust that threatens the life of his most faithful friend, but Hannibal does not care. “Never.” He snarls, letting his mask drop and allowing his companion to see the beast below. To see the hatred, the burning anguish, the denial he couldn’t even admit that he was denying.
Again, she does not flinch, but there is no doubt that she is afraid.
Let her fear me for suggesting I could ever leave you. He thinks toward the precious form at his knees. As if I wouldn’t be leaving behind the most important piece of me. As if I could allow anyone else to take you from me.
She doesn’t know, she’s never seen how fierce and determined you are. How brave and how strong. How you would never leave me like this, and how I cannot leave you.
Chiyoh’s gaze is hard, though, and Hannibal feels himself beginning to crumble. “He is everything.” He whispers. He looks down at his Will, bloodied, broken, and… and lost. Something breaks loose. His composure shatters. “How could I?” He sobs, painful, high-pitched, and broken. “How could I ever leave him?”
There is no response for that, but Chiyoh’s steady hand comes to rest on Hannibal’s arm, careful not to touch Will as she does so. She knows it is no longer allowed.
“Help me.” He begs her, not looking away from Will’s face.
“I can’t.”
“Then go.”
If Chiyoh is hurt or surprised by the dismissal, she does not say, and Hannibal does not watch her leave. He hears her walk away, pausing only briefly to look back at him, and then she does as she’s told.
Closing his eyes, Hannibal concentrates on their final moments of battle; a slain beast at their feet and the feeling of Will’s body tucked against his. He thinks of what Will will be once he is strong and healthy, how he will want for nothing. When Will wakes up, Hannibal will be a helot at his feet. Will may never be allowed to lift a finger again (or at least, until his fiercely independent side takes over like the stubborn boy he is).
He thinks of the day that Will is finally ready, and how on that day, Hannibal will kiss him for the first time. A real kiss, not one that falls upon ice blue lips for the sake of breath. A very real kiss.
Hannibal places his palms on Will’s bloodied chest and continues to restart his heart. Will is always breaking, yet he is always rebuilding himself, stronger, bigger, wiser, but right now he is lost, and it is up to Hannibal to find him. Because that is what they do; Will breaks, and Hannibal puts him back together again. That is what they have always done, and no amount of constraint from the likes of Jack Crawford, the ever-compassionate Dr. Bloom, that wretched woman in Maine, or a Great Red Dragon will ever be enough to separate them.
“You are not dying. You’re not.” He huffs as he finished the first set of compressions. What would help Will return to him?
A simple reminder. A handle on reality you can hold onto and know you’re alive.
Hannibal leans down, breathes air back into Will’s lungs, then returns to his chest and begins another set while he says: “It is after one o’clock. We are in Chesapeake, Virginia, and your name is Will Graham.”
Hear me. Find me.
He checks Will’s pulse.
His veins are still.
He does not stop. He has to keep talking so that Will has something to hold onto when he tries to surface.
Find me. Come back.
“Look at all you have done.” He says. “You have evolved, Will. You have become. You are so beautiful, just as I always knew you would be.”
Hannibal babbles while he works. He tells Will all of the incredible places they will go, all of the wonderful things Hannibal would like to show him, and how Will can decide on any destination and Hannibal will make it possible. Anywhere Will would like. Everywhere. They will travel, they will hunt, they will dine, and they will have a home together. Hannibal will take him somewhere beautiful, make love to him on the softest sheets of the most comfortable bed, love him, hold him, and watch him grow old. They are together now. They must. They must.
Hannibal tells Will that he loves him as he pushes air into his lungs, gripping the side of his face, and stroking his fingers through blood and sand. He tells Will again when he pushes so hard that he feels a rib crack under the pressure, and no matter how the sound grates on Hannibal’s ears, he does not stop.
A broken rib he can fix.
A lost heartbeat he cannot.
He whispers apology after apology, for the pain he’s caused and is currently causing, speaks heavy promises he would never make to anyone else, secrets he would never otherwise tell, anything, anything, anything to give Will something to hold onto. To fight for. If Hannibal himself cannot be that reason, he will tear the universe to shreds to find a reason that will work.
“You belong to me, now,” Hannibal says. “Tu mi appartieni. You are mine, and we are not done. We are not. We have only just begun, and we will be extraordinary . You will be beautiful. My remarkable boy. I love you so.”
He checks the pulse, and the answering stillness further deteriorates whatever remaining resolve Hannibal has left. He is frightened in ways he has never felt frightened before, hurting in ways he never thought a human could feel pain. He’s desperate, exhausted, feverish, panicked, losing control, losing himself, losing Will, losing you, I’m losing you, you can’t go, you can’t do this, you can’t—
White-hot pain explodes across his eyelids as something tears the bullethole wider, and suddenly, the pain and exhaustion from his own injuries have become too excruciating to ignore.
“Will, I need you to live.” He chokes, barely concealing the desperation he feels bone deep. “You are the breath inside my lungs and the pulse beneath my skin, and you can survive anything, so I need you to wake up, Will, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up…” Hannibal pleads and pleads and pleads.
He doesn’t know how long he has been performing CPR, but he very suddenly feels every single set in each burning, tearing nerve ending. Hannibal collapses back, feeling winded and dizzy. His body trembles and his vision has gone so dark around the edges from the amount of air he tried to force inside Will…
Will.
Pain makes him slower, groggy, fuzzy, lightheaded, something is wrong. He drags himself as close to his boy as he can, ignoring the scrape of cold, gritty sand against his open cuts, and checks Will’s pulse once more.
He is met with nothing but stillness.
His heart was very weak.
Was.
“Will, don’t.” He growls, voice just breaking at the end. He pulls Will to him, reaching and partially covering him like Will had done with Abigail that night in the kitchen. He cradles Will’s limp body in his arms, burying his face in his hair and rocking him back and forth. “Don’t you dare, Will. Don’t do this. Please.” Come back. Come back to me, you can’t. “Beloved, please. Will…” Some sort of wounded cry sounds across the beach, and it takes Hannibal a moment to realize it is coming from him. Low, vengeful, hating, and anguished, like a beast from a child’s nightmare. A monster’s broken heart.
God, after all, does not forgive with mercy.
And as the world around Hannibal begins to darken and the loss weighs on his heart like iron, Hannibal feels his body weakening, his heart giving up. He holds Will tighter, clutching his shoulders, accepting his weight as the only comfort left in the world.
They will die together. They will leave this Earth together. Hannibal just has to let go.
And to let go, he must forgive.
It’s alright. I forgive you, Will. I forgive you because I love you; because you have undone me and it is the greatest adventure I have ever had.
You sleep now. Just sleep. I will watch over you, I will keep you safe.
Soon, I will be at your side once again.
Slowly, painfully, Hannibal rests Will down in the sand, cradling his head. Then, with gritted teeth, he lies down on his uninjured side and turns Will’s face toward him, keeping a hand on his jaw. He strokes over stubble and cold skin, and he burns.
Hannibal knows he is crying, can feel the way his shoulders tremble with the force of the anguish and grief he dare not unleash, for he has no energy left to scream. He lays a kiss to Will’s forehead to say goodbye, then presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes. He waits for death to take him. He hopes it is swift.
I will find you. I swear it.
For the first time since he was a very young child, Hannibal Lecter prays.
_________________
Death doesn’t come.
Hannibal closes his eyes against the horizon, not wanting to see the dawn break over the Chesapeake Bay.
It isn’t fair for Hannibal to see the sunrise when Will can’t and never will again.
_________________
It’s the helicopter that wakes Hannibal. He hears it whirring overhead, stopping steady just above them both. They’ve been located.
By the time Jack and the rest of the agents come scrambling down the beach, Hannibal has Will’s body (now smelling lightly of death and decay) cradled in his lap, arms wrapped protectively around his boy’s shoulders. They won’t take him. They won’t.
Hannibal is numb inside and out. There is so no rage when Jack comes sprinting at him with a rifle aimed at his skull. There is nothing at all.
Jack comes to a halt in front of Hannibal, and his face contorts with rage and grief when he sees Will Graham dead in the Ripper’s arms. He looks to lock eyes with Hannibal, furious and hateful. Hannibal stares numbly back.
“How the hell are you still alive?” Jack snarls instead of a greeting.
“I don’t know.” He really doesn’t. Hannibal can’t understand why he won’t die. Why he hasn’t yet. He should have bled out. He should have gone septic and died by now, so why is he not? Why is he still here when Will is—
“Put your hands behind your head. Get on your knees.”
Hannibal looks up in surprise. He stares down the barrel of the ridiculous shotgun, eyes flickering back and forth between Jack’s hatred and his only way out. Suddenly, Hannibal just can’t help it. He laughs.
“You don’t want to arrest me, Jack.” He says, scorned and bitter. “As long as I am alive, there will always be fear in your heart. All those lost years with Bella for the sake of the Chesapeake Ripper. For monsters instead of love.”
At the mention of Bella, Jack tenses around the shotgun and cocks it. Behind him, one of the agents, a young one, most likely, says his superior’s name in a nervous voice but goes ignored.
Hannibal smiles. “This is your chance, Agent Crawford. No more broken ponies to hide behind. Do it.” He clutches Will tighter and readies himself. Death will feel like bliss now.
Jack stares him down, breathing heavily, glaring, hating… then he laughs, and lowers the barrel.
For the second time, Hannibal feels shattered. No.
“I’m not gonna shoot you,” Jack growls. He spares Will a glance, his intentions clear, then he smiles ruefully. “You can live with this.”
No.
“Stun him, knock him out. Just keep him alive.”
“No—“
The shadow behind Hannibal moves too fast for his sluggish mind to comprehend. There is a solid blow to the back of his head from the butt of a rifle and then an explosion of pain, blinding lights behind Hannibal’s eyelids and he feels himself slump to the side. Will’s body falls from his arms and then the weight is gone—the FBI trying to take his body away.
“Will…” Hannibal tries to open his eyes but his vision swims and blurs. He’s vaguely aware of his arms being ripped behind his back as well as handcuffs being placed around his wrists, but he ignores it. All Hannibal wants to focus on is Will, but there are FBI agents surrounding him and obscuring his view as the ones arresting Hannibal try to haul him away.
He fights them, but his body is so weak that they easily overpower him. “Will!” He shouts as loud as his voice will allow. They’re taking him away, they’re going to be separated again and Hannibal will never see him again, and he cannot allow that to happen. He can’t. He fights, weak as a feral kitten and loud like a mad dog while Jack barks orders he will never follow and threats he doesn’t care to listen to.
He fights until the pain makes him go limp. He fights until his vision goes dark.
_________________
Slowly, painfully, Hannibal becomes aware that consciousness is in sight. Just like before he crawled out of the ocean, he struggled under the surface for what seemed like ages. Now, Hannibal can’t. His body feels heavy and numb, though his mind feels fuzzy and slow. Is he floating or sinking? He doesn’t know, and he isn’t sure he wants to know.
He can still hear the water. It’s further away and muffled but definitely still close by. The air is thick and damp with it. It’s rather warm here, wherever he is. He’s lying horizontally and prone and there is something prickly across one leg. It doesn’t feel like sand, but it very well could be. Everything is wrong. It’s all wrong.
Will would know what was going on. Will is smart, he…
It’s agony when reality catches up. The beach, Will’s broken in the sand, bleeding too much, breathing too much, and then not at all, then Chiyoh’s soft voice; let him go.
I did. I let you go. I never meant to, they wouldn’t let me stay. They wouldn’t let me stay with you, and they took me away.
But if Hannibal is conscious, that means that the world has not changed. He is lying in a hospital with several armed guards at his side, far away from death and doomed to suffer until he can find a way out. And that means that Will is lying bare in some morgue, cut open and empty and gone, far away from Hannibal. Forever away from Hannibal.
He sucks in a sharp, painful breath and squeezes his eyes shut, too nauseous and devastated to open them. He doesn’t want to see the hospital room. He doesn’t want to see Jack waiting at the end of his bed. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and have to acknowledge that Will is gone. He doesn’t want it.
Please come back. Please. I can’t do this without you, please—
“Hey. You’re okay.” Warm fingers smooth hair back away from Hannibal’s damp forehead, the touch so achingly familiar that his heart lurches. “You’re alright now.” The voice, no his voice, murmurs close to his ear.
Hannibal forces his eyes open, and at first, all he sees is a blur. He has to blink several times before the for clears, but when it does, it only raises questions. The surroundings have changed. Before where there were miles and miles of beach, now is a very small space surrounded by four walls made from dark wood. A room. A room with a bed, one that Hannibal is lying in, covered by a blanket.
“Hannibal.”
His eyes dart in the direction of the voice, moving too fast and blurring the image again, but there is a figure hovering over him, face obscured by Hannibal’s traitorous vision and the shadows from the sun pouring in. Finally, Will’s face materializes, covered only partially by his unruly, dirty curls and a bandage on his cheek from Dolarhyde’s knife. He’s dressed comfortably in sleep pants (one leg slightly bulged from an obvious cast) and a soft grey t-shirt. Scrapes and bruises that look like inkblots cover his perfect porcelain skin from shoulders to wrists. He looks pale and tired, clearly in pain, but he’s here and smiling down at Hannibal so gently, just as he had in the Uffizi all those years ago. Tender, loving, happy to see him despite the circumstances.
A thick emotion that Hannibal can’t describe any other way than solace makes his chest tighten painfully at the sight. He can still feel the dream (or whatever it was) and the feeling of Will’s lifeless body lingering on his skin. How Will’s eyes looked on the beach; glassy, unfocused, and dimming… Hannibal will never get it out of his mind.
“You’re alive.” He rasps out without really meaning to.
Will’s smile wavers and falls into a frown. He looks… disappointed? Hannibal feels his body go tense again, and suddenly the smile is back, but it looks wrong. It doesn’t touch Will’s eyes at all, like an ill-fitting suit, and it’s barely concealing the pain in his expression. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” He answers, leaning closer. His voice sounds so lost and far away…
Perhaps he isn’t alive. Perhaps neither of them is. They died on the beach and this is the afterlife where they are together. The FBI would never allow them to be buried side by side, but their connection is so profound that it’s no surprise they could find one another in death.
Seemingly aware of the conflict going on in his mind, Will reaches up and strokes Hannibal’s hair again, which he leans into almost desperately. The touch feels so real and so good that Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed of their own accord. “Where are you dreaming of now, hm?” Will asks him softly, almost lightheartedly.
The question rips Hannibal Lecter in half.
Will confirmed that he’s here, not that he’s alive, and the look in his eyes… all of that grief, and now he asks such a horrible thing?
Dreaming. I’m dreaming.
It’s not real. None of this is real.
His worst fears have come to pass. Will is still gone and Hannibal is stuck in an FBI hospital room, sedated to the brim and dreaming of a world where that loss never happened. Soon, he will wake up, and be forced to live through that intolerable cruelty. Jack will never let him forget it.
But Will’s hands are still on him, holding him like a lover, grounding him in this world where he is desperate to stay, and if this is the last time that Hannibal can have this, he won’t waste it.
He opens his eyes which are stinging with unshed tears and gives Will the most honest answer he has.
“Heaven.”
Will actually laughs at him when he says it, but it is far from unkind. He sounds a little stunned and definitely amused, but there is a fondness that rings through it—a sound that he as only heard a handful of times during the years and makes his heart ache with how much he loves this man. Will brings his hand to cover his mouth in that self-conscious way he often does, eyes glinting with mirth. “Is that even possible for you?” He challenges, then promptly rolls his eyes. “Why am I asking? If anyone could con God into allowing him access to Heaven, it would be you.”
You terrible, rude, beautiful boy. Hannibal musters up a weak but innocent smile. “I did not wish for heaven. I wished for you. That is heaven enough.”
Will suddenly freezes. He narrows his eyes and sweeps them up and down Hannibal’s face, suddenly every bit the FBI profiler of old. Although it is carefully concealed, the alarm is written into every line of his face. Hannibal frowns, completely unsure of what he’s said to cause such a reaction. Will’s hand moves from his face to check his pulse—his fingers are shaking.
Anxiously, Hannibal grabs Will’s arm to keep himself grounded.
Will pulls back very slightly. “H-Hannibal,” He begins very quietly. “What are you seeing right now?”
It isn’t what he expected to hear and Will’s cautious tone makes the festering anxiety grow like mold across Hannibal’s entire body. It’s frustrating that his mind feels so slow that he can’t quite comprehend what’s going on. Perturbed, Hannibal answers like he’s asking a question.
“A boat.”
Will’s eyes go wide. “Oh, God.”
Panic makes Hannibal’s breath hitch, but Will surges forward, touching his forehead and rubbing at his chest in a soothing circle. Hannibal lets out a pained sound, which WIll shushes gently. “It’s okay. Oh my God, you’re awake. You’re okay.” His voice has gone high and breathy with what sounds like relief and now his eyelashes are damp and he’s smiling again. Hannibal doesn’t understand at all.
“Will, I… I don’t…” He tries.
“God, I’m sorry, I know. You’re probably so confused.” He pulls his arm from Hannibal’s iron grip and laces their fingers together instead. He’s still smiling like nothing in the world is wrong. “I’m sorry I confused you. You’re awake. I thought you were…” Will suddenly swallows hard and his expression goes tight like he wants to cry but won’t allow himself to. “ God, Hannibal. We’re alive. Chiyoh is getting us to Cuba. We made it, see?” He gestures toward the window where the ocean lies, but Hannibal doesn’t follow.
“You were dead.” The sentence sounds as painful as it feels.
Will shakes his head and squeezes his hand. “It wasn’t real. Fever dreams from the infection. You were having a lot of them. I thought you were still having one.”
“But, you left me. I couldn’t…” Hannibal’s mind reels—everything on the beach felt so real. Will felt so real when he took his last breaths in Hannibal’s waiting arms. The blood felt real. The smell of death felt real. This must be a dream. Nothing else makes sense. “You were gone, Will. I was too late.”
“Shhh. No, I didn’t. Look.” Will removes his hands to lift up his t-shirt. His torso is covered in gauze that goes higher up than Hannibal can see, wrapping around his shoulder that the Dragon damaged before Hannibal could get to him.
Doubt in his own perception of reality is a very distressing feeling, but for once, it feels like hope. Hope that this is real, hope that Will truly is alive and in front of him, touching him, holding him, soothing his fears away.
His hand moves of its own accord. He had to touch. He has to know. Tentatively, Hannibal grazes his fingertips down the length of Will’s stomach. The dressings are soft and scratchy, probably uncomfortable, and they aren’t tied off correctly, most likely Will’s on handiwork, but they’re real.
A soft sound escapes Hannibal’s throat. It’s real. He’s here. I’m here, I’m with him, I—
“How?” He chokes out.
Will shushes him again, taking his hand and letting the shirt drop back down. “I’ll tell you another time. You can barely keep your eyes open.”
Hannibal wants to protest. If he goes to sleep now he could wake up and all of this will disappear.
“You’re alright. I’ll be here when you wake up, I promise.” Will tells him, obviously picking up on his distress.
But what if you don’t?
“Will you stay with me?”
Will nods. “Always.”
Then, he does the last thing that Hannibal expects; he gets up slowly from his chair and then shifts up onto the bed, planting himself right beside Hannibal, who just stares wide-eyed and stunned back at him.
The bed is large enough, but only just. Will hisses and curses under his breath the entire time he moves. Hannibal wonders how injured he truly is under his strong facade. He wonders how much pain he’s really in, and how much of it has come from sitting vigil at Hannibal’s bedside for hours upon hours. The thought makes him feel slightly sick—he still can’t shake the dream.
Finally, Will is able to lie down on his good side facing Hannibal. He’s pale and panting from the exertion of movement, but he still smiles when they’re able to see one another’s faces. The warmth of his body is like lying next to a fireplace, and suddenly Hannibal feels every bit as exhausted as he apparently looks.
Will takes hold of his hand and holds on tight, his breath warming the tops of Hannibal’s knuckles. Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed as a blissful sleep finally begins to drag him under. He goes willingly, not fighting it now that Will is here, living and breathing beside him instead of drowning in an unforgiving sea. Hannibal doesn’t know where they are, how long they’ve been at sea, or really anything other than the fact that they’ve survived together, and for once, he’s alright being ignorant for just a little while. It can all wait.
Just as he’s about to fall under, Will’s lighthearted, sardonic voice breaks through the haze.
“Plus I broke my leg during the fall. I can’t get my cast wet, and I’d sink if I jumped ship.”
Hannibal smiles. “Good.”
He hears Will chuckle, then he falls asleep.
_________________
When he wakes sometime later, the room is very dark. Sun has set on the waters, it seems. Hannibal reaches out for Will in the darkness but finds the bed empty.
Dread fills his veins like concrete when he sees a small puddle of blood on the sheets in Will’s place.
“Will?” He calls out, voice hoarse and tight.
“Hush.” Comes a soft, familiar voice. Chiyoh, who he hadn’t noticed on the other side of the bed, stares down at him with a fond but serious expression. “He popped a stitch, he is up on deck.”
“Is he alright?”
“Will is fine, Hannibal.” Chiyoh insists firmly, but whatever she sees on his face, be it fear or distrust in her diagnosis makes her nod with understanding. “I will get him.”
Hannibal lets himself fall back onto the bed sheets as she ascends the staircase to the upper deck. His heart is still pounding, and it doesn’t stop until he hears the slow, uneven movement of Will’s leg cast clunking against the steps.
Will crosses the room with a sense of urgency despite the slow, pained movements of his body, smiling while gritting his teeth and reaching for Hannibal in the bed like they’ve been doing this for years. He angles his body to sit upright, though he has to bend to the left for the fresh bandages.
Something has changed between them.
More than one something, definitely, but it occurs to Hannibal in between Will’s warm thigh pressing up against his hip and Will’s hand on his neck and the sweet, reassuring way he whispers: “Hey, I’m here, you’re okay”, that something inside Will has changed. In all of the years that Hannibal has known Will, he has never been one to seek out physical affection with anyone, not even him. Not when he wanted it, and never ever when he needed it, no matter that he needed it more than anyone.
(During the era of forced blackouts, Hannibal touched Will often. He caressed his throat while he forced the tube inside, wiped away his tears when the fever made him weep; he couldn’t stop. The intentions were not altruistic and Hannibal can admit that without guilt, but he also knew how starved for touch Will was just as he knew that Will would never ask.
In later days, Hannibal has always wondered if Will knew how freely he would bestow what he needed most if Will were to allow it. Because he would have in a heartbeat, regardless of Will’s betrayal in the end.)
Sometime after the Dragon fell dead and they fell from the cliff, while Hannibal’s worst nightmare was taking place inside his head, the tectonic plates of Will’s fathomless imagination shifted and planted roots in this delicate little bubble in which Hannibal awoke. Will Graham is all over him, the smell of ocean tang, pine, and blood reaching down into his lungs and planting roots there too. The way he smiles down with such abandon, such pride… It leaves more questions in Hannibal’s drug-addled mind.
Still, the sight of Will Graham’s smile brings a warm, blooming sensation through his entire body and he can’t help but smile back. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. It’s not even that bad. Promise.” Will lifts his shirt again briefly to show off the bandages.
The answer is another relief, though his inquiry had actually been a loaded one. Hannibal’s mind may be fuzzy but Will’s ever-evolving behavior is something he is still attuned to even after all of these years of separation.
However, he must have been silent for longer than normal as Will’s features suddenly pinch with the lightest trace of anxiety.
Perhaps a conversation for later. He runs when he feels cornered; if I point it out, he may pull away. I would like to keep this a while longer.
Instead, just to see what Will does, he says: “You weren’t here.”
Will goes through a series of emotions; relief, then exasperation, and a hint of fatigue-induced irritation before saying in a soft, controlled voice: “Would you rather I bleed out all over you? Again?”
He doesn’t mean to flinch. He really doesn’t, but the moment the words slip from Will’s mouth, flashes of the nightmare flicker in out of reality; images of cold hands, drained eyes, “let him go”, sand and blood, blood, blood…
“I’m sorry.” Will laments, sounding very much like he knows exactly where Hannibal’s thoughts took him. “Was that…”
A gentle dig with the blunt edges of Hannibal’s fingernails to his wrist makes him go quiet. It’s enough of an answer.
His weight shifts until Will is lying on his side beside him again. The hand that was cradling his throat moves to rest over Hannibal’s heart, and he covers it with his own. After a moment Will moves like he’s going to pull away, but to Hannibal’s delight (and surprise), he twines their fingers together and just holds on.
Whatever happened, Hannibal is grateful for it.
They stay like that in silence for a while, holding hands and staring into each other's eyes like a pair of young lovers in bed on a lazy Sunday morning, until Will finally says:
“I pulled you out of the water. Pulled you onto the beach. You were so cold, I thought… I thought you were dead. I couldn’t find your pulse.” Will’s voice suddenly goes tight and grief flickers across his face. His grip on Hannibal’s hand tightens like he has the urge to seek it out just to confirm that there’s still a heartbeat. “You wouldn’t wake up no matter what I did. I thought I had killed you.” The last two words come out so thin and broken, forced up through Will’s lungs like shards of glass.
And that is when Hannibal understands. This was where the plates shifted.
(On the other hand, the knowledge that Will experienced a similar event that Hannibal did in the confines of his own head is rather hair-raising, though their connection has run at subconscious levels from time to time, so perhaps it isn’t as strange as it seems.)
“How did it feel to kill me?” He asks, unable to help himself.
Will hesitates, worrying his lower lip between his teeth while he tries to gather his thoughts. “Like I was Peter Pan. My shadow had disappeared. It was like you took some vital part of me when you left, and it had already begun to putrefy. I felt like I was dying. It was horrible . It was… I had finally accepted it all, accepted that I wanted you. Needed you. That I…” He cuts himself off with a click of his teeth, swallowing down whatever else he meant to say. His chest is rising and falling at a fast pace, so fast that it must be painful, but it barely gives the torment pause.
Hannibal hangs onto every breath. This moment of vulnerability is so rare, but Will hurting himself in an anxiety attack this early after a fall from a cliff is something he isn’t going to risk. Using his free hand, Hannibal brushes at the curls on Will’s forehead with a tender, comforting touch, coaxing him to continue expressing himself but keeping him grounded enough for his safety. I’m here, you beautiful, wild thing.
Will does manage to keep himself under control. It takes a moment, but by the time he speaks again, his voice is stronger, even if it sounds like a mask. “I felt like I lost. I finally figured it out, and suddenly you weren’t there to see it. It was the ugliest thing I have ever felt.”
Exactly how Hannibal felt in his terrible dream—that festering ugliness that sat like rot and sludge in Hannibal’s veins the second Will’s eyes fell shut and his body went limp.
I regretted so much once I knew. You may have taken us over the cliff, but I was the one who brought you to it.
“Do you regret your actions?”
Again, Will hesitates, but this time the pause is thoughtful like he isn’t sure. Eventually, he decides on: “That transformation needed to happen. It was necessary for this,” He gestures between the two of them. “To happen. I only regret that I nearly lost you because of it.”
“You would have regretted my death.” Hannibal clarifies. It’s rather thrilling actually, knowing that Will rejects the idea of his death just as much as Hannibal rejects the idea of Will’s.
“You would have regretted mine. Eventually.” He counters as if reading Hannibal’s thoughts. “Margot told me about something you told her once. How she couldn’t kill her brother because she still loved him. I said something similar to Peter Bernadone when I thought he killed his social worker. I said that I envied his hate. That killing is easier when you know how to feel.” Will offers him a sad smile. “You and I have always been on that same wavelength.”
“What you think you want versus what you know you shouldn’t. While still wanting it anyway.”
Will nods, then falls into a contemplative silence. He never once pulls away from Hannibal’s touch though, and he never lets go. The air between them is thick, but the insidious tension that often hangs above their heads isn’t a barrier Hannibal has to cross. It’s comfortable now, if not constantly charged with that explosive electric current that has never gone away, even after three years of separation. In fact, it’s almost as if it has gotten stronger.
Will surprises him yet again when he shifts closer, coming into Hannibal’s space willingly. He gazes up underneath his eyelashes, his face suddenly pinched with anticipation. “I’m sorry that it took you nearly dying on me for me to figure it out. I wasn’t sure of anything before. I really wasn’t. I just took us over to escape how terrified I was, not caring what happened to us. Then I woke up and you… you wouldn’t.” His eyes suddenly brim with tears and he tilts his head to hide them, though the shaking of his shoulders gives him away. These are tears that he probably never dared to shed while Hannibal was still out and struggling for life, too preoccupied with saving Hannibal’s life to allow himself to feel. Too busy drowning in regret, in his supposed failure, to allow himself to break.
To Hannibal, while Will’s devotion is sensational, the sight of such sorrow is no longer a welcome one.
Careful of Will’s damaged chest, Hannibal wraps his hand around his neck and brushes at the wetness falling down his cheek. Will leans into the touch with a painful sound, then grabs Hannibal’s wrist to keep him there while his other hand clutches at the pillow hard enough that his knuckles go stark white. “You don’t ever do that to me again. You understand?” He sobs, tearing at Hannibal’s heart. “You don’t fucking do that to me ever again.”
“I won’t.” Hannibal vows.
“I mean it.” He urges, watery eyes burning with a desperation that Hannibal can feel bone deep. “Don’t you ever leave me again. You always, always come back to me, no matter what. Promise me.”
Hannibal strokes his thumb back and forth along his jaw to soothe him. Will has never begged for anything, not even his own life, but he’s begging now for Hannibal to stay like he’s worried he won’t. It’s absurd; as if Hannibal Lecter would rather be anywhere else than right here beside the man he loves. “I promise.” He murmurs, leaving no room for doubt. “If the sea could not take me from you, my love, nothing could.”
He expects a soft laugh in response, but instead, Will just stares at him with his lips slightly parted and a question on his tongue. “Is that what I am?”
Hannibal momentarily curses the drugs in his system for that little slip, but it’s not as if it wouldn’t have happened anyway regardless. They’re doing honestly now, allowing their raw dimensions a chance at exposure. “It is what you have always been.” He answers honestly, fingers exploring the soft curls at the base of his neck. “From the very beginning, Will.”
Will’s breath hitches slightly under the intensity of his gaze and the softness of his touch that he’s still pressing into. “Bedelia said… I didn’t think… I’d tell you you have a funny way of showing it, but it wouldn’t be fair. You’re such an enigma. It never seemed realistic that you uh…”
“That I am capable of such a feeling?”
He shakes his head. “Capability was never your issue. It just… always seemed as though you were above it. Your parameters are more fun, food, and not food.”
Hannibal laughs, completely besotted, and decides to be a little more courageous. He leans over and presses a gentle kiss to Will’s forehead, who sucks in a sharp, surprised breath. “And you, Will,” Hannibal whispers into his soft curls. “Always you.”
And Will Graham, defying categorization and expectations, chases Hannibal back and captures his mouth in a soft but Earth-shattering kiss. Hannibal’s mind promptly blanks out. Any remaining doubts about the true state of reality finally evaporate and drift away like cigarette smoke in the wind. There is no doubt in his mind that this is real. It’s too perfect, too painful and the angle is awkward (not to mention Hannibal can’t imagine what these days of unconsciousness have done for the state of his breath) but Will doesn’t seem to care in the least. He breathes life into Hannibal’s body, bestowing his love like a medal of valor.
When they break apart, Will shifts even closer, hitching his leg over Hannibal’s thigh to tangle them together while they seek one another out with tender, loving hands and settle into each other’s arms as best they can with their injuries. Hannibal cannot wait for the day that their wounds no longer create barriers between them, but this is enough for now.
Sometime later, after several long minutes just staring at one another in the darkness, Will breaks the silence. “I’m still mad at you. Will likely be for a while. Too much has happened for me to forgive and forget so easily. I know you feel the same.”
Hannibal doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. He isn’t so blind in his love to believe that everything could be fixed so easily. There will be fights, and there will be a lot of angry words, but there is a comfort in knowing that Will’s decision has been made and they will work through all of those things together.
“But I do love you,” Will announces. “And I want to stay with you. To… to be with you.”
Traitorous tears blur the edges of Hannibal’s vision. It’s a beautiful offering, more eloquent and alive than slaying a Great Red Dragon or a precarious prison break. Will is offering himself, wholeheartedly, fully, and forever, and Hannibal is not ignorant of how fortunate he is. His greatest desire, everything he has wanted for the last five years of bloodshed and courtship has finally decided to reach back.
Hannibal stares into the face of the man he loves so dear and lets out a shuddering breath. “I have waited so long to hear those words from you. Hearing them now…” Say it again. Say it over and over and never stop. “Stay with me, Will. I love you. Just stay. Please.”
“I will. I am.” Will kisses his temple then rests his forehead against the side of Hannibal’s face, and then he laughs to himself. “Guess you’re a good fisherman too.”
“Never as good as you, beloved. Never that good.”