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Will doesn’t know where the line sits, anymore. Where his feelings start, and where they end. Where the ploy begins, where it ends…
He had started all this as part of capturing Hannibal. Had started all this with the intent of bringing him to justice.
Now he isn’t sure if his feelings are false, anymore. Doesn’t know if it’s all a ruse, as it should be, or if he well and truly feels something for the man…
It’s all a play, yes. That’s what he tells himself. All a part of his game, all a part of his hunt. He baits the hook, lures Hannibal in with it.. And then.. what?
He does not capture him, but lets him free, for he loves him and hates him in equal measure.
He loves him, he hates him, he loves him.
He despises him, and yet he needs him, as if in his presence something unfurls within his very core, something desperate and needy and clingy.
He can not live without him, anymore. He is his lifeline, much as he wishes he weren’t. Intoxicating and sickening in equal measure.
Sometimes, Will even finds himself wishing he were truly killing those he pretends to.. The validation Hannibal lathers upon him in lingering touches and blissful smiles does something to him, to his core, to his soul, that nothing else ever has.
To him now it feels like a dance, a dream, a reality he can not unmake. He does not kill, and yet every false death feels as real to him as if he did it with his own hands.
“Your spleen, and mine.”
He had agreed to it in a daze, much like the rest of all they did together. Had agreed to watch, even, as Hannibal had cut him open, blade down the front of his abdomen and then deeper still, to peel away his organs and pull away his spleen.
It hadn’t felt real, watching him peel his body apart before him. Hadn’t felt real, watching, mind and body numbed and high on nitrous oxide, as he had pulled the organ out of him, and sliced away its bloodline.
“You can live without it, Will,” he had said, and though he should’ve said no, he had agreed. He was a madman, he was crazy, that was the only explanation Will had for his own conscious actions.
“Your other organs, especially your liver, should take over its function.”
He had agreed.
Agreed to give himself to him, in exchange for his own.
Neither of them had ever said it in so many words, but he knows it, now, as he stares at their meat laid out before them. They are lovers, uniting in something unholy and unimaginable. Lovers, uniting in something mystical, something almost unreal.
“Are you ready, Will?”
Hannibal’s voice is as calm as ever, as steady as ever..
As soothing as ever.
Still Will does not understand it. After everything he had done.. To him, to the people he killed… His voice should not be as comforting to his soul as it is..
And yet it is, and there is naught he can do about it.
Slowly Will turns his head from the slab of red-brown meat before him - his spleen, wrapped and sealed in plastic - to that that sits before Hannibal. His own, sealed in much the same way. He lifts his hand to his stomach, slowly. Traces out the line of stitches that still heal across his front, before exhaling.
“Yes,” he breathes. It feels like a lie and an admission of truth all at the same time. A prayer to own up to one’s sins.. A prayer for salvation, an admission of guilt, and an admission of reverence, all of it all at once…
Slowly, Hannibal slides a small card out across the bench before him, and follows it with another, then another. Recipes, all of them. Variations on how one prepares a spleen for consumption. Sheep’s spleens, usually. Or cow. Not human.
But human, in this case.
“Pick one to your choosing, and prepare yourself for me,” he says, and though he does not say it as an order nor a command, Will can not help but think that it feels much the same.
He can scarce think, in truth, as he stares at the words written on each card. Hannibal’s handwriting is terribly neat, terribly organised. Terribly calm.. Even now, despite the soothing presence of the man beside him, Will feels his blood roaring in his veins, behind his ears.. Feels the tension in his body surging and swelling.. And all because of the same man who makes him feel so impossibly at ease.
His eyes dart back and forth over the cards. Moroccan stuffed spleen. Spleen crostini. Beef consome with hot spleen sandwiches.
He points to one at random, and watches as Hannibal’s hands move by in a blur, pulling away the other cards from his sight and shifting to take a look at what he has picked.
“Spleen crostini,” he observes matter of factly, and Will feels as his gaze lifts to his face. Feels as he smiles beside him, the thing warm and genuine and somehow alien and unsettling at the same time, even as his own gaze remains on the kitchen bench before him.
“My favourite, Will, however did you know?”
He watches from the corner of his eyes as Hannibal moves off to the side, and gathers the ingredients for him. Watches as he places onions, carrots, celery, upon the kitchen bench, all of them slightly damp from having been rinsed in the moments before. Watches as parsley, garlic, capers, follow..
And watches as he pulls out the chopping board, a great slab of finely polished wood, and settles upon it a beautiful knife, before moving the two before him, only to pull out a pair of his own.
“We work together, then,” he says, and though he feels Hannibal look at him, he does not return his gaze, his own still upon the slab of sealed meat that sits before him.
“We prepare the vegetables first, Will,” Hannibal instructs then, and though it takes him a slow moment to move after Hannibal does, he wills his body to follow, and does as he does, still moving as if in a trance.
He chops the onions, just as Hannibal does. Chops the celery, the carrot, the parsley, the same way. Minces them, and sets them in a bowl. He crushes the garlic, and tosses it in with the rest, and then pulls his spleen free from the plastic when Hannibal does his own, and mirrors his motions as best as he is able.
He cleans it, cuts it, and scrapes the pulp free from it. He moves to the stove top, opposite Hannibal, and sautees the vegetables.. And then thinks, as he adds in his spleen and watches as it browns, how strange it is, to prepare oneself for another like this. How intimate and terrifying, all at once. How unsettling, to smell oneself, to think it delicious and mouthwatering and know at the same time, that it is your own body that you are thinking of like that.
Hannibal pulls out red wine, tosses it into his saucepan before handing it to Will to do the same, and in the moments after they both pull the food from the heat, and move to prepare them. To spread anchovy paste over the crostini, to mix the capers in with the meat and vegetable, and then to spread the mixture over the bread. To settle the tiny slices on their own dish, delicate and neat…
And then to look at the finished product for a few seconds, to admire it, and the way it is presented.
For a moment, just one, Will thinks again how strange it is, to see a part of oneself like that. How unsettling it is, and how intimate it is, all at the same time..
And then he feels Hannibal step towards him, and can almost feel the pride that radiates from him in waves. The warmth, the heat, the fondness..
“You did a very good job, Will,” he says then, and despite how it should do anything but, Will feels something inside of him swell at the praise. Feels his soul lean into it, as if it wants more, desires more, needs more.
He inhales, stiffens, swallows, but says nothing.
“Are you ready for the next part?”
He both is and isn’t, at the same time. Both dreads it and wants it.
“Am I ready to bleed?” he breathes out, unable to keep the sting, the harshness, from his tone. Every time he speaks as such, he expects Hannibal to scorn him, but he never does. Always he seems only to grow fonder, as if the bitterness, the monster, that is growing inside of Will is something he loves and adores, even when it rears his head against its master.
Hannibal smiles beside him, and Will can feel it, even when he can’t see it.
“I can hardly be ready to slice into my skin,” he says then, and Hannibal moves to take his hand in his. Moves to lift his arm between the two of them, and turns it upwards so his palm is facing the ceiling. “But I hardly have a say in that matter, do I?”
“No need to be concerned,” Hannibal says warmly then. “I’ll slice your skin, and you shall slice mine.”
And then before he can truly react, he moves. Hannibal slips a wine glass, just beneath where their palms join, and takes the blade in hand. Moves, to slice down Will’s palm before he can even breathe..
And though Will gasps and chokes as an arc of pain rends his insides.. Though he feels bile rise in his throat and his lungs lock as pain sharp and blinding causes his body to tense up, still he moves, for he can not imagine doing aught else.
He takes Hannibal’s palm in his own, takes the blade in his own, and moves to mirror the motion. Moves to slice across his palm diagonally, before dropping the bloodied blade upon the kitchen bench..
And it is as his vision spots and fades with shock, for a few brief moments, he feels it. Feels as Hannibal takes his palm in his own bloodied one, and presses the cut on his own to Will’s. Feels as he marries them together, and moves to hold their bloodied palms over the wine glass.
Will’s vision clears as the seconds pass, ever so slightly, and then it is all he can do to watch, to breathe. To watch as the wine glass fills with deep and rich red. To watch as their blood spills, mixed and intermingled, into the chalet, for them to drink from, in the moments that follow. He feels as Hannibal’s free hand holds him, clutches him, as he sways on his feet.. Feels as he leans into him for support as his mind swirls and his head spins…
And then feels as he leans away from him, ever so slightly, to pull their prepared food over.
“You’re growing lightheaded, Will,” he observes matter of factly. “It’s time for us to eat.”
And as though he can think of naught else, Will obeys. He reaches out for the dish opposite him, the one that sits next to Hannibal - his own spleen, prepared for Will to eat, and lifts one of the pieces, slowly, shakily. Watches as Hannibal does the same with his own..
And then slowly, slowly, brings the food to his lips. Parts them, inhales, and bites down to eat. To eat him, a part of him, and feel him become a part of his body as he does the same.
He watches Hannibal, then, as he chews, swallows. Watches him, as he tastes him, and all that comes with it. Will has never had spleen before, and in truth it is something unlike anything he has ever tasted. Rich and deep and heady, made all the sweeter with Hannibal’s cooking…
But more than anything it is intimate. It is something intangible, something almost religious in nature.. Something unfathomable, that he is doing with this man before..
“You are mine,” Hannibal says then, slowly, as he swallows down a piece of Will himself. “And I am yours…”
And then he pulls his hand away from Will’s as Will’s head continues to spin, and lifts the glass between them. Offers it to him, with a smile upon his lips.
In truth, Will can think of naught else than to do this. Can think of naught more than he’d like, than to be quite so intimate with Hannibal, despite how he dreads it…
He takes the glass from his offered hand, lifts it to his lips and drinks, trying not to choke when the rich and sickening taste of copper hits his tongue, when the thickness of blood hits his throat…
He drinks, one swallow, two, three, and then he pulls away and inhales like a man who hasn’t tasted air in an age. He shudders, quivers, feels his body as it revolts.. And then he extends the glass to Hannibal, feels his insides warm when he smiles at him, and feels them heat when he drinks, eyes still fixed upon Will’s as he does so.
Hannibal drinks the last of their mixed blood, one slow swallow at a time. He savours it, relishes it, reveres it..
And then he puts the glass down and oh how is Will supposed to do aught else?
He loses himself, and all sense that sits within him.
He lurches forwards, and takes Hannibal’s cheeks in his palms, even with one sticky and smeared and bloodied. He leans forwards, and marries his lips to his own. Kisses him, consumes him, drinks him down like a man starved…
And then all is lost, when Hannibal kisses him back. His hands run down his cheeks to his jaw, to his neck, then to his chest. He undresses him with sloppy motions, messy hands, and very nearly tears off his blouse as Hannibal mirrors the motions on Will himself with unimaginable composure and grace…
He stumbles backwards, and leads the man with his hands to the bedroom, even with his eyes closed. He gropes blindly in the dark for the door handle, for the bed, caring not what he stains red with his blood.. And then loses himself even more when Hannibal grabs at his hips and lifts him, throws him, onto the soft mattress…
He feels it, the way he leans over him. Feels it, the way his hands roam over him then… Something hungry, something needy, in his touch too…
And despite everything, somehow, still, he maintains that damnable composure. Hannibal pulls away what remains of Will’s clothes so slowly it is almost agonising. Will can feel the hunger that lingers just beneath the surface of his touch, and over and over and over again finds himself wishing that it would just snap.. But alas, it does not. Hannibal pulls away his undergarments and pries him open with a patience that in his state Will can only curse, can only damn, can only very nearly sob at...
And when his fingers finally breach inside of him oh it is a bliss unlike anything Will has ever known. He feels as Hannibal’s fingers explore him, patient, gentle, slow, despite the speed and rigour he wants. Feels them part him, stretch him, pry him open and prep him..
And then feels when he finally moves between his legs. Feels when he parts his thighs, hands somehow simultaneously soft and calloused, somehow simultaneously both needy, greedy, desperate, and yet gentle and soft…
And feels as he guides himself between his cheeks. Feels the slow stroke of his hands, the press of his head.. And then feels as he finally, finally, presses into him.. Feels as he finally takes him, in long and slow and agonising strokes, all of them Earth shattering and mind numbing, all of them impossible, unfathomable, dream like and awful, all at the same time..
For Will, everything feels impossible, everything feels unreal and like a dream. He feels as Hannibal fucks into him, feels as he himself reaches for the man and clings to him.. Feels as he kisses him, as he swallows him down like he himself is the man starved, and yet can not believe it, even as he does it, even as he feels all of it.
He can not imagine anything other than this, in that moment, nor in any other. He can not imagine having it any other way. Hannibal takes him in long strokes, slow strokes, deep strokes. He reaches up inside his core and plucks his soul as though it were a harp, and he tears soft gasps from Will’s lips.. Soft little moans, soft little cries, noises which tear themselves from his lips even as he tries to swallow them down, even as he tries to bury them, to smother them, by marrying his lips to the other man’s…
Everything unravels so quickly, too quickly. Hannibal fucks into him, and Will feels his core heat, feels his soul swelter. He feels his cock twitch, feels Hannibal’s hand wrap round it and stroke.. Feels him part from his lips, and though he chases after them greedy and desperate he does not let him kiss him again, instead burying his head in Will’s neck and kissing, lavishing the skin with his tongue first and then his teeth.
He drags him up that hill with slow strokes of his hand, with slow thrusts of his cock, and then when Will is on the very edge, when everything inside his soul is alight and Will can think of naught else but the man before him, he bites, and everything comes undone.
He bursts apart at the seams, his core swelters, swells, explodes, overflows.. Heat blossoms forth from his insides, spreads to his limbs, his head, his eyes. He feels his skin give way under Hannibal’s teeth, and despite the pain that arcs through his body it is all he can do to moan… To tense, to quiver, to shudder, and to cling to the man as though he were a lifeline as the pain grows first numb and then turns into pleasure.
Hannibal licks at the blood as he thrusts, still. Holds Will tight as he quivers, twitches, comes.. As he spills onto his belly, even as Hannibal continues…
Will feels his body grow tenser, tighter.. Feels as his walls squeeze down over the man just before him, the man he clings to, the man he can’t live without.. And hears as he lets out only the softest of groans before coming undone himself.
He feels as his thrusting comes to a halt, deep in his insides.. Feels as he squeezes down over him one last time before he begins to empty into him.. And feels as his vision spots and fades, feels as he collapses on the bed, with Hannibal in his arms and himself in Hannibal’s…
Even as he comes down, then, from that high, he can imagine naught else but to have it like this. Can imagine naught else, but to be his, to have him be his own..
He watches, feels, as Hannibal navigates his own peak, then.. Feels as he empties inside of him, as he catches his own breath.. Feels as he relaxes on top of him, arms draped over his body and still holding him, as he comes down from his own high.. Feels the blood upon both of them, smeared all over their skin and black as sin in the low light. It is sticky, warm, unpleasant, and yet a reminder of everything he wants, everything he loves, everything he needs…
All he can think, then, is that he knows, deeply, dimly, distantly, the truth. His feelings are real, much as they shouldn’t be. He knows it is not a ploy anymore, much as it should be. Knows the ruse is not one towards Hannibal, anymore. He is no longer lying to him, for one does not simply share one’s body and one’s blood with a man they do not love..
No, the one he lies to now is Jack, to Alana.
Not Hannibal.
He can not lie to Hannibal, he thinks, as the sun dips below the horizon outside. Not anymore. No matter how much he should, no matter how much he hates him, still.. He loves him too much, all the same, to do anything like that to him.