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The field is long abandoned. Perhaps it once belonged to a wealthy farmer, but now the lifeless crops have given way to grazing animals that suck the life out of the land with every bite. Will walks through it alone. There are no clouds, but the sun is also nowhere to be seen. The sky is a pale blue, cool and wintery.
With each step he considers turning back—after all, he has no idea where he is, where he is going—but he cannot make his body do anything but walk forward, farther into the field.
At the corner of his eye, something shifts. He tries to turn and look, but his head refuses to turn so much as an inch. Something snaps beneath his feet, loud and blatant in the silence of the field. In his peripheral vision he can only barely see that the object was white and broad, now broken into many pieces. He tells himself it was just a stick, as he moves onward.
Something is coming for him. He can feel it, that thing just at the end of his eyesight.
When something plunges into his back, he is not immediately assaulted by pain. On the contrary, it feels almost pleasurable, unexpectedly so. As if it is itching some spot inside him that aches to be touched.
He does not realize he has been stabbed until the blade protrudes from his chest.
Will wakes up screaming. A sheen of sweat covers his body and he would be glad of his nudity (the sweat would not soak his clothes), if the fluid had not instead soaked into the sheets of Hannibal’s bed. It is only a small mercy that the man is nowhere to be found.
A blush creeps up his spine, covering his face as the memory of the night before comes rushing in. Simultaneously, he realizes that he is achingly hard. Disturbing, considering what his dream entailed.
He runs to the bathroom, finding the toilet in the nick of time to empty his stomach. Not that there was much in it to begin with, he hadn’t eaten anything for dinner the night before. Maybe that was why the alcohol affected him so much more this time.
He doesn’t know what time it is, but with Hannibal gone from the bed Will can only assume he has long overstayed his welcome. He rushes to dress, pulling his jeans and t-shirt over his head. His morning-wood is almost painful against his underwear. He feels dirty, senses the dried semen coating his thighs and the day-old sweat beneath the new, but it would have to wait until he returns home. With a slight sensation of gloom Will realizes that he also has no idea where Hannibal lives. It is surely in the city, but it could be blocks from the nearest bus stop and he wouldn’t even know which direction to walk in.
Will sucks it up; there is no way around it. He descends the stairs just as quickly, is glad to find his glasses just where Hannibal left them the night before, perched beside the flower vase. Once the lenses cover his eyes and the world becomes clear again, Will feels noticeably more comfortable. He takes a step towards the door.
“Ah, Will, you are awake.”
Crap. He turns to see Hannibal, obviously already bathed and dressed.
And wearing an apron.
The image is jarring; calm, suave Hannibal Lecter turned domestic once the sun comes up. Hannibal must notice that Will’s jaw has dropped through the floor because he smiles and walks closer to Will.
“G-good morning.” Should he apologize for not leaving sooner?
“I was just preparing us a light breakfast. You did not worry at my absence, I hope?” His accent is even more pronounced than Will remembers. He is silent. “I apologize for not waking you. You looked so peaceful.”
That must be a lie. Will had as vivid a nightmare as ever. That he was ‘peaceful’, by any definition of the word, is utterly ridiculous. Hannibal walks to stand in front of him and Will is shocked when a hand cups his chin, bringing him in for a chaste kiss. As chaste as a kiss the morning after sex can be, at least.
“Hmm, you smell terrible. Would you like to shower before we eat? It will only be fifteen minutes or so.”
“No,” Will finally says. “It’s ok, you don’t need to feed me. And I can shower at home.”
The man sighs, looking at him with a raised eyebrows, obviously irritated at Will’s arduous attitude. “I have already made enough for two. Please, utilize the shower.”
“…Ok…” Will consents timidly. If he was out of his element the previous night, sober he is like a fish out of water.
But that is the end of the matter. Will drags himself back up the stairs, feeling a bit like a ten-year-old, and strips down again before stepping into the shower. He is still hard, but it isn’t as bad as it was before. A cold shower takes care of it.
Ten minutes later, he returns to the first floor and walks through the doorway Hannibal disappeared through. The man appears to have finished cooking, having already laid out platters of fruit, eggs and sausage on the bar. Will sits on one of the stools and smiles shyly when Hannibal looks at him.
“This looks great,” he says. It’s true. And it smells great; Will is suddenly unbearably hungry. Hannibal watches as Will takes the first bite of sausage. “Tastes great, too.”
“Thank you, Will. The culinary arts is a passion of mine. I cook as many of my meals as possible.”
Will can tell. Everything about the meal is perfect, the embellishing greens resting atop the eggs, the honey drizzle upon the strawberries and melon. He wonders how long Hannibal must have been awake, preparing this, because it would have taken Will hours. Hannibal places a glass of vibrant orange juice in front of Will and circles the counter to sit beside him. Once seated, he leans over to Will and inhales deeply.
“Much better,” he praises the way Will smells. Will would be abashed if it wasn’t weirdly sexy. “Eat, please. I can prepare more if you are still hungry.”
They eat mostly in silence, but it evades the awkwardness that Will would have expected. It’s simply comfortable. Will clears his plate, slightly aware of the fact Hannibal is watching him the whole while.
Hannibal Lecter is likely the most attractive man he has ever seen. He isn’t wearing another of those jackets now, but his white shirt and dark, mossy green pants that hang tight around his waist are more formal than anything Will owns. If anything, he’s a little thrown off by the fact that even sober he’s still engrossed by him to the point of distraction. Is he a fifteen year old?
In comparison to Hannibal, I may as well be. Will remembers, in embarrassment, how quickly cummed last night.
What’s worse is that while he may have had the shallowest amount of self-confidence necessary to flirt while intoxicated, it all left him with the alcohol. Hannibal can speak and act with utter poise without making so much as an attempt; Will can’t even ask for seconds of breakfast.
“Where do you live?” He asks once Will is finished eating. “I will take you home.”
“It’s fine, I’ll take the bus.”
“Nonsense. It is no trouble.” He has the same tone as earlier, when he pressured Will into bathing and staying for breakfast. And last night, when Will was set on leaving. He decides it isn’t worth the fight.
When Hannibal pulls up outside the apartment, Will expects to be dropped off. Instead, he takes the trouble to parallel park and turn the car off completely. Then, he gives Will an expectant look until he takes the social cue and invites him upstairs.
“If it is no trouble.”
As they climb four flights of stairs, Will apologizing for the lack of an elevator all the way, he suddenly feels overcome with worry that every single one of his friends will be waiting for him in their kitchen. He wouldn’t put it past them, in all honesty. The last thing he wants is for Hannibal to be bombarded by a mass of annoying, over-protective university students. When Will slowly slides Alana’s key into the door and peeks inside, he feels ludicrously relieved that no one is around. He supposes that it is only ten, on Saturday the morning after a night of partying. Still, Will takes no chances, ushering his guest across the room and down the hall, into the closet that is his bedroom.
The door squeaks when he pushes it open and he realizes belatedly, with horror, that his room is a disaster area. He’s never exactly been focused on cleanliness—his mind is a clutter so why should his physical space be any different? The result of this is that underwear and socks litter the floor, papers from research for his dissertation are scattered across his desk, old food wrappers and dirty dishes are stacked on his bedside table.
“Oh, crap,” he hisses. Instantaneously, he bends to pick up his underwear and socks off the floor and sets about apologizing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to clean before we went—“
A touch upon his hip cuts him off. And Hannibal quietly says, “It is fine, Will.” And pulls him backwards against his chest. The clothes fall to the floor in a heap. Will gasps when a hand presses against his stomach. Lips fall against his hair, kneading the crown of his head. Slowly, so the lips never leave him, he turns on the spot. The sensation of warm breath, brushing out across his skin in utter splendor, as lips skim from his bangs to his cheeks to his mouth, is intense. Almost too much so.
It is unbelievable, the simple idea that Will could kiss a man at ten in the morning, after fucking with him the night before, after meeting him at a gay bar. He feels dizzy, unable to decide if it is due to the overwhelming nature of all this or how devastating Hannibal’s kisses are.
They move a few steps backwards to Will’s desk. With hands on the wood on either side of Will’s hips, Hannibal presses him forward until nearly all his weight is supported by the table. Through his jeans he feels papers crumpling but he really does not give a crap. Because Hannibal is kissing him, lips trailing down his neck, and their cocks are grinding against one another and it is just so—
“Would it be alright if I had a glass of water, William?” The question is completely out of place, said calmly against his collarbone. After a moment of silence he leans away to look patiently at Will.
“Oh—um…Sure, I’ll go grab one for you.” Hannibal smiles at him as he backs away from the desk, allowing Will space to move. What the fuck? He’s out of breath, cock heavy in his pants, and Hannibal is asking for a drink? The word cock-tease comes to mind, but Will feels guilty just for thinking it.
When he leaves the room, closes the door behind him and stumbles down the hall trying to think of something other than how good it felt to have Hannibal inside him the night before.
He nearly curses when he sees Bev and Alana in the kitchen. Alana is dressed, Bev is in sweatpants and a t-shirt. She has bags under her eyes and is possibly a bit hung-over, but her eyes light up when she sees Will.
“You’re back!” Definitely hung-over: if she wasn’t she would have screamed, rather than the faint whisper she uses instead. Will is secretly glad—the last thing he wants is for Hannibal to hear her interrogating him about fucking.
“You have to tell me everything, Will. How was—oh crap, what’s his name?—in the sack?”
“Hannibal,” Alana reminds her. Will rolls his eyes.
“I can’t talk right now.”
“Why not?” Bev asks. Then, “Shit, is he here?!
Even Alana looks surprised at that. Will noncommittally rolls his shoulders and makes to fill a clean glass from beside the sink with water.
“You went home with him and then brought him home for more?” Beverly calls as Will flees back down the hall. At least she doesn’t follow him.
Will closes the door behind him when he enters.
“Your dissertation?” Hannibal asks. The question throws Will off guard until he sees the Xeroxed crime scene photos in Hannibal’s hands. Will places the glass of water on his dresser.
“Yeah, the Ripper killed this nurse two years ago. If you look carefully you can see the incision below her ribs—he took her liver.”
“Why the liver?” Will only shrugs. No one knows why the Ripper takes organs. Even Will doesn’t have a concrete enough idea to write about. “He always takes organs? And sets up the bodies like this?”
“It’s different every time.” Will runs a hand over his face. “He sort of…He doesn’t look at any of them like people. This, their murder, it’s supposed to be mocking, but it’s also kind of the Ripper himself, showing off or something. The victims are…not human… to him.”
“Not human,” Hannibal repeats thoughtfully. “Could you elaborate?”
“Well, he butchers them, right? He treats them like animals and he doesn’t respect them, but it’s more than that, because he’s sadistic. The organs are generally removed while the victim is still living. Then, he uses the corpse as any other artist would use paint or clay. He makes beautiful things out of them, uses people that he considers swine to—“
Out of nowhere, Hannibal kisses him. Of course he doesn’t want to hear about your dissertation again, he chides himself. Hannibal gnaws at his upper lip, tongue flicking against the flesh every few seconds. Will gasps, breath fanning out across Hannibal’s face and feels his cock harden again.
When Hannibal’s grip on him loosens, just so, Will lets his legs go lax so as to kneels on the floor before Hannibal. His hands fly to the bulge of his crotch and he hasn’t exactly given a blow job, but he feels as if it’s now or never. He can only get the zipper halfway down before hands push away his fingers.
“No, no,” Hannibal whispers against his neck when he pulls him up off the floor. “I will take care of everything.”
Will falls back against his bed, thinking absently that the other man has taken control of this space with the same veracity he possessed in his own room. Hannibal drags the jeans off of him for the second time in twenty-four hours and presses his palm against Will’s dick, through the fabric of his underwear. Will bucks his hips—the touch is startling, but nowhere near enough.
With his lips pressed against the flesh below Will’s navel, Hannibal continues to roll his cock in circles, until it is erect and firm, pressing upwards through the underwear. Only then does he shove the fabric out of the way.
Will doesn’t know what he was expecting, but Hannibal’s teeth grazing against his dick was definitely not one of them. He whimpers, high-pitched and breathy, unsure whether he should thrust up into Hannibal’s mouth or try to roll away. Maybe both. Finally, finally, wet tongue brushes against the head, pressing against the slit before trailing downwards, down to the base. Will sobs. Tenses his hips and arches his back.
Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, Hannibal presses his mouth down the shaft. Until Will hits the back of his throat. In the back of his mind, Will almost feels bitter about Hannibal doing this to him before he had the chance to try it himself. How could Will possibly top this? Will curses his gag reflex long before the struggle with it is even an option.
“H-Hannibal, oh god…” He hums around Will, tongue vibrating wonderfully. “Fuck—“
He begins to bob up and down, as if milking the beads of pre-cum that Will can feel being sucked from his cock. He can’t help it, he thrusts upward, into Hannibal’s glorious mouth. If Will hurts him, he doesn’t show it, sealing his lips tightly around the base. He hums again, silent to Will’s ears but blaring across the nerve endings in his erection. Almost absently, Hannibal’s hand delves between his legs, finger tracing from the back of his scrotum up his crack. When he brushes against his ass he looks up, dick still buried deep in his mouth, and meets Will’s eyes. He cums instantly; Hannibal swallows every drop of his pleasure, drinking him dry as Will rides out his orgasm.
“Let me do you…” Will whispers. He feels half obligated, after being brought to orgasm so magnificently, and half desperate in his want to do it. To feel Hannibal in his mouth. To taste him. His eyes fall closed in utter relaxation when fingers run through his locks, brushing across his scalp.
“Perhaps another time. I have matters to attend to.” The bed dips as Hannibal pushes himself up and Will forces himself, through the exhaustion, to turn and look at him.
“Can I… Can I have your number?”
“I took yours out of your cell phone this morning, while you were sleeping.” That Hannibal doesn’t want Will to have his number, that he wants to be entirely in control of the speed of their relationship, does not surprise Will in the slightest, given his persona. Still, he can’t help but feel a bit hurt. He nods and turns onto his back, closing his eyes.
Lips press against his and this time he cannot even find the energy to look. “I will call you. I promise, William.”
And Will believes him.