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I want you to kiss me
Wildly
Like you are starving for me.
Kiss me into oblivion
Making the rest of the world disappear
Until it’s just you and me
Our souls crashing,
Lips begging for more.
No matter how arguably and inherently wrong it felt, Will Graham had to admit that he preferred the slower life he’d built.
His existence since being Jack Crawford's pet had settled significantly, snapped into place in almost every avenue that should have mattered. Quantico had always been hectic; frenetic with the need to move, move, move. It ran at a speed that, if he didn’t keep pace with it, would have mowed him down and left him for dead without even so much as a glance backwards. He hadn’t minded it when there had been no alternative, but now that he had a broader scope to how he could live if given the option, he wasn’t certain how he’d done it for so many years without losing himself completely. His escape to Europe had been almost as busy in the first few months he’d settled there, but it now consisted of late night dinners with new friends, afternoon walks by the water’s edges, shopping in the marketplace, and sleeping in sun-warmed sheets with the windows and door to his veranda open, remaining there until the late morning rays coaxed him into consciousness. He took time in his shower with products expensive enough that it should have brought heat to his face, relished in the fabrics he chose to cover his skin. He savored his meals with the delight a true epicurean, found joy in their preparation, even though they were created just for him to consume.
Hannibal had instructed him to do that - taught him to indulge in the small joys life had to offer him. They’d been separated in the waters that the ex-profiler had cast them into after their battle with the Dragon, but his pearls of wisdom remained imprinted on the forefront of Will’s mind as clearly as if they’d been branded there. He’d regretted his actions the minute the ground beneath him gave way enough for a reversal to be impossible, if only for the fact that he and Hannibal were parted before they hit the water. The crushing, frigid weight of the ocean had almost done him in. His relationship with the water and all of the years he spend within it wasn’t enough to save him when he’d finally succumbed to the exhaustion that had lured him into the endless, freezing darkness. Even as he sank, Hannibal’s face swam before his eyes, the sadness and betrayal in his bloodstained gaze almost unrecognizable as he tumbled through the air, just out of Will’s reach.
Will should have died that night. Somehow, he still had enough luck to survive. When he’d finally come to, he’d been laying at the edge of the water, and had coughed up what felt like the entire Atlantic. The doctor was nowhere to be seen. Will shouldn’t have been surprised, but some small, broken part of him had hoped they’d be able to start over together. Hannibal had a knack for escaping even the tightest of clutches that would have brought him to justice, though. It didn’t seem to matter that the hands that may have once wanted to throw him behind bars now wished to reach for him for far more intimate reasons than a moral compass. He was gone. Will was alive, and for once, he didn’t have a plan.
He took the time to mourn what had been lost to him, there at the edges of the sea, adding to them the salt from his tears until he had nothing left to give. He hadn’t felt lighter - hadn’t felt better, but crying helped clear his mind. The fall was the first step in ensuring he’d never have to answer to Jack again. Even if Hannibal wasn’t there to be at his side, he could start over. Somewhere fresh. Somewhere better. A place with history and culture and law enforcement that didn’t know who he was and what he could do.
And so, he ran.
Making a life for himself took time. The first year would have been filled with enough regret to hang him had he allowed himself even the briefest thought down that path. Instead, Will learned to choose gratitude over bitterness for the lessons with which he had been gifted. Baltimore and its shores no longer felt like home, no matter how familiar the road to Wolf Trap had once seemed. Without so much as a backward glance in the direction of the cliffside, Will pulled himself from damnation and made his escape to unfamiliar waters; warmer waters that hugged the shores of a different continent. The plunge worked as the final stage in the catalyst of his becoming, with or without the man who had been the first to whisper through his chrysalis. The part of his heart that could have belonged to another shut down, leaving no room for romantic love in the life he created. By the time he took his place in Europe, he was not lonely - the persona he now comfortably wore ensured it.
He worked for himself, selling and repairing timepieces in Palermo, the city with which he was most intimately familiar. The little storefront he'd purchased was courtesy of his retirement funds and came with a two bedroom apartment built conveniently up the stairs from its ancient stained glass windows. He had no commute, save for a short trip to the lower levels to turn the sign in the window, inviting others to darken his doorstep. He'd developed enough of a reputation over the past three years that new business was no longer a necessity for survival, but he liked the widened eyes that examined his wares when newcomers wandered the shopping district he called home. His countertop was polished oak made from a tree older than the United States, and the timepieces that sat tastefully within gleamed with their own inner illumination, offering glimpses of craftsmanship that was often lost on the layman buyer. Those who came to him for purchases and repairs with any regularity did so because of his expertise; his attention to detail as much as his gruff, honest reputation. His Italian was passable these days, but his work spoke in words he’d never have the vocabulary to properly express. As a result, his income was a direct reflection of his newfound passion. Will was able to comfortably afford a real life that mirrored who he'd become since that fateful night on the cliff's edge - the night that should have changed everything for them both.
If only Hannibal was here to see it.
The thought, whenever it crossed his mind, tasted like old blood. The last thing he'd expected on the Night of the Dragon was for Hannibal to disappear, but in hindsight, he wasn't certain he'd deserved anything less. The karmic wheel had to take its pound of flesh somewhere after all, and losing his one great love seemed as apt a punishment as any. And so, Will Graham learned to live - truly live - on shores that were not his own, in a life that fit him better than any he could have dreamed of having. The darkness that Hannibal had cultivated mostly remained neatly tucked beneath the surface, hidden under soft, boyish curls and eyes so blue, they rivaled the clear, Italian skies. If the occasional thief or rapist or murderer disappeared from the streets, well. Men like them often met a violent end. Nobody discussed the moth men that popped up in cemeteries now and again; nobody wanted to carry the weight of their grotesque beauty home with them. They simply took the men down and tried very hard to refrain from touching the snails that crawled over dessicated flesh. They filed their reports away to be lost amongst the other horrors that stalked the ancient streets. They kept their whispers of Il Mostro to themselves; out of the places without light. Nobody wanted to push their luck and summon demons from places that should be left to the past. The balance on the scales remained firmly on the side of the law, and there was no evidence left behind to identify the person responsible for the killings. The papers had yet to catch wind of the crimes, so they were tucked away in the Polizia’s archives, as neat and complete as a magic trick.
Will slept perfectly fine, each and every night of his life. He had no reason to do any different.
***
In a fashion very unlike him, Will was running late. Even though he lived by his own languid standards, he had friends waiting for him, and it was inexcusably rude to run on one’s own time schedule when others were involved. The bistro they favored didn’t often take reservations, but his first friend in the city, Paolo Petrosino, distant relative to the famous New York office Joseph Petrosino was celebrating quite the significant career advancement and entering the the ranks of Detective in the Polizia of Palermo. It wasn’t every day they got together for such an achievement, and Will had a favor or two to call in with the owner of the establishment, whose carelessness with his timepieces had cost him enough for Will to take an extended holiday the previous summer. They’d be in good hands for the evening, if he could simply manage to make it out the door in the next five minutes.
He raked a brush through his curls, and lamented his inability to debate which shade of blue was best for the golden lighting in Concetta. He buttoned the shirt he’d chosen at random, donned the old, worn watch he always wore, and studied himself briefly in the full length mirror that sat just inside his bedroom door. The watch had been a gift from his father, and remained one of the few things that kept him anchored to his previous life. Nobody questioned why a craftsman of his caliber chose to adorn himself with something so obviously low quality; nobody was brave enough to face the darkness that filled his gaze when the words left their lips. His companions took it as part of his charm - an aspect of his authenticity beyond the quality he produced in the pieces he sold to the masses.
Will’s jacket was made of soft, fine wool dyed so black, it wouldn’t have been out of place in the night sky. It framed his features beautifully, eased some of his rustic charm into something more refined. The slacks were equally dark, the shirt two shades bluer, a color that warmed his complexion and complimented the hue of his gaze. He looked like a well dressed villain, and reveled in it. Satisfied with his appearance, he collected his keys and wallet and locked the doors to the shop behind him.
He observed the way others moved out of his way with grim detachment, let the knowledge fill the dark spaces that now lay buried within his heart. As much as he’d never admit it aloud, he liked that people were a little afraid of him. It prevented the need to sidestep casual conversations with people with whom he was unfamiliar. He stalked the streets he now called home and wondered how Hannibal would find this new approach to life. He could almost hear the pride in the other man’s cultured voice as they discussed church collapses, just to narrowly avoid devouring one another from the mouth down.
If only he could see me now. If only I could taste him, just once. Just to burn with it until all that’s left is a pile of ash, with only the frantic beating of my heart to fan or extinguish the flames.
Will closed off his mind to such thoughts as he arrived at the restaurant in a whirlwind of breathless, charming apologies in rudimentary Italian, shy smiles and a quick check with the hostess to offer his sincerest gratitude that they’d held his table. He followed his party through the small space and found himself a seat facing the window, which offered a coveted view that overlooked a peaceful, romantic pathway by the waters. Several couples dotted here and there, paused beneath golden orbs of lamplight to steal small tokens of affection from one another’s lips. Will watched them idly, wistful, still lost in thought.
“And what shall you be eating tonight, Will?”
Giulia’s voice was beautiful, musical; curious. It brought him jarringly back into the room. Without glancing at the menu, he offered their waiting waitress a genuine, boyish smile.
“My apologies. I’m not myself tonight. The usual, if you don’t mind, Carla. Thank you.” The blushing girl nodded and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving their party to themselves.
“About what are you thinking so terribly hard, bello? You look as though you’re a thousand miles away.” Will nodded and picked up the pristine white napkin from his place setting. He folded it on his lap, just to give his hands something to do. 4,167 miles, dearest, but I'd never tell you that.
“This place always reminds me of a friend,” he replied before he could stop himself. “He would have loved the life I built here, as he was the architect of it’s foundations.” The conversation around them slowed. His friends leaned in to listen, fascinated by his descriptions of his previous life in America. He so rarely opened up about anything before his arrival that it captured their attention like moths to a pyre. They waited, but to their disappointment, Will offered them nothing further.
“What happened to this friend of yours?” Giulia prompted. “Why is he not here with you?”
“He’s…” Will paused to consider. “He’s lost to me. Gone from my life. We ceased contact not very long before I left the United States for fairer shores.” His friends hummed sympathies, but Will hardly noticed. Behind his eyes, the men in every couple on the riverside was Hannibal. Every kiss offered ghosted across his own mouth, as gentle and insubstantial as a phantom. He wasn’t sure when the tears formed, but when he looked up to thank Carla for his meal, the startled expression etched into her features spoke volumes.
“I’m fine,” he insisted as he picked up his wineglass. “Plus, tonight isn’t about me. I say we toast to the man of the hour for all his accomplishments in law enforcement. Paolo, they couldn’t ask for better.” The younger man blushed and lowered his head, embarrassment coloring his cheeks a pleasing pink. Will drank deeply from a glass filled with liquid the color of his psychiatrist’s eyes and forced away all thoughts of the other man. Hannibal and his memories could wait.
He had all the time in the world to confront them.
***
He was drunk. There was no denying it; no way to misinterpret his decisions at their celebration. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself the luxury of feeling maudlin, let alone consume the amount of alcohol he did that evening. He hadn’t been properly drunk since Wolf Trap - he no longer held his alcohol nearly as well as he had when he was a regular partaker of whiskey so cheap, it could have doubled as engine degreaser. Although his liquor was of a decidedly higher quality these days, it still did the job of leaving him wasted, wandering the streets of Italy in close proximity to home, and horny. He didn't have a particularly active sex drive - he never had. But when he got drunk, he was willing to admit to himself that not all company was poor company; not every hasty exchange of heated kisses, of careless fumblings in dark alleys weren’t worth the risk to his safety.
Will didn’t regularly indulge in the amorous attentions of others, but not for a want of willing partners. Beautiful men and women approached him in his store, at the the market, at the bar when he was with his friends. They offered to purchase him drinks, slipped their numbers to his companions, stalked him in restrooms. Once or twice, he’d had to resort to letting the darker part of himself loose to escape the clutches of those who sought to take what he didn’t freely offer. He’d watched them scurry away like the rats they were, the monster coiled inside him pleased as punch by their fear.
He could have taken any number of the patrons of the restaurant home with him tonight, but he’d held out. Although he’d done it before, superimposing Hannibal’s face onto some hapless stranger when he was emotional would end poorly - likely violently -for them both. He opted for solitude, but it didn’t mean he would be without satisfaction.
He could make it home. Make it to his large, comfortable bed that sat in the middle of an ancient wooden floor that creaked when he tread its boards. He could undress slowly, carefully, easing each button from the expensive fabric that adorned his body until his chest heaved with the desire for hands far larger and more elegant than his own. He could let the phantom he kept with him consume him; whisper to him that he was beautiful as he stripped, admonish him for letting such fine clothing fall to the floor. The imaginary humiliation of Hannibal’s dislike for his messes only made him more desperate to obey; more insistent on pleasing him. Will liked both parts equally, and played his role well enough to ensure he didn’t last long once he really got going.
Tonight, he left the lights off. Candlelight felt too intimate after the scene in the restaurant, and he’d never bothered to install electric bulbs. Darkness would soften his desires into something less needy - less visceral than what he felt. By the time he unlocked his front door, his hands were shaking. He fumbled with the lock once; twice, before it finally eased open, allowing him to slip inside and out of the cold familiarity of his street. He didn’t bother to lock it, favored stumbling up the steps to his apartment two at a time, until he crashed into the living room, breathless and barely able to contain himself.
He couldn’t go slow. Couldn’t make it the fantasy he’d wanted when he was en-route. The shirt came apart with a launched projectile of buttons, casualties to his impatience as he tore it open to get to the skin beneath. His chest heaved as he stumbled to the bed, breath coming in short, staccato gasps that filled the room as water filled a glass. He fell to the bed before he could loosen his belt, spreading his legs as wide as his slacks would allow, just to feel the sheer desperation; the need to be consumed. He allowed himself a moment to wonder if Hannibal would have ever been so starved for his skin that he’d leave his clothing on if Will had asked. If he could have climbed into his lap, feasted on his mouth as he was taken, naked and panting, while Hannibal remained as pristine as he was on every visit to his office. He palmed himself through the fine material, felt the moisture that had leaked through his boxers and onto the expensive inky fabric. He was going to ruin his clothing; no dry cleaner would be able to remove the stains, even if he was bold enough to take them in. The very idea of it filled his mouth with spit.
He wanted the fantasy; wanted it more than he wanted to breathe. He wanted to be taken home every night of his life, made to strip, made to shut his mind off as he was pampered and stretched and used until his face was covered with tears and his voice was made raw with begging. He wanted the brand of long, elegant fingertips on his hips, molding him until they knew no other shape. He wanted his nipples to ache from being touched and bitten and teased to stiff, puffy points. He wanted his scalp to be sensitive from large hands guiding his open mouth onto a cock that stretched his lips to aching; his throat to be unusable most days from the sensuous abuse it took at the hands of the only person he’d ever loved. He wanted to take everything he was offered; to thank the ghost that haunted his every waking moment for the carnal torture it offered him. He wanted to beg for his release, only to be denied for hours; for days if his lover saw fit. He wanted to feel alive, wretchedly debauchedly alive.
He didn’t manage to get his pants open before his orgasm speared him through his hips. He barely brushed a hand over the crown of his cock before he came with a sob, arching his back to thrust against his palm as if it were his last anchor to earth. It crested through him like lightning, wringing every emotion dry as he emptied into his slacks. Long, delicious minutes later, his back finally hit the bed. Exhausted, mentally drained, and unable to weep, Will curled beneath sheets that smelled of sunlight, skin damp with his emission, clothing still intact, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
“Mail for you sir. Special delivery, signature required.”
Will shook two aspirin out of the bottle and popped them into his mouth with a shaking hand. He nodded to the boy to come closer, regretting vehemently his decision to forgo sunglasses in exchange for opening the door to make whoever was on the other side of it go away. The sunlight was bright, as punishing as he deserved for the night he had. He’d surfaced from his alcohol-induced coma to pounding on his front door, the cacophony only rivaled by the steady drumbeat inside his skull. Without bothering to check his appearance, he’d opened it to a fresh faced boy of about 13, offering him a clipboard to sign in exchange for the envelope he kept clutched within his palm. The boy averted his eyes as Will signed his name, a blush high in his cheeks as he bade Will farewell.
Only when the door closed did his actions the night before come crashing into him. He tossed the envelope down without opening it and made his way to the bathroom to vomit.
***
When he returned to it, he was freshly showered and dressed in sleep clothes, a deep burgundy dressing gown over the top and tightly belted at the waist. He wandered into the kitchen and returned with a a cup of coffee a shade lighter than his soul. His head hurt - his entire body felt as if he had been hit by a truck. He didn’t want to bother with the envelope, but Beverly wrote to him from time to time, just to check in and ensure him that his case remained as cold as the grave. He picked up the large, cream colored letter, glanced at his name on its surface, and felt his world give way beneath him. The cup in his hand clattered to the ground, shattering into sharp musical pieces, but Will paid them no heed. He knew that handwriting better than he knew himself; would have recognized it anywhere. Will sourced a knife and carefully slit the top of the envelope open. He held the paper to his face and breathed for what felt like the first time since leaving the states.
There you are. My god, there you are.
He slid the papers contained within out into his waiting palms. Hands shaking, he let the knife clatter to the countertop as he unfolded them and began to read.
My dearest Will,
I deeply regret that our first meeting since our plunge into the Atlantic did not come at a more opportune moment. I thought it best to give you time to forgive both me and yourself for what you have become, and to come to terms with who you wish to be. I have, by no small amount of effort, managed to stay out of your orbit for the last three years by not existing in the same city as you at any given time. Alas, it is in the city of my youth that our avoidance must come to its conclusion.
You will have to forgive me for not approaching you last night, as you stepped drunkenly into the streets. I thought it best for you to have your faculties about you when we laid eyes upon one another once more. It seems I have chosen to do so in error; though I didn’t approach, I followed you home, simply to ensure your safety. Although you are clearly capable of taking care of yourself, you must be cautious, darling. You never know who may be watching you at your weakest, and their intentions may not be as pure as my own.
I had no intention of overhearing any part of your private moments once you stumbled into your shop. However, my sense of hearing betrayed me greatly when my name spilled so sweetly from your as you fumbled with your keys. You begged for me, Will. Pleaded with me to offer you pleasure beyond your wildest imaginings. Were I a stronger man, I would have taken this knowledge and my leave of you, but I haven’t laid eyes on you since our fateful night on the cliffs, and you said my name. Clearly, with no doubt to what you wanted from me.
I would never take you when you would have no memory of our time together. When I come for you, and I will come for you, Will, I want you sober. Present. Contrite for your trespasses to your clothing, your desperate release into a very expensive pair of slacks, and the desecration of my memory. I want the apology to fall from your lips while you make it from your knees. I wish to take my time with you, pet - to have every dream you’ve experienced in the long, lonely years we’ve been apart made reality.
I have cared for you in every way but this, as I knew once we had one another, there would be no going back. If this is what you wish, I’ve made a reservation at L’ottava Nota for six o’clock sharp. Wear your slacks from last night, Will. It would be a shame to ruin two pairs when we can contain your dry cleaning to a single garment.
I remain faithfully yours,
Hannibal Lecter
Will let out a high, whining laugh. His heart launched itself into his throat. It can’t be. It can’t.
There was only way to find out.
He read the letter a second time; a third as he downed the coffee he’d made, poured into a plastic cup that burned his hands. By the fourth read-through, his headache had dissipated as if it had never existed. Will Graham, former scourge of the FBI, now a man hopelessly in love, tucked the letter into the inner pocket of his dressing gown, picked his clothing up from the night before and set it reverently onto his reading chair. It was already nearing four o’clock. He wanted a long shower and some time to get as ready as he could possibly be. He had the dinner of a lifetime to attend, after all, and he had no intention of being late.