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Will stares at the ceiling, hearing the distant sounds of Hannibal moving around the kitchen; his safe haven, the place he always goes back to in times of stress or anxiety. In whatever way it is that Hannibal feels those sort of emotions.
Flat white, smooth texture. No popcorn ceiling in Hannibal’s grand suite, he would never allow that. Will remembers the bumpy ceiling of his father’s mobile home, counting each individual mound as he lay awake after a nightmare when he was twelve. Back when his nightmares didn’t follow him into the waking world.
When they didn’t fight their way out, clawing and tearing through Will’s mind to use his body as their very own machine.
He swallows, wincing as the motion tugs his bruised jaw tight. Hannibal must’ve pulled his punch; the man is absurdly strong and could’ve easily broken the bone, but he didn’t. It barely hurts at all, all things considered.
Will stares at the ceiling, wondering how long he has before Hannibal finishes with breakfast and comes back upstairs. How long before Will has to see the marks he left on the man’s flesh. His throat.
How long before their happiness crumbles around him, like a slowly rotting structure that can’t handle the weight of it’s own decay anymore and finally gives.
Will gets up. He wants to see Hannibal in his kitchen one last time. Wants to see his glorious lover in his element, selfishly soak up the calm that Hannibal produces. Just once more.
And oh, he is glorious . Wearing charcoal slacks and white button down, apron tied neatly around his waist at nine in the morning. Looking put together on barely two hours of sleep, at best. His elegant movements. Determined to wake Will up with a full spread, even now. Even after…
“Good morning, darling,” he says, voice rough and scratchy.
Will’s heart seizes up, a physical ache deep behind his rib cage. A painful sort of love had always seemed appropriate to Will. For Will. A love so overwhelming, it stings to even look at it.
Hannibal has his shirt buttoned all the way up his neck. A shield. No, a cover. Like victims that cover a black eye with makeup and give shaky excuses of running into a door.
Choking on the thorns in his throat, he crosses the room and wraps his arms around Hannibal from behind, forcing back the tears that want to spring up. Crying will only make it worse for his lover, and he wants to limit the pain as much as possible.
He means to say, “I’m so sorry I hurt you,” or, “I wish I could be normal for you,” or, “I’m intending to leave you for your own good but I hope you’ll kill me instead because it would hurt less,” but what comes out is, “I love you.”
Hannibal’s spine quivers as he moves the frying pan off the heat and leans back into Will’s embrace with a slow sigh, covering Will’s hands on his stomach with his own.
“And I love you, mylimasis.”
Will chokes up again, Goddamn it, and tightens his grip to the point it must be painful. “No, no, you don’t understand,” he whispers, nuzzling the space between Hannibal’s shoulder blades, committing Hannibal’s scent to memory. “I… you’re the most important person I’ve ever had. You’ve changed my life. Changed how I see and feel the world. How I see myself and I-”
Hannibal turns in his embrace, cutting him off with a, “Beloved, about last night-”
But Will can’t hear anything beyond his own heart pounding in his ears.
Just above Hannibal’s pristine, pressed collar, are deep purple, mottled bruises .
“Oh… my God.”
Instinctively, he reaches up to unbutton the shirt, the
makeup
to hide Will’s
abuse.
Will nearly gags, bile rising up in his esophagus. Hannibal’s face is like stone as he grabs Will’s wrists -so gently, always so fucking gently- in attempt to stop the exposure. When Will persists, Hannibal finally drops his hands, shoulders going down in a sign of defeat.
“Oh my God,” Will breathes again, gritting his teeth and looking away from the damage he’s left upon Hannibal’s flesh. Fingerprint stains wrapping around his neck in black and blue.
He could’ve killed him. He would have murdered him, if not for Hannibal waking up and punching him. Now he understands the claw marks that are covering his hands; Hannibal had done everything in his power to stop Will so he wouldn’t have to resort to hitting him.
Hannibal tenses up and quickly re-fastens the button. “It looks worse than it is, I assure you. Superficial, really.” He manages to say in a light tone, despite knowing how wrecked his voice sounds.
Will keeps his eyes on the ground and clenches his jaw, relishing the pain he feels there now, wishing it were worse. Wishing Hannibal would’ve snapped his spine instead of just knocking him off.
“Mylimasis, it truly isn’t so bad-” He stops short when Will steps back, out of Hannibal’s attempted embrace. Blinks. Swallows. Hesitates, so unlike him. “Will?”
For a moment, a millisecond or maybe an eternity, Will isn’t sure, he just looks at him. His sharp features, fierce and intimidating to anyone else but not to Will, never to Will. The line of his jaw, bone and skin that Will has kissed more times than he can count. Every strand of blond hair, next to every strand of silver, next to every strand of brown. The cupid’s bow of his mouth. The shape of his eyelashes.
The pinnacle of his happiness, encased in flesh.
“It’s better this way,” he whispers, unable to meet Hannibal’s eyes because he’s a fucking coward. “This is… this will be better for you.”
“No, it won’t,” Hannibal says resolutely. “No situation that involves you leaving can be better for me.” When Will doesn’t respond - can’t respond- Hannibal continues, softer. “Darling, it was a nightmare. It wasn’t your fault-”
“Hannibal, I could’ve fucking killed you!” Will yells, incredulous, disgusted with himself and agonized for the man in front of him. “You… you could’ve died,” he says, quieter, stomach rolling at just the thought.
“But I didn’t,” he counters plainly, and Will can tell he’s fighting the urge to reach out again, try to pull him close. “We’re not broken, beloved, we can work on settling your mind and in turn, that will help the nightmares.”
“Don’t you see? I’m never going to get better, Hannibal. You can’t settle my mind.” Will says, bitter beyond measure. “And one day, you’re going to wake up, and realize how tired you are… and the next time you look at me, it will be with disdain. I couldn’t... “ Will swallows around the stubborn lump lodged in his throat. “I’m saving us both a lot of heartbreak.”
The distance between them suddenly feels vast, like an ocean, and Will feels lost. Angry, at himself for doing this to them, angry at Hannibal for not being angry. That would’ve made it all easier.
“Anyone else would be running out the fucking door,” Will spits. “The only reason you aren’t is because of your fucked up views on death.”
Hannibal doesn’t flinch, but Will immediately wants to apologize all the same. It’s a true characterization; Hannibal’s moral compass is non-existent. He’s a sociopath, if he can be categorized at all. He finds value in beauty, but not inherently in life, as most people do.
Will is convinced the only reason that Hannibal never became a serial killer is because of the mess.
“It’s my apathy, then. Certainly not my feelings for you that leave me feeling generally unbothered about this. Is that your analysis, Doctor Graham?”
There it is. Hannibal is angry. Will should latch onto that, dig the hole deeper, make the hurt worse.
“I know that you love me,” Will says instead, quietly. “Right now. What about-”
“Always.”
“You can’t know that, Hannibal, it isn’t poss-”
Hannibal breaks. He steps forward and grabs Will by his upper arms, squeezing nearly to the point of the pain. A loss of control, desperate, scared.
“ Always , Will.” His voice is low, strained, so close that Will is forced to make eye contact. “You could wake me every night for the rest of my life in the same manner, and I would be grateful for it.”
Will feels the traitorous tears slip down his cheeks, and catches the exact moment that Hannibal realizes his arguments are futile. Will has made up his mind.
Because he loves him so goddamned much, he's going to let him go. He loves him so much, he's going to give up the only happiness he's ever really had, because Hannibal deserves better.
Hannibal drops his hands, looking destroyed and desperate and heartbroken, and Will hurts .
He turns away, and goes to gather his things.
*~~~~~*
He's not surprised, exactly, when Hannibal knocks on his door that evening, but he didn't expect it to happen so soon. He thought Hannibal would give him a day, assuming Will would calm down and rationalize the whole situation in his mind.
He contemplates not opening the door, but the thought is fleeting. Comes and goes in a flash because the idea of Hannibal standing on his porch in the frigid weather makes his stomach turn.
Hannibal is dressed down, especially considering the temperature, in a button down and slacks and no coat. He hasn't bothered to cover his neck this time, likely knowing it wouldn't matter, and Will cringes at how dark the bruises have become over the course of the day.
His throat is so tight, he can't speak.
Hannibal is holding a bag of some sort, and when he realizes Will isn't going to say anything, he dips his head. "May I come in?"
Gritting his teeth, Will steps back, reluctantly because he wants so badly to reach out and apologize to this beautiful man with all of his being. He wants to erase the last 24 hours entirely so he can keep this. Keep him.
But he can't, so he steels himself, watching silently as Hannibal steps into his home and stands in the middle of the living room, still clutching the bag.
“Hannibal, what is this?”
“A risk.”
They sit opposite each other in the armchairs in Will’s living room, and the distance between them is so uncommon that it makes Will’s ribs ache.
Hannibal has always looked so out of place in Will’s home, which is shabby in comparison, but he's never looked uncomfortable. Hannibal, perfectly at ease in any situation, had managed to fit himself gracefully into Will's safe haven, and make it look effortless.
But now, gripping the medical bag in his hands and avoiding eye contact, he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Eventually, after long moments of tense silence, he speaks, his voice hushed.
“Will, I don’t want you to harbor any notions that what I feel for you is healthy or normal. I know it isn’t, and though I don’t think there’s much I can hide from you, I wish to voice it to clear my own conscience.”
Will keeps his face neutral. He doesn’t want Hannibal to feel judged or embarrassed, not that he really feels those emotions, but still. He’s sure he doesn’t know the extent of Hannibals’ feelings for him, but he does know they are pretty intense. He can see it every time they have sex, when Hannibal stares at him like he’s the only thing tethering Hannibal to the planet. Or when Will says something funny (or not), and Hannibal gets that severe look in his eyes that almost feels like he’d burn the world down on Will’s word.
"I learned years ago that I could not reveal the truth of myself to anyone. I am… not like other people." Hannibal says, detached, clinical, trying to separate himself from his emotions. “That lesson was painful, and I never wished to experience it again.”
He opens the medical bag he carried in, and hands it over, gesturing for Will to look inside before he continues.
“The day I met you, perhaps even the moment I met you, I knew that you were going to become a very important person in my life. That night, I filled a book recreating your likeness in pencil. The day you kissed me, I stayed up all night composing.”
Will hasn’t looked in the bag yet, caught, pinned to his spot listening to Hannibal so intently he has to remind himself to breathe.
“That same night, I packed this bag.”
At that, Will looks down. Inside, there are numerous vials of medications, as well as syringes, a tourniquet, and a smaller zipper pouch. He takes it out, already suspecting what’s going to be inside but opens it anyway. Two passports, one for each of them, with fake names (the same last name, Will notices), as well as various forms of official identification that match. Everything needed for new identities.
“Why are you showing me this, Hannibal?”
“You left, because you felt guilty about actions you took while unconscious. These are actions I take while fully aware. Intricate plans of drugging and kidnapping, and eventually brainwashing, the person I love to prevent them from ever leaving me.”
He pauses, allowing the implications to sink in, before he continues. “I thought, perhaps, you would feel less guilty about asphyxiating me if you saw the full truth of me. I’m dangerously close to the monsters you hunt, Will.”
“You’re not,” Will whispers instinctively, even though he doesn’t believe it. Hannibal is eerily similar to the killers he catches. Will just doesn’t care.
Hannibal doesn’t acknowledge Will’s gentle lie. “Maybe you’ll be so disgusted that you will sever yourself from me forever, but since you are already attempting to do that, I decided to play my hand. As I said, a risk.”
Will swallows. “Would you have really done this?”
“Then? Yes,” Hannibal replies, not an ounce of shame. “Now? This bag is what I was thinking about the entire time I watched you pack your things. If you had moved any slower, I am… unsure if I would’ve been driven to action. I chose to bring it to you, lest my ache for you lead me to temptation.”
In truth, Will doesn’t feel as shocked as he should. It actually seems perfectly in character for the man he loves. Will remembers the first time Hannibal smelled Beverly’s perfume on him, back before he knew who Beverly was. Hannibal’s hand had twitched, and it wasn’t until later that Will realized Hannibal had nearly grabbed the knife on the kitchen counter behind him.
The words Will spoke to Hannibal suddenly, starkly could apply to him. “ Anyone else would be running out the fucking door.”
Will doesn’t run. Doesn’t walk briskly. Doesn’t even stand up. Instead, he just breathes.
“I don’t think you would’ve needed to brainwash me.”
Hannibal looks at him sharply, shoulders going up with his inhale. Eventually, he asks, “no?”
“No way,” Will shakes his head solemnly. “Your cooking alone would do the trick.”
There’s a single moment of tension, before it melts away like a snowflake in the sun, and the vice grip around Will’s heart seems to shatter and turn to ash. Hannibal breathes a silent laugh, tilting his head toward Will.
“I shall remember that for future disagreements.”
It is said in an almost questioning tone, and Will hates the idea that his self-assured, egotistical-to-a-fault lover could be insecure about anything.
The man that bared his monster, so Will could feel better about his own.
Will sets the bag down and goes to him. Like magnets; he can’t help himself. Not with Hannibal looking like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. As though Will could break him with a word.
The way Hannibal holds his breath as Will draws near serves to prove that thought.
“Thank you for not kidnapping me today.” Will touches his cheek, looking down at the man that loves him so dearly.
Hannibal leans into the touch, closing his eyes and releasing his held breath. “Thank you for not running out the door.” He looks up, maroon eyes wide and shining. “I missed you today. Nine hours, and it felt like a lifetime.”
Now that it’s all out in the open, Will figures Hannibal will be directing that shining beacon of extreme affection solely at him from now on.
So Will kisses him. Gently, at first, then with helpless passion as Hannibal pulls Will down into his lap. He straddles him, holding on for dear life, shivering at the thought he almost let this go. He almost ruined them both.
“I’m sorry,” Will breathes against his lips, pressing as close as he possibly can.
Hannibal is already shaking his head, hands clenched tight to Will’s waist. “Please understand that there is nothing in this world you could do that would change how I feel about you.”
Shivering again, now due to the breathlessness in Hannibal's tone and how firmly he's being held, Will tilts his head to kiss the bruises splattered across Hannibal's throat. Bruises he left, but now know have been forgiven.
Hannibal loves him. Broken, messy, unstable and irritable and rude, and Hannibal loves him. That's enough.
He's enough. And isn't that novel?