Chapter Text
Tears stream down his face, but he doesn’t seem to realize. They must be cold against his cheeks, which are ruddy from continued exertion, no doubt putting out heat, Hannibal thinks as he reaches forward to test that theory. Still, he doesn’t react, doesn’t so much as flinch when Hannibal’s fingers make contact, wiping them away. He simply blinks once, slowly, and allows it.
The reaction it causes in Hannibal is something truly outré - full-bodied and decadent as fine wine, just as intoxicating too. The realization strikes like liquid lightning, then lingers as a persistent static in the back of his skull:
He's never seen Will cry.
Will is as beautiful as ever like this, expression lax, unreadable to the untrained eye, impossible to decipher. But as he stands there, gaze sharp, pupils dilated, peachy lips ticked up, then stretched thin, Hannibal ponders to himself that even if in moments such as these Will was still, in fact, an open book, it would be a tragedy written in some dead language long since lost by man to time. One that only God, with his all-seeing eyes can read.
Well, and Hannibal. But that should go without saying.
As though sensing his thoughts, Will breaks from his trance then. Without a word, he bears his teeth, almost grinning through a sob - though it's a joyless expression, more akin to the gaping maw of a snarling mongrel - and steps away, just out of reach of the hand Hannibal had been using to divest him of his tears.
He nearly groans in agony, needing him closer. It would be humiliating if he were anyone else. Hannibal’s reaching out to him was essentially inevitable however - his desire to own every piece of this man, just as. And as soon as this notion crosses his mind, Will is tucking himself away, out of sight, though never out of mind. He doesn’t even bother to look back when he goes. Hannibal finds it utterly unacceptable.
When Will is gone, the metal door closing with a muted thud behind him, the vibrant crimson of blood on linoleum fades to brown. The golden lights buzzing overhead go silent and flicker to a pale white. When Hannibal looks down, the deep navy blue fabric of his shirt has become an unnerving grey. The lavish room where he once stood has turned to an empty, unstimulating cell.
It is dull here. Without Will.
Life is dull without Will Graham to color it.
[...]
It's a dream.
Hannibal knows it even before waking alone in their bed - a somewhat rare occurrence, given Will has a habit of sleeping in for as long as he feasibly can most of the time. It’s a luxury he's never been afforded ere this new life, one he happily takes advantage of now that the nightmares have abated for the most part and the sheets don’t need to be changed as often. But it's not the first time, just like it is not the first time such a dream has come to Hannibal.
In fact, it's the fifth, and the sentiment remains the same, still rooted deeply in reality even during the day. Hannibal is wholly devoted to his love for Will Graham, and he is content for now to wile away the hours coaxing out and studying his every aspect.
But he has yet to see him cry.
Of course, there have been tears, the shimmer of his distress and the dawning realization of betrayal reflected in those stormy blues by a layer of watery film, a mirror behind metal bars. But a mirror image is only as reliable as the perception of the one gazing into it. And, as such, they've never gotten the chance to fully form, nor have they risen to and fallen from grace to take their rightful place in the cycle of the universe as their creators had, and as Hannibal might like them to. Never have they squeezed themselves from Will’s eyes with an aching, burning force, leaving them reddened and irritated as their owner. Not in Hannibal's presence at least. Though they have come close.
And, yes, Hannibal has heard Will's voice take on many forms - gravel and gasps and gagging - but never has he heard it crack with sorrow. With rage, to be sure, wet and unsteady and miserably frantic as he'd been while in the throes of encephalitis, but not with the full bodied sobs of his dreams. And what he wants now is to see it, to exacerbate it even further until it is almost childlike in its desperation, its absolute, demanding urgency. Because he deserves it, and Will is obliged to deliver.
And also because Hannibal is simply curious. What sort of reaction would it procure from he, himself? And how might they get Will to that point? Which form would that path take? Would it be a straight line through a field of wheat, would it elevate, rising up over the snowy peak of a cold, coniferous mountain, or would it weave through the ruins of Ancient Greece? And would they travel on foot, or by car or plane? By boat perhaps. A boat sailed across an ocean of blood... or a river.
The notion takes on a life of its own from there. It awakens something in Hannibal - a fixation, so to speak (one of many subcategories in the overall fixation that is Will Graham). He couldn't shake it even if he tried, he surmises (not that he has, he knows himself far too well for that). So, he doesn't. He lets it lie.
And he waits. Waits for the opportune moment, meanwhile biding his time by dedicating page upon page of expensive drawing paper to sketching out the ways in which those specific, intense emotions might skew Will's handsome face.
He just knows it would be a uniquely lovely sight, the real thing, contorted by sweet vulnerability, truly novel. And an invaluable learning experience for the both of them to be sure. Hannibal's imagination, his drawings, intricate and careful as they are, likely don't even come close to capturing the true majesty of the moment. But, oh, how he longs for a glimpse, and futile as they may be, he will not cease their creation, for these sketches are at present his sole means of culling the hunger.
At least for now. Only when the timing is right, when “the moment” arises, will he finally take the rest for himself; and he finds great comfort in that thought.
Will, if he knew, likely would not. Comfort remains distant to him. At times, granted, it is easy for him to look and realize, to submit, yet he retains his suspicions.
Cunning boy, Hannibal muses.
Still, he’s beginning to come around and accept the notion that comfort isn’t exactly what he wants, though that doesn’t mean he’s passive by any means. He’s much too gnostic in that way - too adept at what he does, sees too directly through most things Hannibal sometimes would rather he didn’t now that the deadly dance has been perfected and the purifying salt water has washed away most of the man-made film from his eyes. "Most" being the key word.
However, that's not to say Hannibal hasn't undergone his own transformation at Will's hands. Intentionally or otherwise, he too is changing. He too is coming to terms with the idea that perhaps an equal isn’t exactly what he wants either.
Though it’s as much a curse as it is a gift. Hannibal does not feel fear for most things; death or capture or torture, not even indignity, at least not anymore. But occasionally, he does fear Will - not the man himself, per say, merely the power he possesses. But at the same time, Hannibal is infinitely grateful for his company and his continuously wondrous way of thinking. His insight remains ever subversive, never uninteresting. Like in this instance, for example.
When he emerges from their room to descend the stairs of their temporary home here in Havana, fully cleaned and dressed for the day, Hannibal finds Will on his favorite sofa in the foyer. Physically, that is. Spiritually, he seems to be wandering around some distant place in the confines of his lovely mind, judging by the blank stare he has fixed to the ceiling.
Loath though he is to interrupt whatever train of thought has his beloved so preoccupied, Hannibal is even more loath to allow him the luxury of escapism. Like in his dream, Will’s freshly-shaven face is unreadable, and for one reason or another, this bothers him immensely, here in the waking world.
Perhaps, Hannibal thinks as though to ease himself, he’s in another time - reliving their past. After all, the idea that he isn't inherently at the center of each and every one of Will’s fantasies is supremely frustrating and makes his heart beat fast in that way it hardly ever does. And it’s made all the more frustrating by the fact Hannibal knows firsthand precisely how dangerous and irrational such a desire can be, especially when the subject of said desire is one Will Graham.
It wouldn’t be the first time he brought them both to the brink. But Hannibal does not, and cannot afford to yield control. Not now, when he has so much to lose or, rather, to lose the chance to gain.
“Good morning, Will,” so he greets, shattering the silence. He is awake and they are together; no more need for wandering minds.
Will blinks twice at the sound of his voice, clearing the fog of vivid reconstruction from his eyes, simple as that, again the same way he had in Hannibal’s dream. It’s easier for him these days - comes more naturally, like sleep itself. Much more so than other things, with which they’ll both likely always struggle. In testament to this fact, Will glances at him once, then just as quickly returns his gaze to the ceiling.
“Something is troubling you,” Hannibal observes from the doorway. He doesn't move; it’s imperative that Will feels he isn't trying to invade his space when these moods strike.
Will makes a short humming sound at a low pitch, after which comes another drawn out, penetrating silence. Eventually, the words appear to take shape for him, and he crosses his arms over his stomach. Though he does not see the movement, Hannibal can tell from the way his shoulders shift.
“Submitting ourselves to old habits again, are we, Dr. Lecter?” Will questions with a caustic air, upper lip briefly twitching in a forced approximation of a smirk, then settling into a frown when it fails to hold its shape.
Intrigued, Hannibal examines his posture, or at least what he can see of it from where he stands across the room. Will’s back is slumped into the armrest of the sofa, sock-clad feet poised on the one opposite, neck and jaw visibly stiff. And he has his face now half-hidden behind a nearly-forgotten mug of room temperature coffee (he knows because no steam rises from it). Even if it weren’t completely evident from his body language and tone however, these days Will typically only calls him by his title when he’s on the defensive.
Hannibal moves slowly forward. As he does he notes that the skin around Will’s eyes has taken on a violet-green tint. Additionally, he’s still wearing the clothes he came to bed in last night, and his t-shirt is mostly unwrinkled. It’s clear he hasn’t slept much, if at all. Hasn’t allowed himself to, more like, as he is still so apt to do (Hannibal is working on breaking him of that habit, among others, but it’s a process - a long, arduous labor of love).
Then the coffee table comes into view. A few of Hannibal’s drawings are spread across it. The rest lay, rudely discarded, on the hardwood floor.
“Will…”
“Don’t think you can sweet talk your way out of this one,” Will tells him. “Is this what you’re after now? Be honest.” He gestures to the pictures. “To see me weak, to make me break?” He spits out the last word as though its heat could be measured in scoville units.
“I am always honest with you, Will. The question is whether or not you choose to be receptive to that honesty.” Hannibal tilts his head. “Do you consider crying to be a sign of weakness?" he wonders. “I never took you for the type of man bereft of the ability to embrace the power of his emotions.”
“Don’t try to derail the conversation. We’re not talking about me right now.”
“On the contrary. Do you see another likeness here, sketched in such intricate detail?”
Will pauses at that. The moment is static.
“Only yours..." He laughs, mirthless. "Let me guess, you prefer lead in your pencils to graphite, huh?”
Hannibal smiles. “As a matter of fact, despite its infamous toxicity, lead is considered a rather nonreactive element. Whereas graphite, on the other hand, is known to be a fantastic conductor of electricity and is commonly used in the production of batteries - subtle in its lethality, mundane. I find it makes for slightly more dynamic lines. But when it comes to my chosen tools, I am far more concerned with the keenness of their points than their overall chemical makeup.”
Will sits up abruptly, planting his feet firmly on the floor. Afterwards, he sets the mug down over one particularly wretched rendition of his own crying face, and his mouth contorts again when it’s done.
“Why?” he asks suddenly, voice airy. “I just can’t wrap my head around it. What about it do you find so appealing exactly?”
Hannibal tuts. “Beautiful, empathetic Will, ignorant only when it benefits you. You’d understand perfectly well why if only you would allow yourself to.”
Will scowls. “Okay, fine,” he bites out. At last, he meets Hannibal’s eyes. “Maybe I just want to hear you say it.”
"And if I did?" Hannibal prompts. "How would that make you feel?"
Will’s scowl turns up. "Lazy," he sing-songs, taunting.
Hannibal chooses to ignore the nod to conversations past. "Would it make you feel powerful?" he presses on. "As though you are finally in complete control of your situation? Is that truly what you wish for?"
Will's eyes scan the room as if he's searching for an answer. "Agency is an illusion we use to placate ourselves,” he flatly states. “What about you? Isn’t that what you want? Complete control,” he crosses his arms again, “that’s what this is - another means of manipulation. Isn’t that right, Doctor?”
“I do not seek to placate you, nor do I seek to control you, Will. I simply wish to bear witness to whatever future you deem fit for us, and perhaps to provide guidance where it is requested of me.”
“Bullshit!” Will hisses. “Bull-fucking-shit, Hannibal. You wanted me to see you, to really see you? Well, now I do.”
Hannibal purses his lips and suppresses the urge to chide him for his foul mouth. When he doesn't immediately respond, Will lets out a wry laugh and rubs at the creases of his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. Unfortunately, the prolonged silence does not compel him to speak further.
The Caribbean breeze comes through the open windows then, fruity to the taste. As Will stands and turns his back to Hannibal, it picks up speed and ruffles his hair. It's grown out quite a bit since they settled here and it's beginning to look especially wild, fraying and damaged at the ends. It must be stifling in this tropical heat; Hannibal makes a mental note to offer to cut it for him one of these days. For now, he'll take the chance to admire the way it causes sweat to gather on his nape, glistening in the sunlight, just begging to be licked away.
Hannibal considers acquiescing to this impulse. It's near overwhelming, the desire to wrap an arm around Will's torso, then place his other hand around his throat and pull him close to do exactly that, but he thinks better of it just as soon as it arises. Such a move would be risky at best even when Will is in one of his more pliable, indulgent moods. To do so now would be asking for a fight, one that could very well end with either or both of them bleeding out. But, tempting as that possibility sounds, Hannibal has something else in mind for today.
"The temperature is suitably mild this morning. Would you care to accompany me on a walk? After I feed you of course."
Will twists his neck and shoots him a skeptical look over his shoulder, brow arched. He appears as though he's about to ask a question of his own, jaw flexing enticingly, but stops himself.
"Fine," he mutters, already moving towards the stairs.
Hannibal nods. "Breakfast will be served in an hour."
Another scoff. Then Will brushes by with that persistent scent of indignation following close as he heads back up to the second floor. Hannibal stands alone in the foyer for a minute once he's out of sight, listening. Above he hears a door bang closed. Soon after the metal pipes creak near musically in the walls, followed by the sound of rushing water.
It's somewhat disconcerting, just how accurately this moment echoes Hannibal's dream, atmosphere and all. That's how he knows for certain he's made the right choice by following through with this. The crescendo is drawing closer. And whatever the outcome, Hannibal welcomes it - anticipates it, really. He’s not afraid of the way Will is, only what he inspires. But the world - his - their world now, has never been so effervescent as it is when Will is subverting his expectations.
And endlessly does he subvert them. Though sometimes he still requires a bit of a push in order to go on doing so, Hannibal is always happy to provide.
And if he can’t have everything, he’s content for them to die at each other’s hands.
[...]
Breakfast is a swift and tense affair, much to Hannibal’s dismay. Their meals have always been a great pleasure for him, the most intimate thing they share, barring sex when Will allows it (another thing they’re still working on). But he’s making his displeasure known without saying a word, and it feels such a shame to let the moment pass like this. Worse yet, Will finishes less than half his plate in under ten minutes before curtly excusing himself and disappearing back upstairs.
Hannibal can't reign in his disappointment as he watches him go, nor the curious almost-concern that blossoms in his chest when the water kicks on again a minute later. He finishes eating while he wonders what Will could be doing, then tucks his leftovers in the fridge for him when he's done.
Hopefully, Hannibal thinks, after the air is cleared he can talk him into eating again. Preferably before tomorrow. It’s never good to sleep on such dire moods, especially with an empty stomach. And if not… Well, Hannibal certainly isn’t above using force. Though he doesn’t prefer it.
He is almost finished washing the dishes by the time Will reemerges. His cheeks are flush when Hannibal cranes his neck to look at him, again so similar to his dream, but everywhere else he’s gone pale - too pale for having lived in warm, sunny places for as long as they have. And despite the high protein meal Hannibal just fed him, he appears even more fatigued than he did before, the veins in his eyes noticeably thickened and bulged.
He turns back to the sink. It’s with a near-shiver of disappointed revulsion that it dawns on him:
Will forced himself to throw up.
As much as Hannibal would like to confront him directly about why he feels compelled to do such an awful, offensive thing, he doesn’t. Instead, he notes out of the corner of his eye that he’s dressed himself in an off-white linen button-up, the sleeves of which are cuffed to his elbows, along with a pair of khaki shorts. He's also wearing his glasses now, a choice Hannibal suspects he made as a subconscious (or conscious) defense mechanism rather than because he needs them. Because he doesn’t, not to go for a walk.
No, it's more likely a way of distracting from his ever expressive eyes. He is creating a shield for himself by putting them on - a kind of tactic for hiding in plain sight, as it were, one carried over from his old life. But, assuming Will is even remotely aware of what he's doing and why, he must realize the habit's ineffectiveness.
Once Hannibal finishes rinsing the last dish, he turns and retrieves a fresh towel for his hands before facing Will as he wipes them dry. He’s sitting at the island, balanced on the edge of the stool, his gaze pinned unblinkingly on Hannibal with something predatory glinting in the dark void of his pupils. The intense, hungry energy radiating off of Will, even in his sickly state, is enough to cause goosebumps and reawaken an overwhelming sense of pride in him. Hannibal feels his smile grow warm and wide, and it’s utterly beyond his control.
For a moment, Will’s words - “agency is an illusion we use to placate ourselves” - ring true for him. Fortunately, the moment is fleeting.
Unfortunately, Will stops himself before he can return the gesture. He licks his lips to hide the slip, but Hannibal catches the way the muscles in his cheeks barely twitch in the millisecond before he corrects himself. As if he could hide anything from him - as if he doesn’t remember that Hannibal is the most fastidious and observant person he’s ever met and therefore nearly impossible to lie to. As if he hadn’t the scars to remind him.
It is more than enough for now. But not for long.
This firmly in mind, Hannibal hangs the towel and makes his next move.
“Shall we?” He offers his hand.
Will ignores the gesture, sliding off the stool with a dishonestly put-upon groan. He stretches his neck and it cracks audibly. Hannibal is tempted to reach out and rub it for him, if not snap it for his insolence.
"Alright," Will huffs, resigned. “Let’s get this over with.”
Hannibal frowns, but says nothing as he leads them out into the tepid morning. He puts his hand on Will’s lower back when they step through the threshold, testing the water’s surface for things that bite lurking beneath, but none emerge. Will allows the contact without so much as an incredulous glance in his direction. Or, God forbid, a smile. The antithesis of receptive. And not a promising sign.
Hannibal contemplates his various possible courses of action while they walk. With all the things they’d already done to each other, none of those atrocities alone had been enough to provoke the desired reaction. Not even dismantling the surrogate family he’d created for Will right before his eyes had done it. Though Hannibal considers perhaps later, in private, he might have sobbed on Abigail’s behalf. But what would make him do it now, in front of Hannibal? And what purpose would lead to the most satisfactory result?
Suddenly, he longs to relive the moment of their dance - he is an akrasia addict, searching for the next big high. They both are. But nothing could compare. That moment was utter perfection in that it was everything Hannibal had known he wanted it to be. And more, because in his arms his love had surprised him yet again. And Hannibal remembers, with great reverence, how blissful their fall had been.
Perhaps a dog, he thinks then. But it's a passing idea, for harming any animal for Will to see would more likely only facilitate their premature end. A complete end for one or both of them.
“How are you feeling this morning, Will?” Hannibal wonders, testing the waters once more.
“Great,” he lies through gritted teeth.
“Well rested?”
He glares at him out the corner of his eye. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Hannibal sighs shortly. “Yes, that is the question. How many hours was it last night? Three or four?”
“You should be asking how many minutes,” Will snarks under his breath.
“You’ve lost weight as well,” Hannibal says, allowing his displeasure to seep into his tone. It seems to him a little heavy-handedness would not go amiss here after all. “Tell me, Will, is bulimia something you’ve dealt with in the past, or is this a relatively green development?”
Will immediately balks and stops walking, aghast. He removes his glasses and rubs his forehead before answering.
“I’m not bulimic.”
“So, the issue is with the food. In that case you can rest assured, it has been quite some time since you’ve had to worry from where our meat is sourced. I would not risk exposing us merely for the sake of my… proclivities.”
The ‘yet’ goes unsaid, but not unheard according to Will’s expression.
“I’m not bulimic,” he says again, less antagonistic this time. “And I’m not worried about your sources. I wouldn't be here still if I was. I was dizzy and got sick. It’s probably just because I’m tired.”
“Well, then may I rest assured that you will successfully keep down your full dinner and be off to bed at a reasonable hour tonight?”
Will emits a scoff at that, followed by a sardonic, “Yes, Dad.”
Hannibal, mildly taken aback, chooses not to react to his goading. Still, the metaphorical light bulb flickers on. Will shoots him a pointed, urging look, and then they begin again to walk. Hannibal studies him intently all the while, and Will shifts around suspiciously under his gaze.
“Was your father particularly overbearing, Will?”
“Fuck,” he spits, cringing. “We’re not having this conversation right now.”
“And by ‘right now,’ you do, of course, mean ‘ever,’” Hannibal observes rather solemnly, though more than anything else, he’s frowning at the curse.
“Are you trying to make me feel guilty, Dr. Lecter?” Will’s tone is utterly incredulous and he purposefully isn’t meeting his eyes again. “Seems kinda below you. You don’t need to know every piece of my past in order to get what you want from me. Besides, some scars are better left unseen.”
“Some,” Hannibal concurs, “but I’d argue a strong desire to keep them covered up might also denote a need for further exploration into their cause.”
Will lets a sharp breath out his nose. “I should’ve known you’d be impossible about this.”
A long pause.
“He was militant,” he eventually offers, seeing no other way out, “when he needed to be. Not overbearing, exactly, wasn’t around enough. But he did the best he could when he was, and I feel no resentment towards him. There, are you satisfied?”
Hannibal hums his understanding and allows him to leave it at that. “For now,” he relents. It’s a small mercy, a reprieve as thanks for being acquiescent, so to speak, if not just a bit dishonest.
But Will, as always, remains unpredictable. He stops again, staring down at his feet and waiting until Hannibal does the same before looking up to meet his critical gaze with an equally piercing version of his own. His fingers flex, then curl.
“You know,” he says with a smirk, “now that I’ve figured out the new name of the game, I won’t make it easy for you.”
Hannibal chuckles, a lightness forming in his chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The remainder of the walk is spent basking in the sounds of nature. The singing of the birds in the distance is muffled by the raging wind, but is lovely all the same. The air is fragrant and floral, and Hannibal catalogs the scent in his memory palace in a room juxtaposed with his office, so that no matter what happens in the future he may return to this place and time with Will. Along with all the rest.
If he were anyone else, he might lament it’s inevitable end. But the longer they hike, the higher in the sky the sun climbs, and the more they begin sticking to the shady bits of the path. Eventually, the heat and Will’s fatigue catch up with him, he begins to drag, and they turn to head back in the direction of their temporary home almost simultaneously. And the moment forges on.