Hannibal turns his cheek into the press of Will’s palm, relishes in the slight sheen of sweat he finds there, the way he’ll be able to feel the touch linger on his cheek because of it, long after Will has removed his hand. He’s shaking, too. Once, Hannibal might’ve believed it to be anxiety, or the encephalitis. Now though, he knows it is anticipation coursing through Will’s veins. He can smell it.
He hums, still pressing into Will’s touch, eyes closed and accepting of whatever it is that will come. “So it is.” He has shared his bed for months without ever approaching the closeness he feels here with Will, beneath his blade, at his mercy.
“Do you see it, Will?” He whispers, seeking out Will’s gaze with an almost urgent drive to the words. It’s never been more imperative that Will see him, than it is now. “Can you see how I would do it? What art will you make of me?” He is desperate to know, though even now, his words are delivered placidly. Only his eyes give him away, he can feel how they burn.
And he does burn. His blood is pumping through his veins at a distracting pace, coursing with adrenaline and perhaps a bit of oxytoxin as well. Will has moved him in a way he cannot remember feeling since Murasaki, perhaps even beyond that. His affections have had time to grow, billowed by Will’s sight, by his refusal to turn away from the things he sees in Hannibal. Perhaps Will will kill him, but Hannibal believes he’ll do it without looking away, without breaking eye-contact, and finds he almost looks forward to it.
“You’ve taken no measures to secure my neck or my head, I noticed. You’ve left me my teeth, Will. Do you intend for me to use them?” A compelling thought, and one he’s entertaining not for the first time. His teeth in Will’s throat, exposing the soft undercarriage of the jaw. He could reach in through the mandible and pharynx and wrap his fingers around Will’s spinal cord, perhaps even reach his brain with a little dexterity. He feels a pulse of desire, pure want. It’s not quite sexual, no it’s far beyond mere physical stimulation he feels, and all the more carnal for it. Desires of the flesh. He has many desires regarding Will Graham’s flesh.
Tension laced the thick silence, his grip on the knife more tight yet less steady with every inhalation. Though neither man spoke for several seconds, their closeness in such a confined space deafened Will. His own heart--or was that Hannibal’s?--drummed in his chest, loud in his ears. Their breath mingled between them, every inhale and exhale saturated with anticipation. He watched the hands--his hands--as if they were suddenly beyond his control, as if they may move and begin without his command. This may have perturbed him had the intention not been to do himself what they might by their own volition.
How fascinating it was, the reconciliation of his body and mind.
William might have continued to dwell on the notion had Hannibal’s voice not returned his consciousness to his body, suddenly granting him awareness of how the older man leaned into his touch. Graham felt himself standing on a ledge, looking down into the darkness clouding the depths of the chasm. The man toed at the void, determining whether or not to answer the call.
Everything felt damp as if waking from a nightmare, but the young man never fell asleep and remembered his last waking. His hair, clinging to his face, collected too much moisture from his skin, which his clothes clung to.
Hannibal whispered to him. Will nearly shuddered, reality bending into a dream yet dream dissolving into reality. This easily could be both, neither. Suddenly, he didn’t know. Did it matter? Would he wake up in his bed? Would he wake up elsewhere? Was he awake now? Do you see it, Will?
The answers pushed past his lips, “Yes.” Another breath or two passed them by before Will’s eyes move to directly meet Hannibal’s gaze. Can you see how I would do it? What art will you make of me? The blonde’s look burned into him, the intensity almost painful yet intolerably enticing.
“You would consume my brain--” His hand shifted from Hannibal’s neck down to rest on his chest, fingers pressing on the skin just over his heart, “--but--” His tongue whetted his lips, which tingled as he spoke, Will teetering ever closer to the void he had led himself to, “--I want your heart. But--not--not until the end.”
You’ve taken no measures to secure my neck or my head, I noticed. You’ve left me my teeth, Will. Do you intend for me to use them?
The muscles in his back relaxed, not in the least surprised Hannibal had noticed. This intentional oversight served a dual purpose, though Will himself had only had one in mind: a failsafe, “One of us has to die.” The words came from a place of acceptance, “If you don’t, I trust I will.” The world could not handle two, and after this evening, if one did not die, then everyone would burn.
Preferably, both would cease to exist after tonight.
Then, deeper down, a second purpose. One Will refused to speak, refused to acknowledge, refused to accept. Hannibal’s teeth embedded in his skin, in his throat, tearing at him--a pulse of pure want, pure need. How could this be his becoming without engagement, without participation?
Nothing could be more wrong than for the evening to proceed without conflict.
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