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He watches Hannibal swim from the balcony - long, sharp, strokes cutting through the surf, the sun just barely reddening in the horizon bathing everything in a bloody glow. Maybe it was the loss of the other’s warmth that had woken him, maybe it was just the strange sense that something had changed. There’s a creature deep inside of him now, he knows, one that had awoken with his trials, and still keeps one wary eye open as the world moves around him, warning as the variables shift. A romantic notion and a jaded one, his humorless laugh is lost to the wind. It’s fitting that the truth lies somewhere in the middle, it always does with them.
There’s a storm brewing in the horizon, he can feel it in the humidity that prickles through the air. It clings to his skin, humming with electricity, sets his hairs standing on end. Dark clouds are gathering in the farthest corners of his vision, the grey and red stark against each other, Hannibal, a twisting shape in the middle of it all. He watches him quietly as he swims out, deeper and deeper, the waters rollicking around him, churning harder now, as though displeased by such an intrusion so far into their depths, as though it is Hannibal who brings the storm.
Will’s gaze, when it is apparent, humanizes the other, brings a blush of softness to his form, pulls from him hints of broken things buried deep. But from here, from his cloak of distance, Will only senses methodical calculation, the chilling intensity of the other’s concentration, how close to the surface some things really are, bent back only by the same will power that drives his strokes...and the fear of losing something greater. Hannibal’s persona creeps into him so easily now, like a second skin, and he can almost sense the gnash of teeth, the metallic taste of blood from his lips twisting with the saltiness of the waves, the tangling battle against something so immovable, the welcome sting of pain.
The first drop of rain falls on Will’s cheek, but he scarcely notices, too wrapped up in Hannibal’s mind to feel the wind pick up, to hear the waves groaning. The urge to mutilate and transform sings through his veins, pumping through his heart, into his mind, all consuming, so easy it would be. Another stroke, his muscles crying, the adrenaline rippling through him. So simple and yet he fights it here in the waves as the storm breaks, frustrated noises that no one will ever hear ripping out of him. He scarcely knows why he fights it at all, only that it’s important that he does. Somewhere underneath the savage state he’d awoken in, his fingers itching to take the knife, to feel flesh beneath his as he shapes it, as he glories it, somewhere that seems very far away now, his mind rebels against itself, warns him of pain more terrible. There had been no consequences that mattered before, but he has gone down this path, has felt this loss, and he doesn’t care for it, has no wish to experience it again. A massive wave crashes across his body, for a moment Will jars from his mind with fear, but Hannibal continues swimming, seems unaffected and like the swirling waters, Will’s imagination pulls him under again, his own bare body wet now, heightening the illusion.
So instead of another’s flesh, Hannibal pounds himself, allows the ocean to push him this way and that, fights against the tides, swimming though there is no possible destination. It is simply a useless battle to exert his fury on, fury at what he desires, fury at what he cannot have. Will’s breath catches in his throat at the might of it, his fingers are clenched white on the soaking railing, whole body leaning forward, as though it might bring him closer. Hannibal’s rage bleeds into his own as it forms inside of him, choking him, uncovering itself from the places he sends it to, reforming from all the tiny shatters into a terrifying whole. It all seems so hopeless when he tastes what Hannibal longs for, who he is, the beast of blood and fire, the artist of bone and skin, seems as though they too are fighting windmills, his lips thin and curl, swimming through oceans. He cannot change Hannibal and Hannibal does not change. He shifts and mutates, takes on different sincerities, but who he is with Will does not preclude who he longs to be. Will hates him for that only as much as he loves him for it.
Lightening cuts the sky, Hannibal swims and fights, Will freezes and struggles, half in his own mind, half in madden curls of thought, the rain swirling in gouts around them. In this state it seems to him that they cause the onslaught, their tension bringing down the heavens, destroying the world. They could, the thought whispers through, they could burn everything. The dark thing beckons for a moment and he feels as Hannibal feels, understands the terrible desire and relishes it, longs for it.
No.
He tells it, as it reaches out with its horn of thorns, trying to ensnare him.
No.
He hears echoes in the parts of his mind not his own.
The illusion vanishes with another roll of thunder, the rain still falling, the storm still brewing, but the held breath loosens, something shifts. Without his realization, his feet carry him out, carry him down, drenched and shirtless, to the beach, the wet sand clinging to his feet, the wind pushing him forward.
It takes minutes that could be hours for Hannibal to emerge again, his body heavy, his eyes burning, and their cold lips meet in the downpour, a hungry intensity on both ends.
Love. Will thinks as the kiss burns him, as the hungry desires unfurl tenfold with proximity. He accepts their presence and kisses back.
Not every day can be made of sunshine and they are not the kind of creatures who crave only that.
They can hold up in the storm.