Chapter Text
Hannibal holds Will and aches. He appreciates the sensation, for all its foreignness, for the way it twists and turns him inside, subjects him to a helplessness he cannot fully grasp. Will is asleep, is tucked into his side, has allowed himself into Hannibal’s bed, given himself to Hannibal’s touch, but he is still not his. Hannibal can stroke his skin, can even creep into his mind, but he cannot possess him. In a fashion that is so unlike himself, Hannibal allows it. He does not simply take what he seeks, nor destroy the object of his afflictions. Instead, he hungers after the subtlest affections, chases any breadcrumbs the other is willing to throw in his direction. It is after all nothing he could force, what he longs for, but somewhere, though he is unwilling to admit it, he begins to despair that it is nothing he can have. Will dances out of his reach and he grabs out for him, time and time again, but it is never fast enough.
The strange ache eats away at him as he lies there, relishing in it, allowing it to grow inside him and infect him with its pain. His chest feels strangely full and his stomach almost sickly, every breath brings a sharp stab and he gasps with it, suddenly aware, strange understanding dawning, that his eyes are glistening, wetness welling in their corners and then spilling down the planes of his cheeks. He does not wipe the tears away and they streak his skin wet as everything becomes a tumult inside of him. His fingers curl into Will’s hair, pull him closer, his shoulders shaking with the weight of it, sounds that resemble the half gasps of a wounded animal somehow filtering out of his throat. They collect in the air and form a symphony of grief and desire around him, echo of different sounds that he has not allowed himself to recall for years, a different loss.
When he can focus enough to see the room around him again, he finds that Will has awakened, is watching him silently, expression unreadable in the near darkness. His fingers hesitate as they rise into the air, twitch for a moment and decide, splay themselves on the skin of Hannibal’s chest.
“I love you.” He tells him, and he barely recognizes his voice, cracked and croaking, tear stained and pain scarred.
“I know.”
Will is shuddering himself as he shifts, but the hand that rises to cup Hannibal’s chin is solid. Their lips meet and the kiss burns of sweetness, cuts of longing, but the only love in it is Hannibal’s.
“I wish that were enough.” Will murmurs against his lips as he pulls away, turns his body to the opposite wall, eyes shutting. He lies there, still, for a moment, but as Hannibal watches, his body curls in on itself, starts to shake. Silent sobs eat at Will now, the dim light catching their wetness and glistening. It steals the breath from his lungs.
Hannibal does not comment, only lays down himself, eyes closing, and releases his own pain once more to mingle with Will’s. They lie there, side by side, silently, each hurting over the other. Will is so deceptively close, but as ever, he is a gulf away, has come so near to Hannibal, only to ensconce himself in treacherous walls. He forces himself to breathe with the exquisite anguish of it. Will mutters cold words of how Hannibal has shaped and molded him in their sessions together, but it is he that is really the true sculptor, who has shredded away Hannibal’s skin and exposed the bloody heart beneath. And Will knows that he has and continues anyway, and for that he is all the more beautiful.
And even as Will’s fingers skirt over to his, as their skin tangles together, a play at bridging the distance, it is not enough. But he needs it and Will needs it, so he does not pull away, though he does not know why he holds on, just as Will does not know why he reaches out. He takes the precious breadcrumb and holds it, the little piece of Will that is like smoke in his fingers, but throbbingly alive for now.
They’ve promised each other not to lie, but truly, the thought flitters through his head as they both begin to drift off, they do not know what the truth is at all.