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There was a moment in that sickening, euphoric rush toward the sea in which Will considered letting go and allowing the roiling, rolling mass to take one or both of them.
It was only a moment, and then Will was clutching Hannibal to him and grappling with the ocean. Somehow, he managed to drag Hannibal from the surf. His eyes scanned the darkness and found what they sought. He stumbled toward the craggy cliffside. Hannibal’s arm was a heavy weight over Will’s shoulder; his breath came in labored pants.
“You seem remarkably sure of your direction, Will,” he commented. Will imagined he saw a smile lurking on Hannibal’s lips, though in the dark it might’ve been a grimace. No, this was Hannibal. Will was almost certain it was a smile—knowing and amused and baring sharp teeth.
“I memorized the map.” Hannibal had insisted they both ‘freshen up before the festivities begin’ when they arrived at the house. Will had found clothes in his size laid out on the bed after he’d showered. He’d given in to the impulse to check the pockets as he put them on. He found in one of them a folded map of the cliffside. An illustration of a sail boat, circled in red and labeled The Nola marked a spot. “I was surprised by your lack of subtlety.” He’d been afraid, too; he'd felt his resolve crumbling, as thin and brittle as paper.
Hannibal’s fingertips slid along the wet fabric clinging to Will’s shoulder. “There are times when we must sacrifice aesthetics for something of even greater value.”
“And what would that be?”
Hannibal tipped his head back, glittering eyes reflecting the moonlight. “I think I’ve made that abundantly clear, Will.”
“You have.” Something ached in Will’s chest. Maybe it was guilt. He wasn’t sure where it was directed, whether toward Hannibal, or Molly, or even Abigail.
When they got to the boat, Hannibal collapsed onto the damp cabin floor, and Will’s guilt evaporated in the face of sudden, all-encompassing fear.
“Hannibal?” If Hannibal didn’t survive this... “No, you’re now allowed to leave.”
Hannibal’s eyes had fallen shut, his face slack. Will sucked air between his teeth and said Hannibal’s name again, louder this time. From the back pocket of his pants, he pulled out the map, sopping wet and disintegrating. He slapped it against Hannibal’s chest, careful of the wound. “I could have given a signal. Could have left the map somewhere Jack would find it. I jumped instead. Do you know what that means?”
No response from Hannibal. Will pressed his hands to Hannibal’s chest, still rising and falling. Relief prickled in his eyes.
“‘No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend,’” he whispered. “You did that for me. More than once.” In Will’s memories, Hannibal’s patient notes shriveled in the fire; Hannibal’s hands folded behind his head as he knelt in the snow; Hannibal’s teeth sank into Dolarhyde’s flesh. When Will grazed Hannibal’s lips with his, they felt impossibly cool, but he persevered. “I’m doing it for you, Hannibal. Here it is.” He offered another kiss, soft skin against soft skin. My life. Everything. “Claim it.”
Hannibal’s eyes remained closed, but his hand lifted and touched Will’s back, urging him closer. His lips met Will’s for another kiss.
“Are you certain this is a gift you are willing to give me, Will?” Hannibal asked, tone careful and polite, but holding a note of bright, glorious hope.
“No,” Will admitted. His hands cradled Hannibal’s face. “Will that stop you from taking it?”
The smile that curved Hannibal’s lips was clearly visible now. “I’m not so selfless, even where you are concerned.” His voice was reverent. “I’ve wanted this gift for far too long.”
Will released a shuddering breath, jumping yet again into dark, unfathomable depths. “You have it,” he assured Hannibal.