Work Text:
Will was falling again.
Plunging down towards the surface of the water, black except for the strings of of light on the ripples of waves. The fall robbed him of Hannibal’s warmth as his hands slipped, Hannibal stolen from his grasp. At the loss, in that brief moment they had left before hitting the unforgiving surface, Will called out his name. But it came out broken, the velocity of their fall tore it away and then he was swallowed by darkness.
He woke with a start. Before fully conscious, he leapt out of the bed, sweat-stained cover clinging to his skin, rapidly becoming cold. His heart pounded against the ribcage that constricted under his effort to breath. Will stumbled in the darkness, trying to get as far away as he could from the dream. A dream, a bad dream, a nightmare. His mind latched onto this incantation and he murmured it like a prayer, willing it into reality.
“Will?”
Finally, he made it into the living room. He had to lean against the door frame, and he felt himself slide down, but Hannibal was there, living, already standing up from the armchair, letting a book slip from his hand. Will panted like an exhausted dog and shivered like a kicked one. His hair was tousled and damp, eyes wide and ever-darting around as if searching for the threat that did not exist anywhere but his mind.
“Will, look at me. You are having a panic attack. I need you to focus on me.”
Will struggled to focus on anything. Words became a foreign concept, thoughts unfamiliar. He needed to breath.
“You are hyperventilating. Try to slow down. Breath in, hold your breath, then slowly breath out.”
Hannibal, crouched next to him, demonstrated. Once, twice, before the ritual finally became familiar, and he reflected by observing Hannibal’s chest move as he once upon a time did with his dogs. Absentmindedly, he followed the instructions, breathed in while Hannibal recited numbers, the amount of seconds he was supposed to keep the oxygen in his lungs, then exhaling way too soon with a huff.
After a few repetitions, Will stopped gasping for air, his posture slouching with exhaustion.
“Come with me.”
Will gave Hannibal an unimpressed look, head tipped back against the wall, lips still parted.
“I will not have you catch a cold, Will.”
Will hesitantly measured the distance he would have to cross to get to the armchairs, and he became to slide his way up. When Hannibal reached out for him, Will mirrored the movement with his own shaky hand. As he was pulled gently, but with a strength that would never cease to surprise him, instead of making his way towards a piece of furniture, he grabbed Hannibal’s shoulder and pulled him in.
If that surprised Hannibal, he quickly adjusted to Will’s trembling form. Will found a refuge in his warmth, reassurance in the certainty of arms around his torso, and comfort in the nook between hannibal’s neck and shoulder. He was wearing a soft cotton t-shirt, and Will absorbed his scent with hungry desperation.
“Did you have a nightmare?”
Will nodded. “About the fall,” he confided in a voice that was harsh and rasp as if he hasn’t spoken in days.
“What do you need?”
“This.”
Only now, after a few brief moments in Hannibal’s relief, did Will realize that a steady drizzle formed beads of water on the windows, not unlike the beads of sweat on his brow. While rain was once soothing, now the slow shower sounded more like fingers tapping with mischievous malevolence on the glass, it sounded like low, monotone whispers and murmurs in the air, ominous and distantly threatening.
He swallowed hard, remembering the signs, and tightened his grip on Hannibal.
“Come and sit with me,” he heard him say, and he let himself be guided gently to the sofa. He obediently sat when Hannibal pulled him down, his body going stiff once more. His legs trembled under his weight, so he concluded that might have been a good idea. He took a shaky breath.
“Talk to me. Tell me what is going on.”
“I dreamed… I thought that I lost you.”
Will avoided his gaze, resisting the urge to curl up on himself like a caterpillar in a cocoon of the blanket Hannibal threw over his shoulder.
“You need sleep,” Hannibal spoke eventually, earning a short hysterical chuckle form Will, despite the compassion he learnt to recognize and hate he detected in his voice.
“I wish I could.”
“What would you have me do for you?”
Will considered it. “I need a distraction. And I want you to stay close.”
Without a sign of hesitation or another word uttered, Hannibal let Will’s head rest on his shoulder, fingers combing through his hair. With his other, free hand, Hannibal reached over, grabbed the abandoned book, and started reading out loud.
“What time unto my sad and mournful cry,
Unto the ill-tuned music of my lyre,
The hill and mead, the plain and stream reply
In bitter echo of my vain desire.
Then take thou, wind, that heedless hastenest by,
The plaints which from my breast, chilled with love's fire,
Issue in my despite, asking in vain
Succour from stream and hill, from mead and plain.
The stream is swollen by the tears which flow
Forth from my wearied eyes : the flowery mead
Blooms with the brambles and the thorns that grow
Into my soul : the lofty hill doth heed
Nowise my sorrows ; and the plain below
Of hearing is awearied : in my need
No solace, e'er so small, to assuage my ill
I find in stream or plain, in mead or hill.
I thought the fire that sets the heart aflame,
Lit by the winged boy, the cunning net,
Within whose mesh he doth the gods entame,
The strangling noose, the arrow he doth whet
In frenzied wrath, would wound the peerless dame
As me they wound, who am her slave ; and yet
No noose nor fire hath power against a heart
That is of marble made, nor net nor dart.
But lo, 'tis I who burn within the blaze,
I waste away : before the net unseen
I tremble not : my neck I humbly place
Within the noose ; and of his arrow keen
I have no fear : thus to this last disgrace
Have I been brought—so great my fall has been
That for my glory and my heart's desire
The dart and net I count, the noose and fire.”
Clinging to his soft accent and burrowing into the ancient words of La Galatea, Will latched onto the presence to keep himself sane and whole.
“Amorous fancy, gently ride
On the breeze if thou wouldst show
That I only am thy guide,
Lest disdain should bring thee low,
Or contentment fill with pride.
Do thou choose a mean, if fate
Grants thee choice amidst thy plight,
Neither seek to flee delight
Nor yet strive to bar the gate
'Gainst the woe of Love's dark night.
Born therein, thy sinning lay
In thy birth ; the guilt was thine,
Yet for thee the heart must pay.
If to keep thee I design,
'Tis in vain, thou fleest away.
If thou stayest not thy flight,
Wherewith thou dost mount the skies
(Should but fate thy fortunes blight)
Thou wilt plunge in deep abyss
Thy repose and my delight.
Thee to undeceive I seek,
For I understand the meaning :
'Tis the humble and the meek,
Rather than the overweening,
Who of Love's delights can speak.
Greater beauty cannot be
If with confidence united
Whence it draws its destinies.
But if once its hope be blighted,
Fading like a cloud it dies.
Thou who lookest from afar
On the goal for which thou sighest.
Hopeless, yet unto thy star
True,—if on the way thou diest,
Diest knowing not thy care.
Naught there is that thou canst gain,
For, amidst this amorous strife,
Where the cause none may attain.
Dying is but honoured life,
And its chiefest glory pain.”
As he was reading the passages, Luci, ever attentive, hopped on the couch from Will’s other side. The warmth caught between under her fur where he buried his fingers and the weight of her form helped him remain grounded. With repetitive movements, he petted her, and she sighed contently.
“She watches over you like the most loyal of angels,” Hannibal noted when he finished reading, and Will laughed weakly, head still resting on Hannibal’s shoulder.
“Like you,” he teased. Then the playfulness faded away from his voice. “I wouldn’'t know how to exist in a world without you... after you. I thought I lost you.”
Hannibal’s fingers froze, then resumed their movement. The gentle touch, a point of contact made Will blink slowly with innocent kind of pleasure as the tension continued to seep away from his stomach and shoulders and arms. Hannibal didn’t speak, letting the silence of the moment stretch over them.
“Mistakes are easily made. Apologies are not. Grief is natural-”
“So is death. I don’t want either.”
“What is it that you want, Will?”
Will felt his lips curl up in a bitter smile. “All I ever wanted for us was a happy ending.”
“Is this not it?”
He scoffed. “Kill everything you hold dear to you. Then you will know how it feels.”
“I tried, Will. Don’t you remember?”
Will swallowed. He did remember. “I’d never hurt you. Not unless you forced me to.” Will hated how desperate his voice sounded to his own ears.
“Are you trying to elicit a similar statement from me?” Hannibal sighed. “So be it. I am not going to intentionally hurt you. As for the guilt you feel… ,“ if he felt Will twitch under his hand, he did not comment on it, “know this: no matter what you’ve done or will do, I’d fall for you all over again.”
Will nudged Hannibal into his side, none too gently. “That’s not funny.”
Hannibal smiled. “You should go back to sleep, Will. Wounds still fresh will not get better without rest.”
“Yes, doctor.” Despite the sarcastic agreement, Will didn’t make any move. Instead, he burrowed further, closer into Hannibal’s side, and deeper into the blanket. Hannibal seemed to understand his intent. Will saw him watching even with his eyes closed. “Will you keep reading?”
Instead of answering, Hannibal simply obliged. Will supposed that that was, in a way, the best answer.