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This wasn’t happening.
And even if it was, it wasn’t.
Will placed a shaking hand on the knob of his door and pushed through to his house that now felt characteristically unlike a home. He looked at the chair Hannibal had sat in only hours ago.
His cut face. His messy hair.
It jerked him around from his stomach, the gaping absence that filled the house; a feeling Will was not expecting. He quickly placed a hand over his mouth, while a loud, breathy gasp echoed out of him. He dug his fingers into the side of his cheek and placed his other hand on a bookshelf, so careful to try and keep himself upright.
Why would he do this?
And it would be very different if Hannibal hadn’t looked right at him, down Will’s eyes and into his soul like a boat down the stream. It would be a different story if he could breathe at all. Will’s hand tremored over his face, his long sigh now turning into sharp, scared breaths.
Will you slip away with him? Part of me will always want to.
Will slowly made his way down to his knees, the energy to stand leaving his body indefinitely. He placed a hand on the ground to try and keep himself from laying down and sinking into the floor. Hannibal was gone now, taken to suffer an allotted eternity in prison, to have his soul stripped from himself.
A sick part of Will wished that he’d touched Hannibal, before. Or at all.
Maybe he would’ve touched his face, cupped his cheek in his hand or rolled his fingers down Hannibal’s bare arm. And maybe they would’ve gotten carried away and he would’ve kissed him. Long and slow and impossible to stop. Seeing Hannibal, knees on the snow, hands behind his head and surrendering, made Will want to touch him.
As long as Will could remember, his heart had been a toy in Hannibal’s hand. He couldn’t help but imagine how the roles had been reversed. The way Hannibal had permitted Will to hold his heart, instead. On his knees, lending his freedom to Will like a signed, favorite book. Will ripped his hand from the hardwood floor and placed it on his opposite shoulder. Pulled tight to hold the parts himself that were breaking together. He would not let himself fall apart over this.
But why had he done it?
Will thought about touching Hannibal, again. Breaking into the FBI vehicle, cracking the cuffs from his hands and running his fingers over his wrists. Carding over his veins and underneath his shirt. Will would dig his nails deep into his thick skin and ask, terrified, do you love me the way I love you?
Is that what you had intended to tell me?
However much the teacup had shattered, the fragments of it had begun dusting away a while ago. Sharp glass pestered through the room the longer Will imagined Hannibal’s surrender. He pulled his arm tighter across his chest to stop himself from getting sick.
After all this time? Surely not.
If Will had known. If he’d known it would have been different. They could have left, together. And if he’d known.
Will felt Hannibal’s name on his lips, pressing away from his mouth and wanting so badly to be said out loud. Would it be okay, to say his name? Will wondered.
“ Hannibal -” Will whispered into his cold fingers. Each syllable felt more indulgent than the last.
Why did he do this?
And more pressing- why did Will want to chase after him?