Work Text:
Despite the pain and the freezing cold, Will felt him. He felt him against his thigh and his ribcage, felt his palms sending heat back into his bloodstream. There was a distant desire crawling into his consciousness, past the emptiness, past the pain and the part of him convinced he was already dead. The desire to die right here in his arms.
Being saved by him after almost being killed by him over and over was like freezing in a fraction of time between life and death and finding comfort on that fine line. He had been balancing on that line, stumbling, bleeding, consuming, for far longer than either life or death should have allowed. There, having barely escaped the horrors of Muskrat Farm and being carried over the glistening snow by Hannibal Lecter, the line was clearer than ever.
Hannibal was supposed to be the death of him. He had an air of immortality to him that pushed the limits of humanity. The taste of that air was bitter but smelled so divine. Which is what he imagined a death in his arms to feel like. Heavenly. Go with the devil and feel like a god.
It was his own house he woke up in. His bed. Not from sleep but from a comatose nothingness. Dead, Will thought. He thought he was dead. But the moment passed and he was still on Earth. Another ridiculous game with Death, playing tricks. Or God. Whoever was up there, down there.
“Cold,” he uttered, barely a whisper, a breath. Knowing Hannibal was with him. He was always with him. He stared at him from the end of the bed. Even through closed eyes, Will felt it.
As always, Hannibal listened. And when he felt like it, he would act. He was so quiet in everything he did. The weight shifted on the mattress. There he was.
Hot. God, he needed him. A warm body. Will was still freezing. He could still die, couldn’t he? And if he wasn’t dying ... Would he still invite him in?
Hannibal pushed his left shoe off with his right, his right off with his left foot, and yes, there he was. Dark red socks. A cashmere sweater. Of course. It’s cold outside. Not that that ever held him back from wearing three-piece-suits and dress shoes all winter long. Now, without those things, who was he? It almost seemed staged. But what wasn’t with Hannibal? Playing human. Here, with him, pretending to be the warm body Will was looking for. Will could do nothing but be drawn to him.
He put his head on Hannibal’s chest, overwhelmed by his warmth and soft cashmere. For a second, Hannibal seemed to hesitate, his hand lifting only to hover in mid-air. Was this not staged? Was this human? As his hand finally found Will’s shoulder, sending a warm sensation through his body like a wave, Will could only think that if Hannibal had planned this - the cashmere sweater, the humanity, the invitation into his bed - that still meant he had planned to be like this for Will. To be soft for Will because it was what he would need. So even though Hannibal was playing him, and that was the last thing Will thought before finally drifting away, it was still Will he was playing for. What happens to the wolf that cannot eat the lamb?
Will shook his head at the memory now. It would not help him. When Hannibal had come through his door as he woke again, Will had sent him away.
I don’t want to think about you anymore.
For each pull he felt towards him, he must push him away harder. It was so easy to give in, wasn’t it? And every time he did not feel close to Hannibal anymore, he would seek him out again. Why? He knew he would lose himself in Hannibal’s orbit, crashing into him at last. A planet like him had swallowed many comets. What was one more to him? But Will had changed him more than one crater on an endless surface. Who could say, after all this time, who was caught in whose orbit? If Hannibal was the planet, maybe Will was the sun.
They had been looking all over the world for each other. Followed each other till death do them part. He remembered the many times he thought he would die, and how little that seemed to matter as long as he was with Hannibal. But he could not remember ever truly believing that Hannibal could die. Even as he had sent someone to kill him, it hadn’t been possible to imagine a world without him. Was he not immortal?
That belief had become such a part of him that he felt a moment of profound emptiness now, looking down on Hannibal Lecter, eyes closed and motionless with his head in Will’s lap. He looked peaceful and, Will probably imagined this, rather pleased with himself. You do care about me, after all, he would say. Provided he wasn’t dead.
For each pull he felt towards him, he must push him away harder, yes. Three years Will had pushed. But giving in to the pull had felt so good. Then they had killed together. Pulling a beast apart. He would have slaughtered the whole world with him in that moment, with pleasure. So he had pushed one last time. Pushed them softly off the bluff. If the wolf won’t eat the lamb, will the wolf die of hunger?
Will did not remember the fall. A second or a year they fell together, he couldn’t be sure. But he remembered the water. Filling him up, pushing him way down into the underworld. He remembered the strength he felt as he was diving after Hannibal, holding onto him like a candle held a flame.
All of this was circling around Will’s mind as he was searching all the memories and their pain for an answer. He was sitting on the beach like a wet dog, holding a serial killer, staring at the black velvet water he had crawled out of. He wondered if Hannibal had felt like this all those times he had played with Will’s life, considering if it was worth saving. Had he flipped a coin? Will didn’t have a coin on him, but he had ... a glimpse of humanity in maroon eyes, cashmere sweater and killing the Great Red Dragon. The coin was in mid-air.
Placing Hannibal’s head gently on the sand, he knelt over him, both hands firmly pressed on his ribcage. Then he began to pump. Pump, pump, pump. It felt like he was killing him. Pump, pump, pump. It felt beautiful. Pump, pump, pump. Come on, move, you bastard. Pump, pump, pump. Move, so I can see your face in pain while I break your ribs. Pump, pump, pump. Hannibal would be so proud to see him trying to defeat death. Consumed by the power over a life. But Hannibal did not move to tell him. Slowly, Will began to panic. No, that wasn’t right. Nothing could kill him. Hannibal was smoke.
What do you do with a dying flame?
Will opened his mouth and brought his lips to Hannibal’s. He was breathing the life back into him. His air became Hannibal’s. Pump, pump, pump again. And he let a piece of himself flow into him. When Hannibal finally started gasping for air and coughing up half the ocean into the sand, Will felt like he had done the unholiest of deeds. He looked at him with eyes hot and burning, and Hannibal mirrored his expression perfectly.
The Devil came back to life.
There couldn’t be a god if the both of them were allowed to survive while so many others had fallen. And yet, they were survivors. A pair of antlers began to rise out of the waters to follow. But they were already gone.