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“...And when I find my way out of the land of the dead, I’ll drift about forever, all my atoms, until I find you again.” - Philip Pullman
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Will hadn’t planned on dying. Not this soon. Things had just fallen into place after years of being on the run, and in some sick twist of fate, Will found himself dead. He’s made peace with it—somewhat. It’s just that he has no idea what happened to the one he left behind.
Hannibal.
Tales of old never spoke of the souls who are too deep in the In-Between to haunt the living but not deep enough to break the tie. Wanderers, Will’s kind are called. The title’s accurate, in a sense, because that’s all Will can do. He can’t leave here without Hannibal, but there’s no way for Will to see where Hannibal is, let alone if his soul still resides in the In-Between. The Reaper keeps track of every soul that drinks from the Spring, but they won’t open the records without a good cause. Especially not for the likes of a Wanderer who rejects the water of Spirit on every anniversary of his death. Resistant souls are considered pests and Will’s reputation won’t tip the scales in his favour.
However, the argument is simple - Will would pass on when he finds Hannibal. He’d said so to the Reaper the first time Will was summoned to the Spring. Enough years have passed since the Reaper stopped asking him. Will’s answer never changed. Scaling the cliffs, his mind provides visions of the small, sacred moments he and Hannibal had shared before his death in vivid detail; pinpricks of light in an otherwise dark lack of existence. They’re all Will has left of a lifetime together cut short. His heart boils in agony the longer Will ruminates on what he’s lost, palms pressed into his eye sockets. It’s been so long that Will worries he’ll forget what Hannibal looks like by the time they cross paths again. He only has his memories to go by, and memories are fickle things. Bitter things.
The night he’d died, Will was going to ask Hannibal to marry him. He’d had it all planned out for months, the time, the place, the presentation. The weight of the engagement ring nestled in his palm is one of the last things Will can conjure from the time of his death. Did Hannibal ever find out about that ring after Will died in the crash? There’s no way of Will knowing. That entire morning, Hannibal hadn’t strayed far, sat in the passenger seat of Will’s car while Will drove. It was no Bentley, but Hannibal had looked as content as one of his tastes could be in a car interior riddled with stubborn dog fur.
Will remembers apologising. He also remembers how Hannibal had done nothing but lean over the gear shift to pull Will into a smiling kiss. How breathless they’d been when they finally pulled apart, both men seeking the grounding presence of the other who’d seen it all and stayed regardless. Hannibal had chuckled softly, at what Will didn’t catch, his steady fingers enveloping Will’s. His thumb did that little thing it always did when Will and Hannibal held hands, brushing back and forth across Will’s knuckles. Every so often, Hannibal would peck the back of his hand, catching Will off-guard every time. Smug, handsome bastard. If they’d made it to the villa before he died, Will would’ve sought to wipe the pleased smirk clean from Hannibal’s face. Set him right. Of course, as it stands, Will didn’t get to follow that through.
The eve of his Summoning looms above Will’s head, interrupting the bittersweet swell of thoughts playing in the theatre of his brain. He picks himself up from the ground, rolls his shoulders, and makes his way to the Spring. Another Summoning, another chance at finding Hannibal. That’s what Will would tell himself before he’d choose not to drink from the water of Spirit. The ceremony itself is a simple, private thing. Most do it alone, but couples and families sometimes will partake together if their deaths coincide. Where this takes place, the Spring, radiates pure serenity. Its flowing water is cool to the touch. Will spots his reflection in the ripples, trying to ignore how frail he looks. At the beginning of his residence in the In-Between, Will’s body hadn’t appeared so lifeless. An unfortunate side-effect of staying here. The Reaper had once informed Will that he and another were the oldest among the wandering souls. He feels it now.
Calling to his base instincts, the water of Spirit beckons for Will to free himself from his self-imposed purgatory. It’s getting harder and harder to resist the After’s pull. Being detached from the Source for so long has resulted in Will’s annual trips to the living world lasting no more than a few minutes at a time. One can’t stay in the In-Between after their Summoning ceremony, otherwise, he would. Either to the After or the land of the living, do you go. Without Hannibal, there’s only one option Will can take. The water of Spirit slides through Will’s translucent fingers. His heart starts pumping again, nerves buzzing with borrowed energy. What he’s not anticipating is the warmth of a hand coming to rest upon his shoulder, making him flinch. The thumb sweeps back and forth across the threadbare silk of Will’s dress shirt and it takes everything in him not to crumble into the dirt.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
“Hannibal?” Will chokes on his tongue, watching his tears mingle with the water of Spirit. A beloved face mirrors his own upon its surface.
“Will.”
Will doesn’t cry. He can’t cry because he’s dead. The hand, now two, wrap around Will’s shoulders tighter than he’s ever felt someone hold him in life or death—followed by a chin settling upon the crown of Will’s head and tucking him close. His thinning resolve shatters when Will realises Hannibal would be gone by the time Will returns. His Summoning must be after Will’s, for the Spring wouldn’t have appeared to Hannibal otherwise. This stolen moment in each other’s arms, as every victory, comes with a fatal catch. They’re a tragic spectacle of two deteriorating souls, Will and Hannibal. Forever seeking union only to be brought down again and again by the powers that be. Divine intervention, Hannibal would call it. Divine seems too kind of a word for something so cruel. Yet, Will holds on all the same. Hannibal’s ribcage jolts against Will’s spine in a staccato rhythm of muffled sobs and Will feels like a secondhand Patroclus, dying on the battlefield. Another wave of wracking tears hits Will at the golden glint of the familiar band upon Hannibal’s left hand.
He’d kept it. The son of a bitch had kept the ring.
In front of the Spring, Will latches onto Hannibal’s embrace, begging, begging, begging the In-Between to take it all back. It’s no use. Hannibal had found him, had been looking for him just as Will has been searching for Hannibal all this time. Once inseparable, conjoined, just for life after death to force them apart. It leaves Will hollow with fatigue.
—
Hannibal had never intended for his final moments to consist of bleeding out in a car wreck, stroking the cold skin of Will’s hand. He’d hoped these minutes might’ve been spent asleep in the likes of a warm bed within a loving home, where he would go to join his Will in the afterlife. It was simply what they deserved after everything he and Will had gone through together. Company. Hannibal hadn’t accounted for his fragile mortality ruining the plan.
The pungent tang of iron, blood, floods his senses. An undercurrent of cloves, pink pepper, and cashmeran blooms amidst the reek of oil smoke and burnt rubber—the cologne he’d given Will as a Christmas gift the year they settled in Cuba. He only wore it on special occasions. What had Will planned for them? Hannibal softens at Will’s subtle attention to detail. Even on Death’s door, Will is perfect. Sirens blare in the near distance, signalling help is coming their way. Not that Hannibal would make it, but Will could. Unbuckling his seatbelt, Hannibal moves his hand to staunch the flow of blood from Will’s lower abdomen. The motion evokes a sense of déjà vu in Hannibal. It’s the same course of action he’d forced himself not to take when Hannibal had gutted Will in his heartbreak another lifetime ago. That cursed day faded into a thing of the past after the fall, yet Hannibal would be lying to himself if he hadn’t thought about it since then. Licking old wounds like a dog.
Will is still alive. Hannibal intends to keep it that way. Their eyes meet, burning holes into each other’s skulls. It’s a welcome exchange. Always has been. Today had been too perfect for it to end like this. Fate didn’t care. Will had planned this trip for the two of them, had wanted it to be special. Reining in his unruly adoration had proven impossible for Hannibal, who’d wasted no opportunity in reminding Will of the extent of said fondness. He may never get the chance to do so again.
Under the yellow haze of a lone streetlight, Hannibal commits to memory the slope of Will’s nose, the bow of his upper lip. Takes in the sharp planes of his cheekbones, his jaw. Hannibal could die at peace reminiscing how it feels to kiss that blessed mouth. Pure euphoria, love incarnate. Time slides by too fast for Hannibal’s liking. Will attempts to say something, erupting into wet, hacking coughs. He’s trying, Hannibal sees. Beautiful boy, beautiful creature. Keeping pressure on the wound, Hannibal brushes a stray curl from Will’s forehead. Will’s lips purse in response, wide eyes drooping in exhaustion.
“It’s alright, Will, I have you,” Hannibal murmurs, holding him steady. It’s no surprise Will realises too soon that Hannibal, too, is bleeding—always so observant—pushing Hannibal’s hand away from his belly with a displeased grunt.
“Why are you like this?” Will manages to hiss, no real bite in his tone. He hoists himself up, most likely with great difficulty, and inspects Hannibal for injuries. Will’s breath hitches and Hannibal sighs in understanding, the shards of metal lodged in his chest on display for anyone to see thanks to the angle of the collision. They’ve both lost a concerning amount of blood and the resulting lightheadedness is only a fraction of the pain. Trembling, Will clutches onto something nestled in his right hand, slipping unconscious due to the loss of oxygen. Hannibal lunges to catch the object before it hits the asphalt below them.
A ring.
Fighting the anguish chipping away at his composed facade, Hannibal slides it onto his left hand. Curse the powers that be, for ‘til death do they part is a phrase too shallow for his love. He’s lost most of the feeling in his fingertips, in his limbs. Perhaps, it’s a good thing. The ugly horde of emotions swarming within Hannibal’s veins would overtake him otherwise. He and Will both had thought to propose. Tears build in Hannibal’s eyes when he fishes for the velvet box containing Will’s ring in his coat pocket. It’s still there. If only he could give it to Will. Medics have arrived, but Hannibal doesn't pay attention to their fussing around him. Until now, that is, as he lets himself be laid across a stretcher.
He spies Will being hauled into another ambulance, still comatose. They’ll save him. Hope seeps into his burning muscles, soothes his ragged heart. Some childlike part of Hannibal hopes they’ll both survive. What is a car crash to a cliff fall? Yet, this time, it hadn’t been of their own volition. Someone else was to blame. Someone whom Hannibal, if he were to survive, would carve into the marrow of their very bones the extent of their shame. In another life, then. His left aorta has been punctured; the offending piece of shrapnel protruding from Hannibal’s ribs confirms as such. Death will take him soon. Will’s fate, however, Hannibal can’t determine. All he can do is pray the best outcome occurs for them.
They’ll meet again on the other side someday.
Hannibal can wait forever if he has to. He won’t leave without Will. Not this time.
Gravity loses its hold as Hannibal’s soul abandons his physical body. His engagement ring, or more accurately, an apparition of it, remains upon his finger where it belongs. If only he’d gifted Will his ring. Something to signify their connection, even in death. Drifting towards the stars, Hannibal makes a second vow. No matter where Will ends up, Hannibal would find him. Neither of them should have to face the afterlife alone.
—
The Reaper hovers around Will, their blank slate of a face somehow expressing deep concern. He’d lasted five minutes in the living world before it spat him back out. Will, in that time, had journeyed to Hannibal’s unmarked grave in Florence, needing to see it for himself. Chiyoh had found him there, of course. She didn’t mention anything about how long it had been since Hannibal died—both of them knew better. Instead, she’d handed Will a small velvet box and left. The mortician, while preparing Hannibal’s body, had found it stashed in one of his coat pockets. God, did Fate have a twisted sense of humour.
Travelling back and forth between dimensions took a much larger toll on Will than he’d bargained for, his spirit paralysed from the waist down. At least Will got his closure. The invisible gates of the After swing open, waiting for Will to drink his fill of the water of Spirit—waiting for him to come home.
“Your partner in spirit, he remains as stubborn as you are,” The Reaper breaks the heavy silence crushing Will, their tone matter-of-fact, “The connection between your souls refuses to sever despite the enduring length of time you’ve spent apart. That is rare.”
“So, I’ve been told,” Will replies, looking everywhere but toward the After’s gates. He fiddles with his ring. “You know my answer.”
“Your answer has never changed, William Graham. Time, however, is no longer on your side. Your spirit is collapsing upon itself.” Will’s jaw clenches at the statement, confirming his worst fears. He urges, prays that his spirit keeps itself together. Just until he finds Hannibal. The Reaper raises their scythe to the gunmetal sky and the gates of the After shut with a resounding thud. Before Will can ask them why the Reaper moves to depart. “Your soul has suffered long enough. I am sorry I cannot give you what you seek. Yet, your partner in spirit, his Summoning awaits.” Will doesn’t have to be told twice. He gathers up the last of his strength with a shuddering breath, arms outstretched.
The Spring.
He has to get there before Hannibal rejects the water of Spirit; before he’s sent away to a place where Will can’t follow him. He’s not stupid enough to believe he’ll survive another year in the In-Between. It’s now or never. The second the Reaper disappears, Will acts. He hauls his body across the ground with a determination so feral his fading spirit thunders with colour.
“Don’t leave without me, Hannibal,” Will grits his teeth, aware of what’s at stake, “Don’t you dare leave without me!”
—
Hannibal’s heart almost burst in shock when he’d found Will at the Spring. He was not one to be surprised by anything, but Will—he’d always been an exception. It was the day of Hannibal’s Summoning, so he’d ventured there in preparation for it. Rejecting the water of Spirit had become a show of devotion for Hannibal rather than rebellion for the sake of rebellion. The reasoning was straightforward. Hannibal couldn’t pass on to the After without Will. He promised to never abandon him, and Hannibal would not break that promise. Even if it had meant he would tarry alone in the In-Between for a thousand years.
At the first sight of his beloved kneeling before the water, Hannibal didn’t know whether to break down and weep or to kiss Will senseless in his resounding joy. A torturous eternity had passed since they’d last seen each other’s face. Held each other. Said hello. For so long had Hannibal haunted these barren lands in search of Will that he’d forgotten what it was like to rest. He’d do so once they ventured to the After in tandem. Will, his dearest Will, had kept his side of their vow as Hannibal trusted he would. None of this had been in vain. For either of them.
That was before Hannibal realised he’d interrupted Will’s Summoning. Pieces of the puzzle slotted together as Hannibal made his approach, having missed Will more than anything. The colour had faded from Will’s sunken features like he was the subject of a grayscale portrait; more so than in Hannibal’s weary visage. Will looked so fragile. So worn down. Another trip to the mortal realm would no doubt leave his spirit too weak to wander. If Will and Hannibal partook from the water of Spirit together, they could enter the After without further endangering Will.
“Hannibal?” Will’s voice was small. Unsure. Hannibal had placed his hand upon Will’s shoulder, his thumb stroking the thin silk of Will’s dress shirt out of habit. Before they’d died, Will would flinch when Hannibal did as little as kiss the back of his palm. It had always amused Hannibal, how easy it was to get a flustered reaction out of Will. Nothing had changed for them, even in the spirit world.
“Will.” Hannibal’s strangled voice echoed, unable to process that Will was there, he was there! Will’s responding fit of sobs brought a wave of compassion over Hannibal that only Will could evoke, pulling him to the ground. Hannibal knew that feeling, knew it so intimately it had left him numb in his sorrow. He wrapped himself as he would a blanket around Will’s back, offering comfort. Will moulded himself into Hannibal’s embrace, his knuckles clenched white. No words needed to be said for Hannibal to know that Will hadn’t sipped from the water of Spirit. To the living world, Will was headed. Which meant that Will hadn’t survived the crash as Hannibal thought he had. They’d died on the same night, at the same place. Close enough in death that their Summonings lay one after the other. By the time Will came back, Hannibal would already be gone. The Spring wouldn’t allow either of them entry after Hannibal’s Summoning. The reality angered him, blinding rage coiling in the pit of his being. How many more years did Hannibal have to spend in this circle of Hell only to burn alive in agony without Will, his Will?
The Spring, as if it hears his whirling mind, appears from the surrounding fog. Having not moved since Will was ripped from his grasp, Hannibal can’t stand to continue the Summoning. Water spills from the rocks, flooding the clearing, and Hannibal still won’t move, won’t even lift his head. His failure to keep Will safe is too much for his conscience to bear. The water of Spirit caresses his skin as a lover would and Hannibal keeps his silent vigil, suspended in the amber of grief. Will can’t come back, won’t come with him to the After. Will is the oldest soul in the In-Between save for Hannibal himself, he understands this. Wants to believe he’ll get out unscathed. He won’t. Hannibal waits, prays that Will finds him. Out of denial, out of naive hope, he can’t say.
Hannibal waits—because it’s all he’s ever done.
—
The billowing grass surrounding Will is taller than he remembers it being. Black soil stains his hands, his elbows, his knees, settling under his fingernails. If Will were alive, he’d be writhing in pain. The rocky expanse of the cliffs spares no pity for a fading soul on the brink of his second death. Will can’t afford to lose any more time than he already has. The clock is ticking. For Will, his last chance to save his soul lies with Hannibal. How fitting it is for them.
In the near distance, Will hears the bubble of the Spring. He swivels in that direction, breathing, breathing, forgetting to breathe. Will recognises the outline of Hannibal’s spirit flickering in the inky abyss. He tastes the electricity of Source, how it pounds against his skull the closer to Hannibal Will crawls. It’s dizzying with power, the power that he needs to persist. His right arm turns to stone. Will curses under his breath. He’s down to one arm. One hand, his left. Like a compass, his engagement ring guides Will through the pitch black of the In-Between. It’s never been this dark before. Three working fingers. The grass gives way.
He’s found the Spring.
Static panic. Pumping pulse.
Is this how Hannibal had found Will? Will sees in shades of survival, six senses reduced to a primal level. Two fingers. One. Hannibal kneels several feet away from him. The water of Spirit curls around Will’s immobile form, soaking his clothes. From the neck down, Will can’t move. He’s terrified, terrified his voice will cut out before Hannibal notices his presence. The ocean roars below the Spring, waves crashing against the cliffs. A voice. A familiar voice.
“Will?” Hannibal calls out to him, and Will’s ears clog with white noise. Hannibal repeats Will’s name, sprinting towards him like a madman. “Will!”
“Hannibal,” Will answers, smiling up at Hannibal’s worried expression, his brown eyes blown wide in fear. Since when did Hannibal Lecter wear such an emotion? Only after death. “You’re still here.”
“Yes, I’m here.” Hannibal nods, lifting Will’s head to rest upon his thigh. The water of Spirit surrounds them both, gentle. “I promised you I would be, Will. Did you doubt my word?” Shaking his head, Will tells him no. Never once did Will consider that Hannibal would go back on his promise. It’s not in his nature, and for that, Will is grateful.
“If I had, would I be here with you right now?” Will replies, watching Hannibal blink. The After’s gates open behind them, rays of sunlight casting deep shadows upon the angles of Hannibal’s profile. He looks otherworldly, like an angel.
Liquid lead swamps Will’s bloodstream, yet his heart feels lighter than a feather.
An old memory resurfaces in his mind’s eye of himself and Hannibal’s reunion in front of the Primavera. How different the circumstances had been back then, the two of them entangled in the beginnings of a bond that would one day span past life and death. “I...remember saying once that I was curious whether either of us could...survive separation.” Hannibal exhales a soft sound, smoothing over Will’s curls. A smile pulls at his lips, and Will knows Hannibal remembers too. Will chuckles over the poetic irony of his past words.
“I believe we have our answer, Philatos,” Hannibal scoops a mouthful of the water of Spirit and brings it to Will’s cracked lips. This is it. The moment they’d suffered an eternity for. If Will could do more than talk, he’d grab onto Hannibal’s shirt collar and yank him into a kiss. Pour a heaping dose of pain, adoration, and longing into it and hope it would translate somehow. If he could, Will would claw his way inside of Hannibal’s ribs and settle in there, not wishing to be apart from him for the rest of time. For now, he’d have to wait. They’d properly reunite in the safety of the After. Will sips the water of Spirit, pressing a kiss to both of Hannibal’s outstretched palms. In response, Hannibal takes Will’s unfeeling hands and gathers another mouthful of water for himself. He drinks his fill, wet lips ghosting over Will’s. God, he‘s lucky. “The tides of time have brought you home to me after an eternity of sorrow neither of us deserved to endure. I have died once, I do not wish to lose you ever again.”
Will closes the gap between them, feeling, feeling, feeling so happy he might dissolve. It has been too long since he’d done so much as hold Hannibal’s hand. He shivers at the thought of what’s to come. Hannibal supports Will’s head in his hands as they kiss, his thumbs dancing across the apples of Will’s cheeks. Old habits die hard, after all.
“I’m wearing your ring, Hannibal. I’m inclined to think it means I love you too.”
“And I yours. You know that I love you.” The After welcomes them into its sanctuary, both Will and Hannibal finally ready to pass on. The In-Between vanishes from view as the gates of the After close shut. Here, in a realm of perpetual bliss, the two of them could finally be at peace. Will grins as the feeling returns to each of his limbs, throwing his arms around Hannibal in a bone-crushing hug. Hannibal sighs in content and it’s all Will’s ever wanted.
“I do.”