Work Text:
Break up
Rompre
“If I saw you every day, forever, Will,” Hannibal says, and his voice is exactly what Will remembers, “I would remember this time.”
Will Graham crumbles at the seams, torn between what he wants and what he needs, and what Jack Crawford needs from him. But Hannibal Lecter is right here, across from him on this bench, inside the secluded area home to the Botticelli painting. He is exactly where Will knew where to find him. Air escapes Will's lungs in an instant, effectively revealing that he had been holding his breath. For what, he isn't sure, but he knows he can finally breathe for the first time in months. A smile breaks out on his face of its own accord, showing white teeth and cracked lips, laugh lines evident in their short moment of intimacy.
“Strange seeing you here in front of me.” He says, short of breath and stumbling. He has to close his eyes and re-open them to ensure that yes, Hannibal Lecter is sitting next to him, a smile on his face, sad eyes looking into his own. He looks worse for wear; beaten and bruised and Will has the urge to return the favour to Jack Crawford, to hurt him in all the ways he has hurt Hannibal. The older man before him is clean of dried blood, but the torn flesh remains, soon to be memorable scars for him to frown at in the mirror. Will finds himself feeling under dressed, in a two-day old suit and dried blood decorating his forehead. But Hannibal doesn't seem to mind.
“I've been staring at after images of you and places you haven't been in years,” Will continues, tearing his eyes away from the older man to admire the artwork in front of them. Hannibal's gaze follows his own until they are both focused on the Primavera painting. The older man drums his fingers against his open sketchbook absently, as if he is uncomfortable, or perhaps he is aching to reach out and touch Will. Will knows he is fighting a similar impulse.
“To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,” Hannibal quotes, almost comically, a small smile upon his cracked lips. Will doesn't recognize the nursery rhyme until Hannibal speaks again, “Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.”
It's oddly fitting, and surprisingly humorous, but Will cannot find it within himself to laugh. The space around them is tense and humid, sweat from the back of Will's neck saturates the air until he swallows small and shallow breaths, struggling to maintain composure. “I wanted to understand you,” He hears himself say, broken words from his shattered mind, “Before I laid eyes on you again. I needed it to be clear, what I was seeing.”
Hannibal observes him for a long moment, the skin around his eyes sunken as if he hasn't slept for days. And it might be true, given what Will is led to believe the other man has been through. His lips quirk into a small smile and he says, “Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?”
Will immediately knows his answer; has known it for a long time, since the night he called Hannibal to warn him of Jack's advancement. They know, it echoes in his mind and spreads heat like an untameable fire, an act of God which Will succumbs to. It should be guilt, despair and anything in between, but it isn't; it's a heat similar to passion, loyalty. I wanted him to run, Will can't shake his own words out of his mind, and I wanted to run away with him.
Hannibal looks at him expectantly, and Will speaks finally, exhaling hot air through his nose, “Mine? Before you and after you.” It feels like an admission; a confession of a sinner to a higher power, a higher being. And Will figures, maybe it is. There is no way to comprehend time without Hannibal. “It's all starting to blur.”
Because it really is; life rushes past Will Graham in a blur of color and sounds, music to deaf ears in a life empty without Hannibal. His feelings for the cannibal have materialized into something substantial, and now, sitting beside the man who gutted him and their daughter, he can't run from it. He is in love with Hannibal Lecter.
Hannibal listens as Will goes through the long line of sister surrogates for him, a list of past regrets, or perhaps mistakes, none which he will admit to. His voice stumbles over Chiyoh's name, and Hannibal's eyes narrow in realization that, yes, Will had met Chiyoh as he intended.
“How is Chiyoh?” Hannibal asks, momentarily distracted from the man sitting beside him, close enough to feel but never to touch. Will makes a face that looks like he blames no one but himself.
“She pushed me off a train.” He says simply, and Hannibal can't fight the smile on his face upon hearing the news. He has trained another killer, he had known that prior, but to hear Chiyoh go to such lengths to capture him alive is flattering. It also explains the sorry state that Will Graham is in; a poorly tended to head wound, cracked lips and probably ribs, too. Hannibal's grip on the pencil between his fingertips falters, and he has to make a conscious effort not to snap it.
“'Atta girl.” He says comically, and it has the desired effect of Will smiling, regardless of his own misfortunes. Will closes his eyes and Hannibal pretends not to notice, but he does, and it only leaves him with more unanswered questions. Will's hands shake in his lap where he has them clasped together tightly, as if in restraint. Aching to get his hands around Hannibal's throat, no doubt, or perhaps to hit him square in the jaw for all he has done. Hannibal can't decide on a turn of events he would prefer, but he can fantasize another. One with roaming hands and bruised flesh, caring and nurturing and curing the disease in Will's mind, bringing them back to each other, enveloping their bodies together in one final union.
“You and I have begun to blur.” Will says, watching the painting before him as if it is about to get away from him. The air around them changes, and Hannibal can no longer smell the sweat from radiating from Will's face and neck. It is replaced with sorrow; a sadness that Hannibal cannot name. He blinks slowly and looks down at his artwork, hand tracing the outline of Will's face, resisting the urge to pierce through it with his pencil.
“Isn't that how you found me?” Hannibal asks, aware of the hold they have on each other. Will can assume his point of view, foresee his actions and prepare counter attacks before Hannibal makes a move. Will doesn't seem like the news bothers him, at least. He mentions the murders Hannibal has committed in the past, voice cracking and stumbling over Abigail Hobbs, as if he is the one who killed her. And in some sick and twisted world, maybe he is.
“Freeing yourself from me, and me freeing myself from you,” Hannibal offers, watching Will with a careful yet caring eye, “They're the same.”
“We're conjoined.” Will states, and suddenly their surroundings are all circumstance. Hannibal's peripheral blurs until all he can focus on is the glint in Will's eyes, the soft pink of his bruised cheek, the harsh redness of dry lips. Will watches him as he speaks, seemingly in a similar state of turmoil. “I'm curious whether either of us can survive separation.”
“Now is the hardest test,” Hannibal replies, softer than before, “Not letting rage and frustration, nor forgiveness, keep you from thinking.” Nor love, Hannibal adds mentally, Bedelia's words fresh in his mind. He has no control over it, and neither does anyone; the price to pay for being but a human. Emotions come and go and Hannibal rarely pays them a mind, but with Will Graham, his brain runs circles around the idea of love. Will is an infatuation, an obsession; he is Hannibal's gift to himself, but even he isn't able to overcome the attachment he has to the younger man. It is love in its rawest and rarest form, and from the way Will's hands shake, Hannibal can tell he knows it.
“Shall we?” Hannibal asks, closing his sketchbook and shutting away his affections inside it for another time, perhaps another life. He watches Will deliberate visibly, fighting an inner battle which Hannibal aches to understand, to dissect and poke and prod around inside his head until he finds what he wants. Will moves one of his hands from their tense position on his lap and grips Hannibal's bicep, the heat of his palm radiating through two layers of clothing.
It happens in one swift motion, a brief brush of clothing, a sound of shifting on the leather bench, before dry lips make contact with Hannibal's own. Kissing Will is not quite what Hannibal had imagined it to be; it is much, much better. Will pushes into him with enough force that Hannibal has to lean back to refrain from losing his composure. The hand on his bicep is painful and maddening, a grip for life and death, sweetened with the taste of copper on Will's lips. Hannibal responds with haste, and the quiet sound of surprise in Will's throat is enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck, the smell of sweat and cheap cologne rushing to his senses. Will hasn't changed, that is for sure, and Hannibal can see the question in his eyes when he inches back, away from his outburst which led him into Hannibal's embrace.
“Mi sei mancato,” Will says, their lips still touching as he does, and Hannibal's eyes open slowly, hand rising to grace the side of Will's neck. I've missed you.
“And I, you, Will.” Hannibal responds, then time seems to stand still before he repeats, “Shall we?”
Will swallows, and Hannibal's eyes track the movement of his Adam's apple, before they separate, but Hannibal makes a point of keeping a hand on the younger man's arm. He craves Will, needs him and loves him, and he isn't about to let him run away from it. Will simply smiles and rises to his feet, albeit unsteadily.
“After you.” He says, and Hannibal moves, remaining ahead of Will on their way to exit the building. Always one step ahead of him, always with the upper hand, and for once, Will is content with it being that way.