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The rain was a torrent of wet and warm. Warm not because of the season, but perhaps because the blood that coated Will Graham’s shirt was hot, mixing with rivulets that ran down his neck, his arm, collecting on and weighing down the bunched up portion of his shirt where it was tucked into pantline and belt. He was shaking, his own weight heavy enough that his legs could hardly support him, every step of blood and rain-soaked shoes a threat of buckling beneath himself. Will’s right hand was pressed low over his stomach, a violent red trickling out between his fingers as he added pressure, the fabric of his shirt sticking to skin with the viscosity of blood.
He was walking away.
Hannibal stood on the doorstep behind him, hand limp at his side, knife curled in tense fingers. He was gripping it, knuckles white, hot with more than the blood that covered Will Graham. His own injuries were minimal in comparison— the torrent of rain washing out substantial amounts of the red from his own clothes— but his heart-rate was high. He watched as Will, his Patroclus, fumbled, carrying himself with a magnificent grace— even while he faltered— as he made his way further and further away from the house. Far enough away that even Hannibal’s breaths as they hitched and arose with a panic were sure not to be heard over the rain beating down between them.
That was it?! Will, penetrated by his knife, in his love— 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 — had chosen to walk away. Hannibal, for once, felt more than betrayal this time, the weight of his decisions— the consequences he’d threatened Will with— looming over him. It was fear, now.
Will’s silhouette grew smaller and Abigail couldn’t be revived as she laid in a puddle of her own blood on the floor, nor Alana restored to her previous health where she was limp just off to his right.
He took a step forward, panicked.
“𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭…?” he called into the rain, holding onto what last bit of leverage he might have had. Desperate, hoping that the love he had loved him with might reel him back. Back to him, into Hannibal’s arms where Will Graham belonged.
Will continued forward, no indication that he had even heard. Though Hannibal knew that he had.
His fingers twitched, grip loosening on the knife. Plastic and steel threatened to slip right out of his grasp, the very way Will was slipping.
It fell, hardly a sound at all on the pavement.
At the same time, Will Graham, with dark hair that plastered to his skin in the rain, stepped out into the street.
—————————————————————
Will sat up in bed, sweat keeping his clothes tighter to skin than their fit did, pushing a hand up through his hair as he breathed it all in.
He hadn’t slept-walked in over a year. He drew a breath in slowly as he recalled the memory, though. Some nightmares would never leave him.
He shifted, quietly, to take more of his medicine— something that helped him sleep when he knew he couldn’t. He took the bottle from the nightstand and swallowed them dry.
The sheets shifted in the bed behind him some and he rested a hand on the mattress, putting his weight against it as he turned to look over his shoulder at the figure lying there. Ashen brown hair, so light it was almost blond, fell over sharp angles as his love slept. He was in a sweater— red— with one hand tucked beneath his cheek, a light glint off of the band around his ring finger.
Will’s shoulders relaxed, some.
Hannibal had loved him. Now, and always. From the beginning and to the end. “𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘦; 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴.” Their vows had been that very promise, spoken between them.
Will laid down again, on his side, this time.
Time had healed the wound at his stomach, closing it up neatly, turning it into a smooth, clean scar.
And time had healed the wound between them.