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And when they fell into icy cold water below, they still clung onto each other, as if they were one. For a few moments, they sunk below the surface before the need for air became urgent. It didn't take Hannibal long to realize that Will wasn't moving, the blood from their and the dragon's wounds clouding in the water around them. But Will didn't seem to make an attempt to rise back. He had gone unconscious. Hannibal tightly grabbed him and brought the two of them to the surface, struggling as the cold water and his own exhaustion weakened his muscles, trying to pull him down. But he kept his focus on his greatest treasure, keeping his head over water. He saw Will's eyelids flutter, heard him cough, on the very brink of consciousness.
The shore wasn't far away, and soon, the older could stand. Now he dragged the definitely unconscious Will out of the water and carefully laid him down on the rocks, admiring the beauty and checking his pulse. It was still strong and present. Will Graham was like his angel... Now still bleeding and stained red. His angel in red... But he didn't have much time to draw poetic parallels, since his beloved had most certainly inhaled water. He positioned Will accordingly, so his knees were on the ground, but he was bent over. He held him with one arm and used his other to hit the heel of his hand into the spot in-between his shoulder blades. And it worked. Soon, Will broke out into a violent coughing fit.
"Don't try to suppress it! You have to get it all out. I know it hurts, but don't stop!" Hannibal spoke firmly and hit the spot again.
Will gagged and coughed, but soon gasped for air. That was Hannibal's sign, that he could stop. He pulled him close and held him tenderly. The brunette's chest was rising and sinking rapidly, as he still coughed every once in a while and clung to Hannibal, almost tearing his shirt. Eventually, his breath normalized, and his grip weakened. So they stayed on the rocky ground, just holding each other close, shivering from the cold and staining each other with blood. Hannibal rubbed Will's back for a while before he let go to check his condition. He knew that their health was still in danger, so he cupped Will's face with both hands and looked into his eyes.
"Focus on me, Will. Focus. Can you hear me?" Hannibal asked.
When Will gave a short nod and a hum, he continued speaking while brushing his wet hair from his face:
"Listen to me... We're not out of danger. Especially you. We're going to freeze to death or catch pneumonia if we don't warm up soon. And we have to fix our wounds. But I need you to stay conscious. Can you do that for me, Will? And are you willing to follow me?"
"Ye-" Will coughed, but nodded rapidly. "Yes- you-"
"You don't have to talk. I'll stay by your side and as soon as we're inside you can tell me. Can you walk? I can carry you, but I don't know how far."
In response, Will broke away and attempted to get up on his own. But Hannibal rose to his feet first and pulled him up. The smaller man's legs were shaking uncontrollably and he was unsteady, but didn't fall again. Hannibal wrapped an arm around him and took a step. When Will wrapped an arm around his neck and took a step as well, he smiled fondly.
"Just like that, you're doing good. We're gonna be fine, I promise. Just follow me, I know a place."
Their steps were slow and staggering, but they pushed on while holding onto each other for the entire time. Will was limping along with Hannibal, flinching whenever he shifted his weight to one leg. But they had no time to try and find the source of the problem... And even if so, Will didn't know if he could, since his whole body felt like a totalled car. The only things sticking out were his cheek and his leg every now and then. So they kept on moving forward... Until they reached a small house, two agonizing miles away...
"How?" Will questioned.
"Trivial." Hannibal replied.
And neither of them understood that these would be the last words spoken for a whole while
The next days were nothing short of a post-apocalytic experience. Hiding away and watching the news with nothing else... Would the FBI break down the door? Arrest them both on the spot? But no, everything remained quiet. They remained quiet, as if they had lost all sense for the world outside. And somehow, it was true. They only had each other now... But they were silent. And neither of them could tell if it was sheer anxiety or mutual understanding. Even when they cared for the wounds of one another... It was silent. For three days. Silence between soft touches, brushing of knuckles, and wound care in the shared daze and blur of three days... And those damn looks. How was neither of them speaking? Were they not supposed to talk? To make plans to leave?
Weren't they supposed to try and murder each other? Well, no... At least they had passed that stage.
That was until the third night...
Will sat in front of the fireplace, lost in thought as the flames danced. Hannibal walked up from behind him — silently. So Will spoke. Finally. After three days of silence and touches, uninterpreted...
"There is nothing. Is there?"
Hannibal's response was silence — at least for a moment. Then, a shuffle of fabric. Hannibal had sat down next to Will by the fire. Hannibal Lecter, the oh so composed and dignified man; a man capable of great violence, was sitting on the floor next to Will, looking small. But that was okay. They had seen the best of each other; they had seen the worst of each other. It hardly mattered. But it did. It was this gesture of little importance, yet great meaning, which coaxed a smile from Will.
Then, Hannibal spoke.
"Nothing... And everything. That best describes life, Will."
His name from Hannibal's lips felt ike a quiet prayer to be heard. And Will heard it. He hated it when Hannibal spoke his name like that... At least he was supposed to. Because it brought a storm of pure emotion with it, his heart hammering in his chest. He found himself sitting back in Hannibal's office, swirling the wine in his glass and drawing it away from his nose, instead of bringing it closer... Will looked over to Hannibal. The wounded beast, docile and tame in his hands. He wanted to brush his lips against the beast's temple; wanted to embrace him ever so tightly... Would he crumble in his arms?
Would they crumble in each other's arms? Melt into each other?
The wounded beast and his angel in red?
Will's heart ached at the thought, though he didn't know how Hannibal thought of him... A descending angel... He himself didn't think of himself as anything near an angel. But Hannibal did. But he wouldn't tell him. Not yet. Maybe someday. They had spent three years apart and alone — Will alone, despite having a wife... They would have so much to talk about... Except, they didn't. Words were difficult, bound to be misinterpreted.
Will heard a shuffle and felt something. A tingling sensation ran up his arm, rippling from his wrist upwards... He turned his head to find Hannibal's fingers against it, as if he was checking for a pulse. Yes, he was definitely checking his pulse... Will wanted to slap the hand away. At the same time, he was tempted to take it into his own and kiss it. It felt like blessing and penance at the very same time. He swallowed, eyes glued to Hannibal's hand, before moving his own, turning his torso ever so slightly.
And so, Will timidly put his hand over the beast's until he opened it. With uttermost tenderness, he traced the lines of Hannibal's palm, almost feeling the other's muscles twitching underneath the skin. His mind went blank, save for one thought. Maybe the most significant he ever had, for it was more than a thought... So he voiced it.
"Hannibal."
Now, Hannibal's eyes remained locked on their hands as well, his palm still open, then slightly closing, as if he was trying to obtain just a little piece of the blessing he had received. And his mind held a similar thought — the opposing "more than a thought". The one that had been on his mind every single day and the very subject of an obsession unmatched...
"Will." He said it aloud, like a statement in response.
Hannibal finally moved and intertwined their hands, lacing their fingers carefully, as if he was testing how it would feel... Both men were sitting on the floor, now turned towards each other, yet not making eye contact. They didn't have to. Their hands fit so perfectly to them, and their souls seemed to entwine along with them. It was too late now. They were one. Slowly, Will leaned his forehead against Hannibal's.
"Will, I-"
"Pshht, I know... Do you want to hear it?"
Hannibal swallowed hard and thought for a moment. He had yearned to hear those damned three words for too long now. But did he really need them, when they were sitting on the ground like this? Hands and souls intertwined and foreheads pressed against one another? Did he really need this reassurance? Perhaps, it was the injuries and painkillers still clouding his mind. Perhaps, he was too drunk on the other man, too desperate... But he made up his mind, pulling his head away.
"No. I know."
They remained silent, the fire crackling softly. Will's eyes were locked on their still entwined hands, his chest rising and sinking a little faster than usual. But Hannibal's eyes were locked on Will, his gaze unmoving...
"You're doing it again. Staring like a lost puppy, waiting for recognition." Will eventually whispered.
"Maybe I'd stop, if you'd come to bed to get some rest, instead of sulking on the couch."
This made Will smile. Finally, he looked up into Hannibal's eyes, softly shaking his head in disbelief. Was he really that desperate? For the last nights, Will had wordlessly slept on the couch, refusing the offered bed... It wasn't that he didnt want Hannibal close... He just couldn't bear the thought of facing his feelings. But now, that he was facing them... They weren't that bad. So he embraced them instead, and nodded softly. He got up, never removing his hand from Hannibal's grasp, but pulling him up instead.
They went to the bedroom, where Will took off the sweater and pants Hannibal had provided. Mentioned man was still watching him with interest and a certain sparkle in his eyes...
"What? Too rude?" Will mocked.
"No, beautiful..."
But what surprised Will were the arms winding around his waist from behind, before he could respond. He was a little startled, muscles tensing briefly... But eventually, he relaxed and leaned back into the touch. A small, shuddering sigh escaped his lips. Hannibal tightened his hold around him just enough to make him feel safe, but not enough to hurt. And even if so, Will would probably embrace the pain with open arms... But no, his wounded beast remained tender, holding Will like a treasure, greater than life itself and all the riches in the world. Because that was how Hannibal saw him.
"Will... Just let me..."
"It's fine." Will interrupted again, breaking the contact to lay in bed.
It wasn't particularly big, but more than enough for both men to fit with a little space left. And when Hannibal climbed into bed as well, he respected that space, still yearning to touch, to feel, as he faced Will's back... Will sighed. Slowly, he shifted, reached back and grasped Hannibal's arm to pull it around his own waist. Hannibal shuffled even closer, his chest pressing against Will's back, his arm holding his treasure close and tight, as if he would never let go. And Will felt strangely... At home. Hannibal's control had slipped ultimately... But that was alright. He didn't need it now; had never needed it. Not with Will.
"Stay." Will whispered softly.
So, the wounded beast stayed, curling closer to his angel in red. And these images would be burned into his mind forever. The night on the cliff, Will spread out on the rocky shore... Wounded. Soaked. Stained.
Alive.
And this night, holding his greatest treasure; holding his angel in red, who was salvation and condemnation at once.