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Hannibal knows hunger. He felt it in the depths of his bones, held it close as a fundamental pillar of his being for far longer than most could endure. After leaving his home built out of it behind as the orphanage faded into memory, he vowed that he would never leave himself to relive those nights, should he fade into the feral, hopeless, wretched beast that crawls beneath his skin. Yet, even with his belly full and fire lit he can feel the creature howling, and he is hungry.
They fell two months ago. Six weeks of injuries kept the both of them from doing much of anything. It’s a far cry from the outcome Hannibal had dreamt of, but he wouldn’t trade this life for any other.
What he does wish to change, however, is the all-consuming pit that resides inside of him, that no meal or meat could fill.
Having Will near helps, some. Having him inside helps more. The creature continues to cry out. He ignores it until he can’t. He holds his love close until it dulls the ache, but it’s no more effective than closing a gaping wound with a band-aid. He needs to eat.
A part of him still wants to kill him, to rid himself of his only weakness once and for all. He knows that with Will gone, he could feel sure of himself again, while nourishing the climbing desire to consume him. He also knows that it would be suicide. For that reason he’s decided that they’re done hurting each other in this lifetime. If Will truly wishes to hurt him, he’ll let it happen, but no more broken hearts sprawled across kitchen floors, he swears it
Yet he longs for bloodshed and red meat.
The best (worst) part about all of it is how domestic it all is, so suddenly. Soft touches and quick kisses. He doesn’t remember when it all started; when they were still in the hazy shade of healing most likely. Hannibal had always fantasized about this sort of life, mapping out each meal he would prepare and the ways Will would look at him as he ate them.
In actuality, for a long while it’s Will doing most of the cooking, Hannibal having taken significantly more damage. He was bitter about it for a moment, until he realized that eating the other man’s cooking helps dull the ache. Something about being sustained by meals crafted by the hands of his beloved satisfies the creature in a way nothing else could. The satisfaction doesn’t last long.
Despite his resolutions he still wishes to consume him, of course. He even considered it again, briefly, the moment he realized he was pulling them into the ocean, the moment before he resigned himself to whatever fate he had brought upon them. He can’t maintain the desire to kill Will when he treats him so gently, though.
Just the night before he had awoken with his nose buried in Will’s abdomen, mouth resting just above the scar. He has a brief memory of a life where the wound had reopened. He can still feel the blood rushing over his fingers, dripping and soaking into the sheets beneath them.
He had been desperate to close the wound, to stitch and stitch until Will was all better, but each time he was about to close the last suture the gash only gaped wider for him to start anew.
There is a distinct memory of a point where while in the depths of his desperation, his longing, and his hunger he simply gave up and gave in to the desire to drink.
And drink he did, until he woke with a dry mouth and a gentle hand in his hair.
He stilled as awareness came back to him, the shade of sun filtering through the curtains indicating it was well past his usual rising time. He glanced at Will, almost praying that he would still somehow be asleep. He wasn’t.
Hannibal wasn’t one to get anxious, yet his heart leapt into his throat as he met Will’s gaze. He feared he would be upset, angry, or perhaps even outright laugh at Hannibal’s behavior. Instead, behind his eyes he only found curiosity with a deeper note of endearment.
“Mornin’ darlin’,” Will mumbled, voice thick with lingering sleep. Hannibal’s heart remained in his throat at the words and his love’s voice.
“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal spoke with his best nonchalance, gently moving as if to get up, only to be held in place by the hand that still caresses him.
“Whatcha doin’?” Will asked, with an openness that invited Hannibal to spill his guts and offer them on a silver platter, paired with a red, perhaps.
“Dreaming,” he replied, unconsciously nuzzling his cheek into the raised flesh.
“Seems you had quite the dream,” Will sighed, moving his hand to scratch at the hair behind Hannibal’s ear. “Tell me about it?”
“I really don’t wish to.” Hannibal closed his eyes.
Will sighed again, almost a huff. “You were diving nose first into my stomach and nearly crying, Hannibal. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite like that. At least tell me what happened?”
It’s a look into Will’s eyes that won him over. The open concern radiating from him a reminder that he had promised they would keep no more secrets.
“The teacup shattered once again, and the blood would not stop flowing.” In his admission there’s another apology.
“My blood?” Will seeks to clarify.
“Yes. I tried my best, Will, I swear I did. No matter how many stitches it could not be closed. So I gave into my only other desire as strong as the one to save you,” his voice broke on the last word, and he could not, would not look at Will for the moment, fearing he’d find pity in the man’s eyes.
“That would be your desire to eat me,” Will concluded, and Hannibal confirmed with a weak nod.
Will tightened his hold on Hannibal’s head, soothing with the hand that never left him.
“I have this hunger,” Hannibal began, struggling to explain while experiencing such gentleness. “I still wish to consume you.”
“Oh baby, I know,” Will responded, giving Hannibal the distinct feeling that he was a dog being consoled after throwing up.
Hannibal breathed, throat heavy with the weight of so many words he couldn’t bring himself to say. “Please do not patronize me.”
Will shook his head and let out a silent laugh, shaking Hannibal with the force of it, “You haven’t seen patronizing yet. This is good and plain comfort, which you do deserve every once in a while too, Hannibal.”
He shivers, still unused to such kindness, still assuming a catch will be found somewhere. Nothing can be this good, not for him.
He wanted to respond, he really did, but his eyes were still so heavy with sleep and Will’s hand was so sweet in his hair. He succumbed easily to a now dreamless rest.
—
Hannibal wakes much later than he intended. Hours later he assumes, peeking at the position of the sun through the curtains. Will isn’t in sight and his internal clock is out of sorts, feeling as if it’s still morning when it's quite obviously near afternoon, if not already. He almost wants to go right back to bed, to hide beneath satin sheets until everything’s as it should be.
It’s the sense of loneliness and the scent of coffee that lures him downstairs, combined with hearing their floorboards creak in the pattern he would recognize anywhere.
He must look similar to how he feels, as the second Will notices him in his peripheral he’s being enveloped in warm arms and soft skin.
It’s still so novel; this warmth, and within it the confession that he chooses Hannibal every day. He wants to hold it in his hands and cherish it, but since a concept isn’t tangible he’ll just hold Will back instead.
He takes the cup of coffee that is pushed into his hands and sips at it mindlessly, not tasting but drinking only to feel the sensation.
Will hoists himself up to sit on the countertop, an act that would usually gain him an immediate glare and a thinly veiled threat. Hannibal continues to sip his coffee.
“So I came up with an idea while you were out,” Will begins, swinging his legs back and forth.
The house breathes as a moment passes between them, the ocean’s distant heartbeat filling the lapse of noise.
“And what is that?” Hannibal asks, now looking into his empty mug.
Will hops down and snatches the mug from him, quickly washing it and leaving it out to air dry, much to Hannibal’s silent disdain.
He gazes out the window and ignores Hannibal’s question, instead asking, “Why do you still want to eat me? I didn’t think I still pissed you off that much.”
As Will speaks, Hannibal’s arms envelop him, trapping him with his back to Hannibal’s torso as they gently glide along his waist. Hannibal sighs, the force of it ruffling the hair on the back of Will’s head.
“It’s not quite my usual hobby, I’m sure you’ve gathered,” he begins, and pauses. There’s no going back now, not for them, but there’s still a lingering fear of rejection that makes itself known every now and again. “I wish to consume you raw. Not to possess, not to remember, not to love… Though I do still love you, of course, more than anything,” he adds when he feels the increase in Will’s heart rate. “And especially not as an extracurricular, no.”
“Then what is it?” Will asks, a little out of breath.
“Once again, you cause my usual sense of certainty to elude me. Perhaps I wish to keep you safe inside of me, maybe I just wish to consume you for the sake of consumption. Regardless, you don’t need to worry. I don’t plan for you to become a main course anytime soon. And I’m afraid this is something I must deal with on my own,” He finishes, mouth dry and eyes wet.
Another moment of silence passes, a moment that Hannibal can nearly taste as bitter rejection. Will is offended, he must want to leave. He doesn’t think he could let him, but he has to try.
Hannibal tightens his hold, carving a place for this moment into the foyer of his memory palace.
“You don’t have to,” Will responds after a few minutes. “Do it alone, I mean.” He turns around in place to face the other man, Hannibal’s arms not leaving him for a second. “Don’t you wanna know what my idea was?” he asks.
Hannibal’s head finds its home in Will’s shoulder, and if Will hadn’t been paying attention he wouldn’t have felt the small nod he answers him with.
Will pats Hannibal on his upper back twice, slithering out of his hold. “Come on, I’ll show you,” he pushes Hannibal back so he can open the cabinet under the sink, where he pulls out a clear bag and tubing with one hand, and a butterfly needle and rubbing alcohol with the other. He lays them across the counter, presenting Hannibal with the opportunity.
“I’m not going to let you consume my flesh quite yet. But that doesn’t have to mean you can’t consume me at all,” he explains, as he hops back up to sit on his spot on the counter, centimeters away from the needle.
Hannibal says nothing, so Will continues, “I’m not too sure if you’re into the whole drinking blood raw thing, but you can if you don’t think it’ll make you sick. Or you could cook with it. I know you’ve got quite enough experience there.” He smiles, though it doesn’t meet his eyes as Hannibal remains unresponsive.
Hannibal stares blankly, eyes not quite meeting Will’s as they nearly always do, but not quite set on anything else either. His empty gaze further opens the door to the creature beneath, and Will needs to speak to it, too.
Hannibal’s close enough to where Will’s sat on the counter that he could kick him, so that’s exactly what he does. He maneuvers Hannibal through mostly-soft kicks until he’s close enough that he can draw the other man close with his legs, effectively trapping him in another embrace. He’s hanging on to him with all four limbs, and that’s what finally draws a response from him.
He reaches up to hold the back of Will’s head, soft curls weaving through his fingers. It’s a wonder they were so smooth, having been subjected to the shampoo he kept in Wolf Trap, though of course Hannibal was quick to remedy that upon their successful escape. He’ll never forget their first bath after that of the ocean.
“You’re wonderful,” he whispers, shaking with the will of keeping himself contained.
Will smiles, “Don’t go praising me too much just yet, Hannibal. You don’t even know my blood type.”
“Do you?” Hannibal counters, slipping back to himself.
Hannibal can nearly feel the force of Will’s eyes rolling. “Don’t tell me you can tell the difference between blood types by taste.”
Hannibal finally shows teeth. “I unfortunately can’t name one’s blood type by taste alone, no, but the ratios of antigens and antibodies in each type do change the taste. I’m sure I could learn to truly differentiate with practice.”
“Of course you could.” Will retorts, but there’s little malice behind it. “Well, come on then,” he gestures to the supplies laid out.
Hannibal goes through the motions of drawing Will’s blood with clinical precision and detachment, not speaking beyond the precursory warnings and requests he would offer any patient.
In the silence as they wait for the blood to flow from vein to bag, Hannibal can feel the weight of Will’s eyes on him. It’s not necessarily an uncomfortable weight, but it’s one he could do without. It’s that of a friendly hug gone too long, being held too tight but feeling far too polite to say anything about it.
Except their relationship should surely be beyond that feeling by now, Hannibal supposes. Perhaps this is his punishment for temporarily zipping back into one of many person suits. His least personable, at that.
It’s not that he wants to keep this distance between them, now, in this moment especially, as Will’s life force is on display in front of him. If he were to let all walls between them fall now, he fears what would happen. He itches to tear his love apart and put him back together again, built from Hannibal’s hands alone. He also knows better than to practically try something like that.
He’s entranced by every visible movement of the deep red liquid. Wishes he could feed on it as his only source of nutrition, become a vampire of his own volition. He watches the blood, and Will watches him watching it.
The bag is only halfway full, and he feels halfway out of his own mind.
Will speaks softly, as if he knows exactly what Hannibal’s been thinking. Hell, he might’ve even been speaking aloud for all he knows. Narrating his thoughts for an audience of one, the only one worth hearing them.
“How do you want it?” he asks, self-soothing with his thumb rubbing over the same spot on his thigh, feeling the texture, feeling the reality.
Hannibal swallows, unable to recall when exactly his mouth went dry. “I think I’d like to have you unchanged, and as soon as possible.”
Will nods, feeling the weight of Hannibal’s obsession, his devotion.
When he fully allows the presence of Hannibal to wash over him, he’s overcome with the feeling of pure want and hunger that preoccupies his every waking moment. Even when he sleeps, he always thrashes and grips at nothing until he finds Will and needs to be as close as he possibly can, all but physically crawling under his skin.
When the bag is filled and a pint of Will’s blood has been collected, Hannibal is quick to reach for it, looking absolutely devastated at the couple of drops that manage to spill onto the floor. A feeling quickly overshadowed by the thrill of having a physical part of Will in his hands, ready for consumption.
Will looks him in the eye, needle and small beads of blood still hanging from his arm, as Hannibal begins to drink.
Hannibal finds salvation as the metallic force finds its way from Will’s body to his. Contentment washes over him, pure bliss in the form of plasma and cells entering his stomach.
As he consumes his beloved he is not Hannibal Lecter, the FBI’s most wanted psychiatrist and ex-surgeon, killer and cannibal. He is a small, horrid, desperate thing that not even a mother could be capable of truly loving.
Luckily for him, Will is.
The bag sits empty on the floor, drained from every last bit Hannibal could successfully suck out. He doesn’t notice he’s crying until Will’s kneeling in front of him, wiping the tears from his eyes with both thumbs, hands encasing his face.
Holding him, soothing him, trapping him.
Will’s saying something to him too, but he doesn’t hear the words he’s saying, he can’t bear to hear anything more than the familiar cadence keeping him grounded.
The world is ending but Will’s right there with him, so it’s really nothing catastrophic after all.
He’s being kissed and he’s gone to heaven, he’s being bitten and he’s back on earth.
“There you are,” Will says to him, when he’s blinking it all away. All of it except them.
“Thank you, I fear I lost myself for a minute there” Hannibal replies, sounding nothing like the composed doctor that had just taken the other man’s blood. He sounds like the creature that just ravenously drank it.
“You’re right there,” Will holds both of Hannibal’s shoulders, thumbs tracing collarbones, “And I’m right here. Always.”