rhymeswithcannibal | Until we get a real season 4...

Until we get a real season 4...

[Continuing from thread here.]

The weather forecast for Bethany Beach, Maryland said there was a 30% chance of thunderstorms for the next two days, but currently all the weather seemed to be bringing was cloud cover just dense enough to turn the entire sky steel gray.

Hannibal had a spring in his step as he slid out of the passenger side of the rundown pickup truck they'd bought for cash and never transferred out of the original owner's name. They could leave this behind without worrying that it would ever ever track back to them. No breadcrumbs for Uncle Jack at this marina to have him looking at boats that had been docked for a minimum of three years and then recently left.

"It's the farthest slip from the parking lot," he said as he opened the tailgate and reached in to drag a heavy, wheeled cooler out and settle it on the gravel at his feet.

Five months after they'd died at the cliff house, Hannibal had put some effort into changing his appearance. His skin was tanned, his hair was longer and shaggier, his beard was full, but could never be full enough to hide his distinctive cheekbones, and he was wearing jeans, work boots, a heavy fisherman's sweater, and a bandage on his left hand that he ignored as he worked.

"The keys are in a combination lockbox hidden on deck. I engaged a service to come in quarterly to ensure that the boat was aired out and maintained to a functional standard. We shouldn't have to spend too much time getting our house in order before we can leave."

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If Hannibal made anything with golden raisins, they would be bespoke raisins, gourmet raisins, the kind of raisins that make cherubs manifest out of thin air just to sing those raisins' praise.

Tonight, he didn't care about raisins or fruitcake or really anything outside the intimate circle of kitchen and dining room, between him and Will. He watched Will's reaction shift through a panoply of emotions, watched him react to what Hannibal had taught him to expect over the years, even if he'd been so very well-behaved in this last year, and he watched Will absorb the fact that Hannibal didn't mean him harm with that small, wickedly sharp blade.

Then he closed the distance to brush his lips against Will's, first very carefully, and then for a kiss that didn't try to push out of territory they had already defined. The boundary he was pushing wasn't the level of physicality, just the matter of who was initiating.

If he came out of this bleeding, he had calculated that it would still be worth it.

The slowness with which Hannibal telegraphed his intent gave Will those few precious seconds necessary to decide that this contact was something Will would allow and in allowing this time, give tacit permission to be something Hannibal was allowed to initiate in the future.

With the first warm brush of Hannibal's mouth, Will raised his free hand, sliding fingertips across the back of Hannibal's neck, just above the collar of his shirt. Will leaned into the kiss, catching Hannibal's lower lip between his own, and settled the palm of his hand against Hannibal's nape. He'd felt it all evening, the warmth of want for skin under his fingertips, for Hannibal's mouth on his own.

His fingers tightened against Hannibal's neck, urging him up so Will could stand, could step into Hannibal's space and press bodily against him. The knife remained in Will's hand.

Had they taken too long to get to this moment? No. To Hannibal's mind, they had taken exactly the time that had been necessary to walk the dangerous path that could lead them to a home in Cuba that smelled of the ocean, of their shared occupation, of fresh paint and Hannibal's cooking. Had this come sooner, his appreciation for Will would have been shallower, the triumph and desire and rush of oxytocin less heady.

He straightened at Will's signal, following him up to keep the break between their lips to a fraction of a second at most, letting his right hand settle on Will's hip while his left came up to rest lightly on Will's shoulder. He was keenly aware of the knife and taking steps to leave himself open to it.

Was he that certain that Will wouldn't choose now to end everything between them? Again, no, but the odds were against that choice, and the gamble only added a spice to the dish.

He wanted Will. He wanted everything from him, and so far he'd either taken or been given almost everything from Will.

In giving Will the knife and keeping his guard down while he kissed him, he was doing what he could to reciprocate.

Every year, every breath, every drop of blood, and every pain was necessary for this level of appreciation between the two of them. Less time and Will would have assumed Hannibal was toying with him, would have attempted to end the both of them. More time and Will might have turned Jack down.

Will's curled his right arm loosely around Hannibal's waist, rested the flat of the knife against the curve of his spine, keeping the presence of the blade in play. He still hadn't decided if he would draw blood or not.

The heat of Hannibal's body burned through Will's clothes, the scent of him, the lingering taste of wine on his lips. These things coalesced in Will's mind to one coherent impulse that he was not inclined to deny: more

Will's lips parted and he licked is tongue over the join of Hannibal's upper and lower lips. It was an invitation to deepen the kiss, a want on Will's part to deepen it.

They'd gone past toying long ago. Hannibal was undeniably committed.

He accepted the invitation without a moment's hesitation, fingers tightening on Will's hip as he finally had the opportunity to taste him as he had never done before. He could enjoy the flavors of wine and chocolate, and under that the rest of their meal, but they weren't interesting to him. What he narrowed his senses down to was under those, pressing into Will's mouth to taste him, body and breath.

His own breath quickened a little, his center of gravity shifted as though Will's gravity had pulled him in. If he pulled away mentally, he could see the stop sign they were speeding toward, but why let anticipation of denial ruin this immediate acceptance?

He felt Hannibal's fingers tighten at his hip and those points of contact, their hands over clothing, were not enough. Will fully closed the distance between their bodies, pressing himself in a long line of contact against Hannibal. Will caught Hannibal's shirt on the tip of the knife and began to untuck the shirt tails from Hannibal's pants.

Will was very much aware that this was not going to end in shared mutual satisfaction, but he felt no reason to stop just yet. The taste of Hannibal's mouth, the feel of skin under his fingertips as he worked his hand under Hannibal's shirt, splaying it over his back, knife still in hand.

One day they'd reach their event horizon and there'd be no pulling back. One day. Likely not this day, even if he was allowing the sacrifice of one of his shirts on the altar of Maybe.

With the knife blade cold against his skin and Will's body a line of heat against the front of his body, he took a chance and surrendered his careful, non-restraining hold on Will's hip to slip his arm around his back, holding him in this embrace while he smoothed his hand up Will's back, adding its topography to his mental map.

He kept mental hold on his body, not wanting to give Will the feel of him growing hard already, ceding too much control or giving Will an excuse to draw away.

Not today. The blade was Hannibal's. When Will sought Hannibal's life, it would be with a blade of his own choosing, and coated in something lethal, a petty insurance that Hannibal would not survive him by much, should Hannibal survive him at all.

Will did not pull back or recoil at the change in Hannibal's hold, the arm at his back didn't feel restraining, only warm and solid . He shifted his grip on Hannibal's neck, sliding his palm up to cradle the base of Hannibal's skull, letting his fingers thread through Hannibal's hair.

He drew his hand out from under Hannibal's shirt and reached behind himself to lay the harpy knife on the edge of the table. It was cumbersome to try and touch all that skin while balancing the knife in a way that wouldn't cut flesh. When Hannibal bled, Will wanted it to be on purpose. He slipped his hand back under Hannibal's shirt and pressed his palm just above the waistband of his pants.

Year on year change was the constant between them. A year ago, they'd died together, three years before that, the deaths they'd sought had been one another's, not quite a year before that Hannibal had tried to cut out his own heart, naming its pieces Abigail and Will.

Here they stood now, and in the end all he'd done was cut out his heart and put it in Will's hands.

What he wanted now was to open Will's pants and push him back down in his chair to find other ways to taste him. What he did was allow himself more time to touch Will, to rub his hand across his shoulders and lean into him while he learned what he could about Will, how he wanted to be kissed, how he kissed Hannibal in return.

Then he pulled away just enough to press a last kiss against Will's lips before touching his forehead to Will's, eyes closed, breathing deeply while he collected himself. He wanted - God, he wanted - and stopping himself was no mean feat, but...

"I appreciate your restraint with the knife," he said softly, not moving, making no attempt to hide the rough edges desire had brought both to his voice and his accent. He still had Will pressed against him and would find it even more difficult to let go than it had been to stop kissing him.

Oral sex fell under the umbrella of things that needed to be negotiated before attempting and for the time being, also fell under the umbrella of things that Will intended to give for the start and until he decided that he was at ease with Hannibal reciprocating.

Will's breath, quickened over the course of kissing, mingled with Hannibal's in the space between their bodies as they stood, foreheads touching. He watched Hannibal from that close distance, breath slowing and deepening, subconsciously matching the rate and depth of Hannibal's respirations.

The corner of his mouth quirked, "When I draw blood, Hannibal, it will be on my terms." His voice was quiet with a breathless edge to the words. Will withdrew his hand from under Hannibal's shirt, directly and without the trailing contact of fingers against skin in a small attempt at mercy.

Will relaxed his hold on Hannibal's hair, letting the strands slip through his fingers as he took the step back and away that Hannibal could not bring himself to take at the moment. He didn't want to. He didn't want to move from their shared embrace, but he also did not want to give into things he would either regret after or not complete at all.

Will wasn't exactly a man prone to ease.

The loss of Will's touch was no mercy, but Hannibal hadn't expected nor asked for mercy. He'd wanted to kiss Will, had gambled, and had won something more than the Pyrrhic victory that had been a possibility.

He chuckled softly at the comment and straightened, letting Will go with a last trailing bit of contact before he reached back to feel the tail of his shirt for cuts before tucking it back in. "Had you drawn blood, it would have been entirely because it was on your terms."

He checked his shirt and pulled out the wrinkles where necessary before reaching for the knife, slowly, eyes on Will. It was going back in his pocket, and should come as no surprise that he never left the house without it or a knife like it.

Which was why when it was given, it ought to be appreciated, even if his framework for ease was a little tighter than others might like.

"It was a choice within the framework of your terms," Will replied without heat. Hannibal had given the choice, kiss, blood, both, or neither. There was no complaint.

He did not like the reflexive tightening between his shoulders when Hannibal reached for that knife. It lasted only a moment, and Hannibal was moving purposefully slow enough not to startle, but the reaction happened anyway. He hated the near Pavlovian association between Hannibal with a knife and that reflexive tension. It was Hannibal's fault undeniably and Will felt marked by it. That thought was like a bucket of cold water on his lingering arousal.

He didn't move, but let Hannibal reach around him for the knife.

To Hannibal's way of thinking, there was little about Will that he failed to appreciate. He was a man who had nearly drowned appreciating the air in his lungs.

"My terms have been largely defined by yours. Particularly in this instance." The knife was put away with no ceremony or indication that he'd noticed Will's tension.

He'd noticed.

He poured the last of the wine into their glasses and offered Will his glass. "We are interdependent."

He accepted the glass of wine and considered the reflection of lights on the still surface of the liquid, quiet and unmoving for a long minute, before taking a sip. Will's brow furrowed, "What would your terms look like?"

Will knew Hannibal noticed his brief tension involving the knife and refused the start of gratitude threatening him for Hannibal's genteel lack of acknowledgement. He would have been far more irritated had Hannibal called attention to the reaction. There was plenty of irritation left over at the feeling of being managed, but he was not inclined towards indulging said irritation over the matter. For the moment.

"It doesn't matter." He sipped his wine and walked to the door that looked out over the pool and surrounding landscaping. "My attempts at unilaterally defining terms weren't appropriate for what we're trying to build."

He could watch Will's ghostly reflection in the window or stare through him and what was outside. He so often had difficulty looking away from Will, and the reasons for that difficulty varied and swirled like colors in a blot of oil. "You have never said, 'if you loved me, you'd stop' because love doesn't change the fundamentals of a person's nature."

He was silent, allowing a painful memory to wash over him to remind him why he tolerated so much from Will. He'd scoffed that Will could change him, and Will had shown him the lie of that thought with two simple words: Haven't I?

"What terms I would define must be mutual. Even if your trust is filled with doubts, I expect respect, just as I respect you despite all my doubts. I expect that respect to inform the truths and untruths we tell each other - that neither of us will lie on a whim. I expect that when the world comes calling expecting debts to be paid, that it will be us against that world. Your enemies are mine and mine are yours, and only we are each others' nemeses."

One corner of his mouth pulled up as he thought of the difference between now and those last days between them in Baltimore.

"I believe you," Will said. And though the truth of it was not in question, sometimes it bore acknowledging aloud.

Will's gaze settled on Hannibal's back and he took another sip of wine. "Asking would have been disingenuous to any declaration of love." The question would not have changed Hannibal, only shown Will's inability to accept him entirely. Will had attempted it before, in his own way, caging him. Killing him. Neither solution fit as well as this one. Accepting him. Within reason.

He moved to stand beside Hannibal, to look out past the yard and the pool to the endless black water and the wavering reflection of moonlight over the crests and troughs of waves. "Until death at each others' hands do we so part." He looked over his shoulder, gaze following the curve of Hannibal's cheekbone, the line of his jaw.

There were many who would argue that accepting Hannibal as much as Will had defied reason. Alana had accepted him and made sure to keep him well caged as a result. Will accepted him and opened that cage door and walked with him out into the wild.

He dragged the tip of his tongue over his lower lip as though he might find a last taste of Will there. He glanced over at Will when he joined him. He'd always had a keen eye for beauty, felt no shame in letting beauty move him to tears, and what he felt at moments like these with Will was truly beautiful, worthy of the pricking of tears in his eyes.

The body in the basement was just part of that beautiful whole.

He put a hand in the small of Will's back and sipped his wine. "I suspect that parting will be brief." And he would torture his way through any afterlife to be reunited with Will.

Some predators belonged in the wild.

He raised an eyebrow, “An unending afterlife spent in each others’ company?” If Will believed there was anything beyond this life, he might think that was a suitable punishment for the two of them. An endless cycle of coming together and tearing each other apart.

Will made no move to dislodge Hannibal’s hand or pull away, unwilling to break the fragile feeling that nothing and no one existed outside of this room, outside the two of them.

"We will not be separated by the veil between life and death for long, regardless of what awaits on the other side." Whether it would be punishment, reward, or nothingness, which was a kind of reward of its own.

He hadn't really expected Will to pull away. Such comparatively innocuous touches has been part of their interactions from the earliest days of their budding friendship. For Will to have pulled away now would have been an unpleasant surprise sending a message that Hannibal was missing something very important between them.

This was all he wanted for this specific moment - the warmth of Will's body under his palm, a good meal imparting its own kind of contentment, a good wine's bite on his tongue. Even the lingering ache of desire unfulfilled. This was a scene worth preserving, and if there was a punishment awaiting him on the other side, he'd have memories such as this to take with him.

"There is one more course left to our meal, albeit a visual one. If you would rather not see--" I'll be disappointed. "--I won't insist."

Nothingness was a final destination that Will was at ease with. "No, I don't intend to outlive you by long." He watched Hannibal from the corner of his eye, expression light with amusement.

In casual circumstance, yes, they were tactile with ease, but in the aftermath of physical interaction, for now, touch was a different beast. Desire was a single minded thing, an aching hunger for Hannibal, to touch him, to taste him, to take his control and know what he looked like lost in pleasure without it. But desire was not as powerful as caution, as memory, as a voice in the dark telling him to close his eyes and wade into the stream.

"Show me," Will replied, turning to face Hannibal. Not a crime scene, but an exhibit, a private showing with no one but the sculptor to watch as Will took in the display. No horror, no breaking himself into mirrored pieces reflecting minds and motives that refused to leave when he was done with them. This was Hannibal and Will wanted to see him.

Hannibal gave a quick smile, genuinely amused by the confidence that he'd die before Will. The rest of the sentiment was more satisfying than amusing. It was more real and more meaningful than any I love you could be between them.

He glanced at Will's glass to ensure that he had enough wine to accompany the exhibit before stepping back and indicating the archway leading out of the dining room and back to the kitchen and the door down to the basement.

There would be no exhibit placard waiting downstairs for Will, no genteel explanation from Hannibal of his intent and methodology. What awaited downstairs was a pool of light in an otherwise dark basement, and in that unforgiving light, a body held away from the ground by ten swords that Hannibal had been forced to place very carefully to keep the man's body weight from fully impaling him, ruining the effect of the inverted ten of swords that had been his intent.

He said nothing when they reached the display, moving away from Will to watch from the shadows.

It was as likely as not that Hannibal would die first, it would not be the first time Will had surprised him.

His glass was mostly full and very likely to end up on some flat surface or another in the basement. As Hannibal stepped back, Will felt the atmosphere shift and headed through the kitchen to the basement door. Will stood in front of it, his body casting a void on the door with the soft glow of light behind him. He opened the door and stepped through. Passing the threshold was like leaving the world, the steps a liminal space leading him down into the darkness and what waited there, wanting to be seen.

He stepped towards the display and stopped jjust outside the spill of light, gaze sweeping over the swords, the body, the light like the sun overhead of the figure, and the impenetrable darkness beyond that. Will closed his eyes and stepped over the threshold, into the light.

He opened his eyes and began to walk a slow circle around the display. The illumination from the overhead light changed, casting warmer shades of yellow and gold on the floor below the figure. “You’ve drawn a card from fate’s deck, the ten of swords.”

The blackness of shadow extinguished the light overhead, now the ground, and began to chase the warm light on the floor, now the sky, like darkness extinguishing the last light of the setting sun. “Reversed.”

His gaze passed over the punctures off the blades where they exited the body, “An ending. A painful ending. Not the death of self, but the death of the old. Old wounds, old thoughts, old plans.” From the wounds, drops of bright red blood beaded and ran down to the tips of the swords, hanging for a moment, then dropping off as though watering the ground. “Old things spread out over their space, steal the light and the air, choke out and poison new growth that attempts to break through. Pulling out those old things leaves room for new growth, lancing a wound allows it to heal. This is the beginning, the start...” This is my design.

Will closes his eyes and when he opens them again, the light is once more overhead, the darkness is only shadow and not impenetrable. There is no blood, dripping against gravity, up the blades of the swords, there is blood dripping down the blade of one sword, towards th body, and small but stinging cut on Will’s palm.

Edited 2017-11-30 07:56 (UTC)

The old Lithuanian still had some bite in him. Only time would tell, and the uncertainty was part of what kept things interesting.

His tread was light behind Will following down the stairs, avoiding the creaky spots with a surety that said he'd been up and down these stairs dozens, if not hundreds, of times and paid attention to such details.

Had there been more time, had he had more freedom, the body would have been mounted on the ceiling and lit from below. It was an imperfection that itched a little, but he was well aware of the constraints under which he'd been working.

He stayed in the shadows, moving only when there was a risk that he'd lose sight of Will's face for even an instant. This was meant to be the alternative to public display, and he was honestly quite curious: would it be enough?

"A ten of swords for the first page of your record," Hannibal murmured when Will came back to him, already taking a handkerchief from his pocket as he circled the light to approach Will. He could step into the light, but it felt like stepping onto a theater stage mid-act - rude and wrong. Will belonged in this display in this moment, but Hannibal could take time to step back from his role as creator to play audience until Will left the stage. "Swords seems to be our suit."

The uncertainty kept complacency at bay.

"Powerful and dangerous?" Will raised an eyebrow and looked out from the light to where Hannibal stood in the shadow. He hadn't pulled back fully into his own head yet, expression cracked open and bleeding the rawness of all he took in. Looking back at the display, at the transformed flesh, elevated in it's painful end, from what was once a small and unworthy predator to something greater, he felt a deeper connection. Hannibal had chosen this subject within Will's guidelines, a physical agreement to the conditions Will had set forth. A promise. An understanding. Hannibal had, with his own hands, crafted flesh into a meal of which Will partook willingly, and with those same hands and that same flesh, destroyed Guillermo Morales and forged a connection, a deep connection between Hannibal, Will, and the light bathed scene before them.

A shiver took him and turned into a tremor, his breath caught. Will turned back to Hannibal and stepped to the edge of the light, eyes wide and wet, slightly unfocused. Will reached for Hannibal, then, taking his hands in Will's own and lifting them to brush lips over knuckles.

Unfortunate that they had taught each other to be uncertain of sincerity and intent. It was no mean price to pay to avoid complacency.

"Double edged." He had to swallow hard seeing Will laid bare for him by the power of what he'd created... what they had created. The framework upon which he built was Will's, after all. Would this be enough?

He let Will take his hands - as though he would resist - and took a breath that was only not a gasp because it was silent.

Yes, it would be enough. For now.

Until we get a real season 4...

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