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Hannibal glanced down at Will’s hand disapprovingly, eyes lingering for only a moment before his gaze carried on. The action was swift but unable to be considered subtle. Will could feel the sharpness of the gesture; it was intended to critique.
He stifled the need to tuck his left hand out of the other man’s view, unwilling to display any sign of weakness for Hannibal to seize. Hannibal could be as coy as he’d like, but Will refused to play into it. He was perpetually playing, and Will had found himself growing tired. Recently, he began to notice a stiffness forming deep within his bones, exhaustion far beyond the remedy of any amount of sleep. He wondered if Hannibal could feel it too.
With a well-hidden sigh, an almost comical thought crossed the back of his mind. He hoped Hannibal would get bored and drop it. He knew he wouldn’t.
Instead, he gracefully reached for the wine glass in front of him and brought it to his lips, taking a thoughtful sip with his ring definitely on display. Molly’s ring. Irrefutably not Hannibal’s ring. He dearly hoped the silver would catch the light. Will returned the glass to its place and resumed with dinner, meeting the other man’s eyes for only a moment.
Pure amusement flickered in Hannibal’s eyes. As wild as the flame, it danced and burned with little regard for anything other than serving its need to create destruction.
Will shuddered. Hannibal smiled.
The rest of dinner passed quietly. This was not an uncommon occurrence between the two men, some nights there was little to be said. They often found that the other simply understood, whatever it may be, and explaining would only result in wasted breath.
Tonight, a newfound tension joined them at the table. Uninvited, as far as Will was aware. Unaddressed, as far as Will was concerned.
Once his plate had been cleared and his glass drained, Will pushed his chair out and began towards the kitchen. This was simply another step in their routine. Breaching the entrance of the kitchen, he took in a controlled breath of air. The stretch of his lungs, expanding to their fullest, was a welcomed discomfort. They had been seemingly crushed by an invisible force throughout dinner. A force that Will was too tired to place.
Hands bracing each side of the sink, Will allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment. Taking one breath only left him craving another. He could feel a dull sense of panic rise in the back of his throat, desperate to be felt. He remained still, head slightly bowed and knuckles absentmindedly whitening from the force with which he was gripping the cool, silver sink. The chilled metal kept him on Earth, simply breathing in Hannibal’s kitchen. Their kitchen.
The thought triggered another flash of panic. He swallowed once, throat bobbing forcefully. With one final breath, glutting himself on oxygen, he reached and turned on the tap. He watched the water run for a moment before he brought his hand to the stream. It was pleasantly cool. After a few moments, it shifted into uncomfortably hot. He enjoyed the burn just as much.
Snapping out of his haze, he reached for the first dish. He grabbed the sponge. The soap. Scrubbed. Rinsed. Breathed.
He had made a sizable dent in the remaining dishes before Hannibal joined him in the kitchen. Washing the dishes was Hannibal’s responsibility most nights, but it was inconsequential. The man simply took over Will’s job of drying and putting up the dishes. His hands moved elegantly, tendons flexing with each pass of the dishtowel. Will did his best not to watch.
They worked quietly and efficiently, side by side. Occasionally, Hannibal would brush up against Will. Will would pretend that he didn’t savor the fleeting feeling of another person’s warmth. Pretend that he didn’t crave it.
Will was thankful when he resurfaced from the crevices of his mind and realized that there were only a few dishes left. He reached to his left, grabbed one of Hannibal’s larger chef’s knives, and brought it under the flow of the water. He paid attention to the distinct heft it had and slightly tightened his grip around the handle. He passed the sponge across both sides of the blade, a few times each, then transferred the blade to his hand so he could clean the handle.
After a few moments, he recognized the hesitancy that filled his actions. He didn’t want to give Hannibal the knife. His cheeks heated at the thought, the foolish nature of it. He ran the blade under the water and willed himself to hand it over to Hannibal. Hannibal’s expression remained unbothered.
Will grabbed for the next dish but his mind remained on the man with the knife. The serial killer with the knife. The serial killer that saved him, with the knife. He was not sure which details were pertinent at this moment. He hoped not to find out.
Hannibal gently put the towel down and moved towards the knife block, knife at his side as would be expected in a professional kitchen, and Will heard the distinct sound of it being slid in place. His body untensed just a fraction.
Then he felt a hand ghost across his lower back. The touch was soft but assured, a gesture that made Will’s stomach drop. The tension returned in a flood, along with hauntingly familiar memories that begged to release a sob deep within his diaphragm. Suddenly, his stomach ached. His hands were too wet. Too warm and too wet. He blinked through his quickly swimming vision, searching his hands for blood as he slammed the tap off. He screwed his eyes shut and worshiped the innocent scent of soap.
Hannibal gently urged him to turn around. Will complied.
They met eyes. Fear met softness. Something deep inside Hannibal ached at the recognition of fear, but he was unwilling to feel even a morsel of regret. He would commit any sin a thousand times over if it meant Will could be his.
Hannibal reverently ran his hands down the soft muscles of Will’s arms. Will could feel his skin betray him in return. Goosebumps soon raised where Hannibal had simply ghosted skin. Will refused to break eye contact. Hannibal then took Will’s hands into his own. He held them, appreciating the warmth they radiated. He thought about all that they had done for Will, the callouses and the scars and the delicate precision of tying lures.
Fingers tightened around Will’s ring finger on his left hand. They deftly stole the silver band, the same one Will had taunted Hannibal with only minutes ago. There should have been no surprise at this realization, yet Will could not suppress the question that filled his eyes.
Hannibal gave him no response, simply pocketing the ring with a look of thinly veiled triumph. Without breaking eye contact, he ran his fingers across the newly exposed skin. It was slightly smoother than the surrounding area, once protected and safe from the outside world. Hannibal glanced down at the hand and brought it up closer. Will conceded with a shaky breath, seemingly weak to Hannibal’s ministrations.
Hannibal stared at the newly revealed band on Will’s hand, a few shades paler than the surrounding skin. His stomach turned at the blatant display of time passing when Will was not his. A new flame of anger surged in his chest.
“Why do you insist on wearing a wedding ring that does not belong to you?”
“It did, once.” Will justified. It would not be enough, but he said it anyway.
“Mmm, but not anymore. You were trapped in a marriage you were not deserving of. Willingly subjected people who did not know better to what haunted you.”
“I am no longer their burden.”
Hannibal’s grip on Will’s hand tightened. “No, you are not.”
Will tried to feel uncomfortable with the violence displayed. Wanted to feel unsafe or a need to escape. He needed the panic to come back. He felt a surge of frustration when he could not. Instead, his stomach fluttered in response.
“Then why wear it?” Hannibal questioned.
“As a reminder.” Will gritted out.
Hannibal smiled at the honesty. He dropped his voice low, almost gravely. “As a reminder of what?”
“To feel guilty,” Will confessed. “I am living here with you on borrowed time. Neither of us is deserving of the life we have. We have irreversibly hurt people who can’t fuck off to Cuba and escape the consequences. We live in a hologram, Hannibal. This is not real.”
“Not real.” Hannibal considered. His eyes flicked up to meet Will’s, a new sense of intensity in them. Will felt his stomach drop in anticipation. He knew he misstepped.
Will’s hand was now only inches away from Hannibal’s face. The position felt too vulnerable, but Will did not try to move his hand back. Hannibal dipped his other hand into the left pocket of his slacks and extracted the painfully familiar hunting knife, blade curved and gleaming. Only once it caught Will’s attention did his hand jolt back, seemingly involuntarily.
“Then maybe you need a ring that fits better?” Hannibal asked with a slight cock of his head and a wild look in his eye.
Understanding came quickly, but desire came quicker. Will’s chest heaved, minimizing and then returning the space in between them. The sharp inhale of breath and a deep swallow were all Hannibal needed to proceed. Still, he practiced almost painful amounts of self-restraint.
“One can not blame the ring for not suiting the user. It is best to accept and move on. There is no other way to insight productivity.” he explained softly. His fingers lightly traced mindless patterns onto Will’s skin. They had never once made contact quite like this. Contact previously was always to serve a purpose, selfish or not. This time was purely indulgent.
Will’s hands were as still and sure as stone. Hannibal smiled.
Will licked his lips. “We both know that’s bullshit.”
Hannibal’s smile grew. “Perhaps. But it’s undeniable. You deny yourself what you truly want due to outdated fears instilled into a young and impressionable child. I had the utmost pleasure of seeing you embrace your true nature. Succumbing to your most basic instincts. You are letting those fears hold you back once more. The attempt is futile, something both of us understand. Time is the only thing that is not at our disposal, yet it is the one thing you insist on wasting.”
Will shifted his jaw, eyes hardening. If Hannibal was anyone else, then he might think that Will was about to deck him with all his might.
“I do.”
The words filled the air and rendered both men speechless. Hannibal then raised Will’s hand just above his waist, covering the revolting reminder with the blade, not yet touching the skin.
“Mine. ‘Til death do us part.” Hannibal promised, then sank the blade into Will’s flesh. It bit the top layer of skin, parting it enough to draw blood. He repeated the motion once more, ensuring that the previous wedding band was indiscernible from Hannibal’s replacement. With a surgeon's precision, he ensured that it would scar.
Will only hissed once, pupils blown wide with pleasure.
“Beautiful,” Hannibal whispered, rapt. He watched the blood pool then drip slowly from Will’s finger. He watched it streak down the back of his hand, stark in contrast with lightly tanned hands. It followed the lines of his tendons and veins, emphasizing them.
Without much consideration, Hannibal brought the newly injured hand to his mouth. He pressed a light kiss to the wound itself, careful not to apply an inconsiderate amount of pressure. Just enough to show his devotion. He looked up once, watching for the other man’s reaction through his eyelashes. Blood on his lips, he swiped his tongue over the seal of his mouth. His eyes fluttered close in pleasure. A taste he could never create, a taste he would forever crave.
Unable to help himself, he lapped at the spilled blood down Will’s hand, following the curves of his wrist. He savored it like a starved man, one that had been denied his whole life. He could feel his throat bob greedily, villainously hungry. He was spurred on by the knowledge that this was his own doing. Will’s life, carelessly spilled, in love and devotion for Hannibal. Will, craving pain for Hannibal’s pleasure. He could have never asked for a more perfect love.
The realization snapped him back into the moment. Hannibal straightened up and slightly loosened his grip on Will’s hand. He was distantly aware of what he looked like– once gelled hair now disheveled, blood on his lips, and pure adoration humming through his body.
Will's cheeks were flushed and mouth was slightly parted. If Hannibal did not know any better, he might have assumed Will just finished having sex. The knowledge growled inside of him.
Before he was able to act, a careless and forceful grip took hold of the front of Hannibal’s shirt and yanked him up. He clashed into the other man’s mouth, a man just as hungry as him. Bracing his arms on either side of Will, he poured himself into the kiss. It was overly emotional and uncoordinated. Desperation burned between them, fueling them further. Still, it was perfect. He could not help but groan into Will’s mouth as Will licked his own blood off of Hannibal’s lips, just as affected by the taste as Hannibal was. With one last bruising kiss, they separated, chests heaving and gasping for air.
Will reached out with his right hand, pushing Hannibal's fringe away from covering his face. He took Hannibal’s face in hand, lightly stroking the man’s defined cheekbone with his thumb. Their eyes met and no words needed to be said. They simply knew.
A small laugh of disbelief escaped Will, a smile breaking across his face. Hannibal was powerless to do anything but mirror the look of pure ecstasy. Will leaned in until forehead was touching forehead. Hannibal stepped closer, enveloping the other man in a hug. It was distinctly personal, a crossing of previously set boundaries. Boundaries both men burned to break for years prior.
It was a greater comfort than either man had dared to seek before. Both men sank into the other, deeply and irrevocably, until it was no use to attempt to make a distinction between the two.
“‘Til death do us part.” Will drowsily promised, content with the knowledge that he would never be able to be separated from his beloved again.