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the lamb doesn’t stay down.
at the end of it, will leaning back in his chair with his hands stiff in his lap, nails digging into his palm, he had excused himself, leaving hannibal there at the table. he hadn't looked down at him, even though the urge was there, to see the way his mouth was still pressed together firm, eyelashes wet.
he could still hear his chair scraping against the floor, despite him trying to move gently and carelessly. pressing his cheek to the porcelain, the sound doesn't cease, just morphs into ebbing flows that sound terribly like hannibal's voice.
we could leave now , in that sound that is grit and something smoother like honey. something that resembles the yellowing of pages in books in other languages, the way ink feels pressed into paper.
will sighs, sits back on his legs. he hears the sink turn on in another room, cutlery clinking. his hand presses to the flat, cold granite floor, finger tracing the grout. he wonders how much work it would be to get blood off of it, if hannibal has had to do it before. if something has ever gone wrong. if his floors have ever been stained in that way.
he remembers himself, after the hobbs house, cleaning the blood from his glasses, remembering hannibal’s fingers curled around the narrow neck of abigail, her eyes as wild and wide as a deer, a wound in its flesh. lost in the woods at the wrong time. lost in a home that became a grave, that might have always been a grave to begin with.
hannibal's hands, trained to keep life in, and taught to take it out. will wonders which makes hannibal feel more like god.
standing, he cups water in his hands, splashes it over his face, threading his fingers through his hair. he doesn't look at himself, merely past, thinks he sees hannibal instead of himself in the glass before he leaves the room.
hannibal stands in the kitchen, apron back around his waist and hair falling over his eyes. will takes in a breath, holds it when hannibal looks up to him, mouth soft in an even line. water-spotted dishes litter the counter before him, his hand rough in a cloth towel.
they say nothing for several moments. will maneuvers around the kitchen, waiting for hannibal to ask, can hear his breathing like he can hear the water running.
he waits and pretends to look at something other than the way hannibal's sleeves bunch messily at his elbows, how the scars along his wrists ache into will's own skin. hannibal's bones must rest around will's. he must make him feel something other than bloodlust.
“can’t stomach yourself?” hannibal asks, eyes still on the glass in his hands, cloth moving around the inside of it. will looks at him, and hannibal looks back, expression open and as gentle as a blade. will’s shoulder aches. he presses two fingers into it.
will thinks over the questions, tastes the words on his tongue and keeps them there: am i your lamb? am i something to serve before death and betrayal comes?
he doesn’t answer, just grabs a glass and cloth, running it around it until it’s dry, setting it back onto the counter. hannibal sighs, turning away. will watches his back move as he fills the kettle with water, setting it on the stove.
there is a sharp sound of thunder, and will’s fingers twitch. hannibal is watching him again, and will simply closes his eyes, lets them open slow when he sets the glass down.
“a storm suits you,” hannibal says, smiling, turning again as the kettle wails.
“can’t seem to find comfort in lightning, though.” he picks up another glass, repeats. the room alights for a moment in response, jarring will’s vision, rib cage fluttering. hannibal shifts closer, pouring the hot water into a teacup, through a mesh strainer where tea leaves lie. there’s something he seems to want to say, but his mouth stays uncharacteristically shut. will’s fingers dig into his shoulder harder, the sound of rain swimming through him. his eyes close, and it gets heavier, the gentle sound of it.
he listens to it and thinks, the way we are in here and not out there. the way i am not telling you what i should tell you, acid on my tongue and your voice around my throat. the way i almost said yes, when you asked me. we could be fleeing through the storm right now, if things were different.
say: i think i feel the best and the worst when i'm with you. does that make sense? are you hearing me through the static of our telephone hands?
"will," hannibal says, voice closer, and will hums in reply. he keeps steady when hannibal touches him, hand over his own, where his muscles curve, where the scar lies and the flesh is red from aggravation.
don't ask me again. if you did, i might say yes.
his eyes open, catch hannibal's, his form pressed closer and hand sliding to will’s collar. he knows it sticks to the chill of his skin, flesh sick and unwell. will lets him, and then lets him pull his shirt away from his shoulder, exposing the wound long-healed, angry still from will’s obsessive pressure. hannibal looks at him with an angled expression, clicks his tongue quietly in a way that makes will’s mouth twitch, huff out through his teeth.
hannibal presses his thumb to will's skin, more gently than will's own hand, smoothing over where the flesh is mangled. will watches the steam rise from the tea with firm concentration, the weak flesh of the inside of his mouth caught between his teeth, the taste of iron on his tongue.
will looks at hannibal from the corner of his eye, watches the way he simply stares at will's skin, unmoving. he wonders what he's about to do, or what he could do, will do. but he's simply covered again, hannibal buttoning his shirt back up to his collarbones. hannibal puts his hand over the space between will's shoulder and his neck, the thick of his muscles, then moves it down to between his shoulder blades. he could pluck his spine from his back, gently and tenderly, make will shed a tear with the caress of his bloodied fingers. it would feel like yearning, or something being taken from him that was never his to have.
hannibal shifts back, a breath of space between them. he picks up one of the teacups, waits for will's hands to completely envelop it before letting go. will imagines it at a distance, falling from the both of their hands, shattering on the floor, their shoes dampened and warm. it wouldn't cut him, but he imagines it, still. blood and tea and the way rain sounds against the roof, hannibal's hands a short ways away.
they move into the dark living space, and hannibal starts a fire, the corner of his mouth lifting when will brings his knees to his chest, feet up in the chair. the teacup burns his palm, and will keeps it close. he watches hannibal move and keeps that close too, thinking, you look like you're about to shatter . the wet curve of his lashes, the way his nose burns red at the end.
hannibal comes over to him, slow and easy, his hand outstretched and glinting like a blade. will’s forehead meets it instinctively. his head cocking, hannibal sighs, and moves away, settling in the other chair, one leg over the other, but his shoes off. will watches him intertwine his fingers, then looks away, at the embers or the way the room has turned all warm in color.
"you feel like you have a fever," hannibal says, the rim of his cup at his lips, his eyes on the fire before lifting towards will.
will sighs, sinks closer into himself. the tea burns his lips. he swallows it down.
"i run hot."
"yes," hannibal says, his hand smoothing over his thigh before lifting a finger to his lips. "i know."
will remembers hannibal’s hand over his skin.
if he presses hard enough into his shoulder, closes his eyes when hannibal speaks, he can still feel the plastic going down his throat, the sound of it cascading into his bloodstream and the dark caverns of his mind. he can still feel hannibal's hand pressing to his forehead, getting under his bangs, moving to hold his jaw. remembers pushing his skin farther into hannibal’s, even in his fever.
thinks, with something twisting in his stomach, no. no, not once have i been held kindly.
for a moment he longs for the fluorescent glow of a corner drug store, ten years younger, hair long and no doubt matted on one side where he'd fallen asleep against the bus window, pouring coffee into a styrofoam cup and picking at the single packets of aspirin tablets. he remembers when he couldn't look anyone in the eye and longs for it again, his hands stiff but at least still his own.
and if hannibal offers to cook for him before he drifts off, will just hums, gives a small shake of his head. but the truth — the truth is , he thinks, stomach empty and mind lost in the hue of hannibal’s veins and the way his wrist bones move. i have never been hungrier.
he doesn't know how to say it. lulled to sleep by the soft and jagged presence of him, by the mellow and violent sound of the fire between and in front of them. something is always burning. something is always going wrong.
he doesn't know how to say it, thinking of hannibal's hands like anchors gone awry, ending up in will's chest, his side. thinking of how they hurt, and how they feel like home.
but he's wondering how fast it would take to make him bleed, if he'd get on his knees for if, or lie flat on his back, if he'd let himself be ruined before ruining anything himself. he wonders what he'd do to him, in the end. if his hands would be in his chest, if he'd get past his ribs, marrow made of frightful things. he wonders what he'd do with his heart once he had it.
how do i ask you these things without having to confess , he thinks, his own hands holding themselves. how do i make it so neither of us bleed anymore. how do i put you where you're meant to be if that's not where i want you.
i don't know how to say any of this without saying too much. i don’t know how to care for you without caring too much.
his head lulls, tilts and lands against the back of the chair. when the darkness comes, it is warm and heavy. the sound of the fire dims in his mind until it is nothing. the tea is plucked slowly from his hands and placed by the table between them, and then there is something warm enveloping him, and something even warmer touching his forehead, lingering.
and then it is gone.
—
( you're aren't sick , hannibal says, the form of him something incorporeal. will could put his hand right through him if he wanted to, but it's by his side instead, the end of a blade clutched firmly within it. there's no pain, just the gentle drop of blood.
aren't i? aren't we both? will feels hannibal come closer, open up his hand and taking the blade from him. he wants to ask, for the bandages, for hannibal to sit him down and dip his hands into warm water. but hannibal sinks, his mouth pressing to where will's hand splits open.
he knows he's in a dream here. he feels more whole than he ever has awake, his body always raw and split open, on an observation table — the insides of him taken out, stitched back into the wrong places or left out to freeze under the surgical gaze.
ask me about my ribcage , he thinks, watching hannibal's mouth touch his wrist bones, his veins that are blue like streams. ask me and i'll tell you how it is yours and no longer my own.
he thinks, what is my brain made of? myself and blood and nightmare. but my hands are yours. more of me is you than is me these days.
if i'm not sick, what am i? will asks, staring at the way light bends around hannibal. there's no response, so will continues: i feel like i'm pulling apart at all my edges, like a tangerine. he looks at hannibal and thinks, something you can sink your teeth into.
or an old ragdoll , will says aloud.
hannibal smiles into his palm, the lines in his skin. all of your seams coming undone?
will tilts his head back until it sits on the top edge of the chair. hannibal isn’t kissing him, isn’t doing anything more than touching his mouth to will’s bleeding love-lines. he isn’t using his teeth, and still, will feels like he’s being bit into. right where his wrist connects to his hand. hannibal's touch leaves bruises. they look like flowers, and will watches them bloom fondly, imagines the petals of hannibal's mouth being sewn into his veins, thinks it might make him into something more like himself.
hannibal has been saying his name. it swells until it's like he's drowning in it, the syllable thick and sleepy in hannibal's drawl. they're somewhere else now, will's back dampened by the snow under him, the leaves that are dead and of the ground now. hannibal crouches beside him, and slips his hand between will's, the other around the back of his head, helps will stand. will can see his own house, a small distance away.
i looked for a wounded animal out here once, with someone else, your hands an hour away , will thinks, their bodies stepping apart.
where'd you go? hannibal asks him, aligning their eyes back together. will smiles under angled eyes.
we both went somewhere didn't we? he wonders how aware hannibal is in his dreams. if he is a separate consciousness, or will's conjuring of him, flesh and bone within will's body. he sighs. there's nowhere for me to go that isn't with you , he says it bitterly, his eyes closed. his mouth is cold, the tips of his fingers, pale flesh reddened in the winter air. he breathes in tight and lets it freeze his lungs.
when will i wake up? will says more than asks. i want to wake up.
will breathes slow for a while, his hands cold inside his pockets. it's raining, not snowing. he hadn't noticed before. and now it is all he feels, the sharp chill pattering against his skin.
he opens his eyes and catches hannibal's, the wide angle of them. would you rather be?
will breathes in. would i rather be what?
hannibal steps closer, and will feels himself stay steady, though he should be moving away, he thinks. his hand is touched gently by hannibal's, one tap, then an opening. he is reminded of the same gesture, a corpse that was will's doing laid out on hannibal's dining table, the sturdy wood of it, housing horrors.
anywhere else other than with me. hannibal's finger touches will's still bleeding palm, where his unmarred skin has been tainted red, down to where his wrist bones settle.
it's only you that ever comes looking for me. will can feel the jolt of awareness, the rattle of his sternum, his body no longer steeped in the drip of his dreams. he's about to leave, hannibal's hands on him like a phantom.
hannibal’s finger digs into will’s wound, and will shuts his eyes tight.
then why didn't you say yes —)
—
he doesn't know the bed he wakes up in. he's never stayed at hannibal's, has driven back to his house in the late hours, finally touching home ground again at four a.m. he's woken up and the first thought that makes sense is to go to him, see him with his hair mussed and clothes off his shoulder. disheveled and unguarded, guarded still, passing coffee to will over a countertop.
he knows where he is, and doesn't know why he's still here. there's a faint memory of his clothes, his heavy coat and sweater, being pulled off, his shoes. he doesn't sleep bare-chested. hannibal knows. there's a shirt on him that's too big and hangs off him.
will blinks hard, and sits up, pushing the sheets from his legs. thinking stiffly, he brings the hem of the shirt to his nose and breathes in. it simply smells of linen, of fresh clothes. will doesn’t know why — he’s disappointed.
around the room, there is one painting, leaning against the wall, another linen sheet over only half of it. in the piece of it that will can see, two men inhabit it, bloody, holding each other featherlightly. will looks away. there is nothing else in the room. will knows to not expect any picture frames, no people, real flesh and blood, dwelling within a still image.
his feet touch the cold floor, the chill running up his legs. he can smell food and coffee. cocking his head until his neck cracks, will sighs and runs his hands over his bare thighs, then his arms. his thumb trails his veins until it meets the middle of his palm. there is no wound, no careening flesh. even still, will can feel specter touches, and the way blood feels when it runs and drips down.
from downstairs, music swells. will knows the movements, the chords, late nights watching hannibal’s hands move and knowing they’d end up doing the same in his dreams.
he follows it, limbs heavy.
when he steps into the kitchen, hannibal looks up from where he’s standing, pausing. there’s a towel thrown over his shoulder, dress shirt on but unbuttoned, hair recently washed and hanging limply over his lashes. his hands hold two mugs, antique things that will has seen tucked away in a cupboard before. he remembers finding them. we can make it together , will's hands finding the knife passed to him, in another time.
his mouth twitches. they hold each other’s eyes for a moment. hannibal looks away first, down to the floor, then back to his hands. they say good morning in dim voices, hannibal asking how will slept, will saying, slept fine . adding a, thank you , and feeling it's out of place. hannibal must feel the same, his hands hovering before they continue pouring coffee—
over the countertop, will knows the routine. he stays on this side, hannibal on the other.
is this how it would be every morning , will thinks. in your world would it always be like this. would i always have to find you after i've dreamt of you.
he won't ever know, he's aware of it. still, the itch is there, to follow hannibal out to the car, to do what he had so terribly offered the night before, a stitch in will's side. there's a knife in him from it, he knows. he can't pull it out, and he won't survive if it stays.
i want you to ask me, and i want to tell you no again, and i want to leave with you anyways.
will eyes his hand, the open palm where he had been bleeding hours before, inside the caverns of his mind where coexisting with hannibal was almost safe. but his palm is clean, unscarred and intact. he wonders how much he would have to bleed to get hannibal to move. very little, he thinks.
and the coffee burns his tongue, startled by hannibal's hand shifting his curls and settling over his forehead. he curses lowly, moving against hannibal. his tongue runs along the roof of his mouth, in search of something soft to press into.
hannibal moves away, and will’s nails dig into his palm, in search of something soft, too.
“your fever is gone,” hannibal says.
“i can’t stay.”
hannibal looks at him, mug paused by his mouth. the steam circles around his features, makes him into something dreamlike. will remembers the hannibal inside his dreams, intangible, drifting into the air like smoke.
will looks away, wonders if it is too close — i can't stay with you. in this house or any other house. i know now that home is a person, and it's someone i can never safely be welcomed within. i was born homeless, and i'll be homeless again once we part.
he wonders if hannibal knows already. if he’d open will up with the knives on the counter. he wonders what he’d do with him after, if he was enough of a liar to be displayed. he wonders if he’d keep his heart.
you can have it , he finds himself thinking. if haven’t your own enough to eat it.
"a last departure," hannibal nods, closing his eyes when the mug tips back. he sets it down, taking his hands from it and intertwining his fingers.
will watches his hands, the roughness of them, weathered akin to will's. but will's — he has the callouses of louisiana, boatyards and gasoline in the lines of his skin. hannibal's are something else. will knows what stains them.
hannibal's mouth curves softly, eyelids heavy, not from sleep but some other weight. will feels it on his own chest, the length of it wrapping itself around his ribcage.
“in this life,” he says. his hands hold themselves.
there is only mere hours between the next world, the one after this one, where will would leave with him, and they’d go somewhere and they’d live silently, and will wouldn’t say it out loud but he would never feel quiet. he’d always feel like he were bleeding, somewhere within his torso, the curve of his ribs, or the smooth of his gut. he wouldn't sleep, just like he doesn't now. some part of him would always be running.
he's standing outside his house, and there's a mess of noise inside if. they've come for him, he knows. the big car came and it came to take him away. he's standing under a tree watching his house be taken apart. his house, but not his home.
his home is in his contacts, under the H s.
will calls, without thinking. only says to himself, even if you are not with me, you have stained me. you will be with me forever.
hannibal's voice is the warmth of a room, the shift of a floorboard.
he says, hello , lightly in conversation. will looks into it like light peeking under a door, thinking, there is something in there i need. i'd run away if only we weren't ourselves. he looks past himself, where his house rests, on its plane of sea, broken into. he sees the streams of flashlights from inside, breaking off and pouring out into the winter air. he watches and wonders what to say, wonders how long it’s been, hannibal on the other side of the line. will doesn’t hear him breathe, but imagines what it would be like if hannibal had normal lungs, if he was made of something other than blood and intimacy. will wonders what that even sounds like, if hannibal sounded like that as a child. will knows he didn’t. knows he had asthma as a baby, had to be kept on a machine.
now there’s always something fragmented in the way his chest heaves. now there is always something aching, his chest hollowed out. hannibal's voice repeats in will's head, places lungs inside him where there were none, carves meaning into the bone.
"they know." it is all he says, and feels unlike himself. when the line clicks out, he is hollow again, something tender and fatal splitting him open. i'm doing this, i am , he thinks, running his hands against each other, moving slow over the ground, making himself into a ghost. i am making up some life where i do something useful with this phone like toss it into the lake five miles from my house. or do something useful with my hands like put them on the steering wheel of my car and drive back home to you.
but things like this, things with the linings of care and the deceit of love, they end in bloodbaths. they end with that hazy moment between realities, the place where everything matters. where he is going, there is no coming back. someone will always be leaving when the going comes.
will knows this. he goes, gutted intimately by the thought of it, his middle aching horribly with the hunger for something nameless.