Chapter Text
“Darling, are you ready?”
There’s a loud bang, then muffled shuffling as tiny bare feet patter down the stairs at a (frankly frightening) velocity.
“Yes!” Will’s smile, as it appears, is absolutely radiant, a compressed star trapped inside of Hannibal’s home and allowed to bloom until its light reaches every dark corner and narrow space. Will’s smile is always radiant, of course, whether small and shy or large enough to reveal sharp incisors. The boy’s current smile is confident, proud, so different from the shivering thing that Hannibal found all those months ago in the bayou.
“Careful,” Hannibal cautions. “Your foot is still healing.”
Will rolls his eyes, but there is no malice in the gesture, only an overwhelming fondness that causes Hannibal’s heart to race inside of his chest. “Sure. I’m not going to forget, coeur, I can feel it when it hurts.”
Hannibal sighs (his own fond gesture), then places a delicate kiss to the soft skin of Will’s forehead. “Of course. I defer to your judgment on the matter.”
Will sniffs and sticks his nose in the air. Hannibal allows his eyes to roam over the splash of freckles across Will’s nose and cheeks.
“You should always do that,” Will retorts. “Just so you know.”
They both smirk at their own ridiculousness. From down the hall, there’s a very pointed ahem as Chiyoh clears her throat.
“We will be late,” she says. She raises a dark eyebrow and crosses her arms.
“Hannibal says we can never be late because that would be uncouth. Instead, we are purposely unhurried.” Will flawlessly mimics Hannibal’s accent, and the sound of it (rumbling, deep, smooth) from Will’s lips causes Hannibal to shudder with arousal.
“Hannibal is a liar,” Chiyoh says, monotone, “and we are now officially behind schedule.”
Will smothers a giggle with the back of his hand. His palm proves rather useless in this endeavor, the sound of his laughter filtering through his fingertips and fluttering in the air. Hannibal savors it, stores it in his Mind Palace (as he stores each and every sound Will makes, whether words or laughter or moans of pleasure).
The three of them walk to the garage, then slide into the Bentley. Chiyoh does not hesitate to sit in the back of the vehicle, content to let Will stay up front next to Hannibal.
It is a short drive into the heart of Baltimore. The streets are uncluttered this time of day, too early for lunchtime traffic, too late for the morning rush. Hannibal feels a sense of overwhelming contentment fill his body as he parks in front of the courthouse. He smoothly gets out of the Bentley, walks over to Will’s door to open it for him.
Will blushes—as though this is the first time Hannibal has opened a door for him and not the hundredth—and graciously accepts Hannibal’s hand as he steps outside.
“Are you excited?” Hannibal asks. It is a useless question; he can smell the excitement rolling off of Will like a strike of lightning, sharp and electric.
Will gives Hannibal an unimpressed look. “You know I am.”
“And yet it fills me with joy to hear you say so. This is the fruit of your labor, after all.”
Will squeezes Hannibal’s hand, his tiny fingers hardly able to wrap around Hannibal’s broad palm. “Fine. I am excited. I’ve been watching the jury closely this entire week, and there is only one person who isn’t completely sold that Lisa is guilty. I hope today convinces them. The evidence is certainly there.”
Will’s voice is sly. The boy is incomparable in his relentless pursuit of his goals. Hannibal is still amazed at how carefully and meticulously Will planned Bedelia’s murder—and Hannibal has never loved someone so much, so completely, as when he learned that Will had killed another out of sheer jealousy over Hannibal’s attention.
“You did well,” Hannibal says, voice soft.
Will practically melts against him, his body leaning against Hannibal’s side as they walk up the steps of the courthouse and through security. The inside of the courthouse smells of a strange mixture of wood polish, sweat, and faux leather. Hannibal wrinkles his nose, hand carefully placed at the base of Will’s spine as they walk into the room where Lisa’s trial is being held.
“Look,” Chiyoh murmurs. She guides them onto a wooden bench, then points to where Lisa and her attorney are seated near the front of the room. “She knows what today will bring.”
Indeed, Lisa looks ready to go straight from the courtroom and onto the transport vehicle to prison. She is dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit, black numbers painted on the shoulder, silver cuffs delicately wrapped around each of her nimble wrists. There are heavy purple bags under eyes, and her hair has lost its luster, no doubt a symptom of the cheap shampoo used inside of the jail (and a lack of hair dye to cover her graying roots).
“Good,” Will whispers back, giddy.
The bailiff orders everyone to rise. Will is so short that his view of the room is completely blocked by the reporter standing in front of him. Hannibal looks down at Will’s curly hair, (his upturned nose, the wrinkle around his eyes as he glares at the reporter’s long torso) and wonders yet again how he was ever so lucky to possess such a magnificent creature (and be possessed by said creature in turn). Will notices Hannibal’s gaze and looks up at him with love-struck eyes, all annoyance easily melted in the warmth of Hannibal’s eyes.
The judge sits, bangs her gavel against the podium. Will jumps at the sudden, sharp noise, and Hannibal hides his laughter behind his palm.
The bailiff allows them to sit once more, and Hannibal immediately grabs Will’s hand and holds it close, wishing he could pull Will into his lap and tuck the boy’s nose into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, but such an action would draw far too much attention, and Hannibal is determined not to ruin Will’s moment of triumph today (no matter how selfishly he wants to keep Will’s attention for himself and no one else; such jealousy is what brought them to this courtroom in the first place.”
“Let us begin,” the judge says.
Hannibal keeps one eye on Will during the last day of trial, the other watching with amusement as each of the attorney’s for both sides give their closing arguments. After two hours of argument, the jury leaves to deliberate, and the audience leaves for lunch. Hannibal takes Will and Chiyoh to a local boulangerie that specializes in pain de campagne, freshly-baked, to eat alongside their bouillabaisse marseillaise. Will makes an absolutely indecent moan upon his first bite of perfectly-cooked lobster and spiced broth.
Hannibal surreptitiously adjusts his trousers beneath the white tablecloth, ignoring Will’s knowing look when he finishes his bite and then makes eye contact with Hannibal. His next bite is silent, but there is nothing subtle about the way Will purposely licks the spoon once it’s empty, pink tongue darting out and laving the metal with small flicks that nearly send Hannibal pouncing from across the table and throwing Will to the ground.
Chiyoh sighs, long-suffering, and ignores them both.
They stay at the boulangerie for less than an hour. Will is desperate not to miss a single second of the jury’s verdict. Hannibal warns him it could be days before the jury arrive at a conclusion, but Will shakes his head, certain it will arrive much quicker than that.
And he is right.
Less than ten minutes after the three of them return to the courthouse, the jury shuffles back into the room and send a spokesperson up to the microphone to deliver their decision.
Guilty.
They find Lisa guilty.
She is sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Will is practically vibrating with excitement by the time they leave the courthouse and step into the Bentley.
“I can’t believe it,” he says. His eyes are bright, electric, struck with confidence. “I did it. I framed someone for murder.”
“The first victory of many,” Hannibal says. He pulls out of the busy parking lot and drives toward home. “Though I hope that this particular victory does not encourage you to make such plans without me. Your gift to me that night was one I will always cherish, but your safety is the greatest gift of all.”
Will huffs in faux annoyance, then nods. “Yeah, I agree. I don’t want to do anything like that alone again. It was thrilling, but terrifying. I know that because of my age I won’t get in as much trouble, but it still could have ended badly.”
“Yes,” Chiyoh chimes in from the back, “you are lucky Bedelia’s only weapon was her tongue.”
Will snarls at the mention of Bedelia’s name. He grabs onto Hannibal’s elbow, fingernails digging into the expensive fabric of the suit jacket. “I didn’t need a weapon. I could have killed her with my teeth.”
Hannibal shudders at that, vividly imagining Will with blood-soaked lips, Bedelia’s stiff body lying in front of him, simply another sheep led to the slaughter.
Will, of course, immediately picks up on Hannibal’s burgeoning arousal. The little minx grins and merely squeezes Hannibal’s arm that much harder.
At home, Winston greets them with a happy grin and wagging tail. The only remnant of Mason’s attack is the wound on Winston’s ear, a carved-out space that even stitches couldn’t mend. His ear will forever be missing, a half-crescent of skin and fur. Hannibal imagines what would have happened if Winston had not be taken in—had not warned Hannibal of Mason’s attack, helped defend Will from harm—and Hannibal is not ashamed at the tears of gratitude that well up in his eyes upon seeing the dog.
Will bends down to place a kiss on Winston’s nose. He scratches behind the dog’s ears, careful of the scar. “What a good boy. Did you miss me?”
“Only a fool would not mourn your presence, Mylimasis,” Hannibal says.
Chiyoh rolls her eyes and stalks out of the foyer, muttering something about lovesick fools under her breath. Hannibal ignores her, eyes never leaving Will (for why would they, when literal perfection is standing right before him?).
Will blushes a charming shade of vermilion and gestures towards the stairs. “I’m ready for you to take me now. You said there wasn’t time earlier, and I feel so empty .”
It is a blatant manipulation, yet Hannibal is still not immune to its effects. Instantly his cock is hard and throbbing inside of his trousers, and lust licks up his spine, flames of want that spread into his fingertips and threaten to engulf him until he is nothing more than smoldering cinders on the hardwood floor.
“Yes,” Hannibal growls. “I will always keep you full. You are mine.”
Will whines, tips his head back to bare the pale column of his throat. Hannibal had refrained from marking it all week, knowing they would be in public while attending the trial. Now, though, there is nothing stopping Hannibal from biting and bruising every delicious inch of flesh until Will is completely covered in Hannibal’s marks.
Without warning, Hannibal bends down and scoops Will’s small body into his arms. Will giggles, nuzzles his nose into Hannibal’s neck. They quickly walk up the stairs and down the hallway. When they reach their bedroom, Hannibal closes the door, then shoves Will up against it, pinning his body so that he cannot escape, merely writhe as Hannibal sucks one bruise after another against his skin.
“Hannibal!” Will cries. His scent swells with spiced pleasure. Hannibal drinks it in, licks a line up Will’s neck and then traces the shell of his tiny ear. Will’s curls are so long they drag along his shoulders. Hannibal keeps one arm around Will’s waist and uses the other to grip Will’s hair and pull it back, exposing even more of his throat for Hannibal to mark.
“What do you desire?” Hannibal asks, breathless. “Anything. Name it, and it shall be yours.”
Will continues writhing as he says, “I only need you inside me. Please, show me how much you love me.”
Hannibal’s mouth slows, becomes gentle. Soft. He presses kisses along Will’s skin rather than bites. His teeth are sheathed and change to his tongue, sweeping and exploratory. He moves back from the door and sets Will down onto the bed, continuing to loom over the small boy as he unbuttons Will’s suit jacket and slides it to the floor.
Will undresses Hannibal at the same time. They continue swapping soft kisses until their clothing is completely removed, nothing but skin left between them. Hannibal leans down so that his cock drags along Will’s taut stomach. Though Will has gained weight since coming into Hannibal’s care, there is still a leanness to him—sharp hipbones and defined ribs—that might not ever leave. Hannibal adores it, adores the well of Will’s stomach even more. He nips at the delicate skin on Will’s abdomen, then bends lower to take Will’s tiny cock into his mouth.
“Yes,” Will whimpers. “So good. You’re so good to me. I love you.”
Hannibal feels like weeping, feels like cradling Will inside of his mouth until the stars turn into black voids that swallow everything in their path. He wishes he could consume Will. Tuck the boy into the space beneath Hannibal’s ribs, right next to his heart. Keep Will warm and safe, away from the world. Always for Hannibal.
Though Hannibal cannot consume all of Will, he settles for working Will’s cock with his tongue and lips until Will spills down his throat, bitter and salt-laced and divine. Hannibal continues sucking until Will lazily tugs at his hair, then leans back up to grab the lubricant from the drawer of his nightstand.
Will’s eyes are heavy-lidded, hazy as Hannibal slicks his fingers and slides them down to Will’s hole. Hannibal presses the pad of his index finger against Will’s rim, then presses inside. Will’s skin is molten hot. Scorching. Almost unbearably tight, even though Hannibal fills his insatiable boy nearly every day (sometimes more than once in a day, if Will is particularly needy, and gods does Hannibal enjoy it when his boy so needy that he simply takes).
Hannibal groans as Will’s hole slowly flutters around his finger. He adds a second digit, then a third. He purposely ignores Will’s prostate, enamored with the way Will squirms and mewls from the stretch.
“Please,” Will begs. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, tiny pieces of sapphire that glisten as they slide down Will’s face. Hannibal leans down, licks up the delicate drops. The taste of salt and musk sits heavy on Hannibal’s tongue, richer in flavor than any priceless vintage Hannibal keeps shelved in his cellar.
“Please what, darling?”
Will groans as Hannibal scissors his fingers, stretching Will far more than he needs to take Hannibal inside.
“Love me,” Will whispers. “Fill me. Make me whole.”
“Always,” Hannibal whispers back.
He removes his fingers, spreads the excess lubricant along his shaft, then gently begins rocking into Will’s soft, pliant body.
“Hannibal,” Will moans, eyes sliding shut in pleasure. His tiny body rocks back and forth beneath Hannibal’s, their torsos slick with sweat, skin gliding with ease as Hannibal rolls his hips with ease.
“Will,” Hannibal breathes, keeping his eyes open, not wishing to miss a single second of Will, his pleasure, his ethereal beauty as he takes Hannibal inside, fills him with scorching need. “In all my years, I never could have predicted this. Predicted you.”
Will whines. He opens his eyes, tosses his head back against the pillow to reveal the fresh bite marks along his slender throat. “I’m so glad you found me. Every day, I think it. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Another tear slips out of the corner of Will’s eyes. Hannibal nuzzles the boy’s face, feels the soft skin beneath his own, the delicate pulse fluttering in a rhythm that matches the beating of Hannibal’s own heart.
“Do not think of it,” Hannibal whispers. He continues rolling his hips as he leans down to press his lips against Will’s ear. “Think only of me. Of us. There is nothing else that matters, nothing that could separate us now.”
Will lets out a tiny hiccup, and Hannibal pulls back, flips them so that Hannibal is lying against the bed, and Will is riding on top. His boy eagerly takes to the new position, firmly planting his hands on Hannibal’s chest and using it as leverage to grind down into Hannibal’s cock. From here, Hannibal can clearly see his initials carved into Will’s skin. The faint red lines that spell HL are almost fully healed but still sit starkly against the pale expanse of Will’s body.
Hannibal can only sit back and watch with awe. This creature, this boy, Will, had slipped his way into Hannibal’s heart and lodged there like a precious stone. Hannibal imagines it so clearly, Will’s essence condensing into a piece of brilliant lapis lazuli that rests beneath Hannibal’s ribs, a solid presence that dictates the beating of his heart, the rhythm of his breath, the very air inside of his lungs.
Hannibal allows his own tears to overflow. They run down the sides of his cheek, land in the blankets below. He is enamored, overcome, overwhelmed.
“If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would remember this time.”
Will gasps at the words, knowing the true depth of their meaning. Hannibal and Will both suffer from eidetic memories, the inability to forget a single moment of their lives no matter how badly they might wish to. They both could bury their memories, perhaps even drown them in alcohol or other substances, but the afterimages of each scene would remain just the same.
But here, now, Hannibal is promising Will that no matter how many days they see one another in the eternities, Hannibal would only want to remember Will as he is now. Above Hannibal. A deity to be worshiped. Someone without fault in Hannibal’s eyes.
And for a man like Hannibal, even god themselves is not given such deference or devotion.
Will cries out at the wave of pure, unadulterated love pouring from Hannibal’s eyes. Will would sense it even without his empathy. He can feel it in the way Hannibal grips his waist, hands soft but desperate, as if even an inch of separation between their skin is too much. He can smell it in the tears pouring from both of their faces, hear it in the synchronous beating of their hearts, see it in the wonder shining in Hannibal’s eyes.
“I love you,” Will whispers. He bends down and presses a kiss against Hannibal’s nose, then his chin. “My couer.” Will licks into Hannibal’s plush lips, whimpering when Hannibal’s tongue eagerly presses back, as desperate to devour Will as any dish the older man has created, any wine he has poured.
“Darling—” Hannibal gasps when Will clenches down on the man’s shaft, gripping tightly so that each swivel of Will’s lithe hips is near painful in its pleasure. “I’m close.”
“I know,” Will breathes, refusing to move his lips away. They speak against each other’s mouths, breaths coming faster and faster as they near their peak. “Together. Inside. Let me feel you inside.”
Hannibal groans, and Will’s cock jerks at the noise, dribbling fresh precum onto Hannibal’s toned abdomen. Inside of Will, he can feel Hannibal’s shaft begin throbbing, expanding as it gets ready to empty into Will’s hole.
“God—” Will chokes on his words, keening as he and Hannibal finish together. Hannibal rolls his hips upwards, fucking his spend into Will, filling him up more and more until Will thinks he might burst from it. His own orgasm is a never-ending wave of ecstasy, swell after swell of pleasure running down his spine and into his toes, so powerful it borders on pain.
Will slumps against Hannibal’s chest, feeling sweat and semen stick between their skin but too tired to move.
“Every time,” Hannibal gasps between breaths, “I think it cannot possibly be better than the last. And every time, you prove me wrong.”
Will giggles and rolls off so that he is buried against Hannibal’s side, nose pressed into the older man’s neck. “Proving you wrong is one of my favorite things to do.”
“Horrible boy,” Hannibal says, nothing but fondness in his voice.
They lay there for a few minutes, both coming down from the intense high, before Hannibal begins shifting at the uncomfortable feel of sweat drying against his skin. Will rolls his eyes and shoves Hannibal towards the en suite. “Go wash,” he mutters, half-asleep. “You won’t stop fidgeting until you do.”
Will is asleep before Hannibal returns.
When he wakes, Hannibal is dressed and on top of the covers beside him, reading from a book which seems to be written in Japanese (though Will is not yet as good at distinguishing languages as he wants to be).
“Darling,” Hannibal greets, voice warm.
“Hey,” Will mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Wha’ time s’t?”
Hannibal smiles and glances toward the clock. “Nine in the evening. Are you hungry? I made some fresh risotto for dinner.”
Will perks up at the mention of food, but his eyebrows scrunch when he realizes the time. “So late? But what about our plans?”
“They can hold until you’ve eaten. Come, let me help you.”
Will allows himself to be carried to the bathroom where Hannibal washes, dries, and dresses Will to his liking. Will basks in the attention, always at his happiest when Hannibal is focused solely on Will and nothing (and no one) else.
Once Will is bundled in fresh clothing—new linen trousers, a soft cashmere shirt, and socks with tiny dogs that reminded Will of Winston (which Hannibal bought with a barely-concealed sigh)—Hannibal sits Will on his lap and begins feeding him dinner, one bite at a time.
Will feels like an overfull well, buckets of happiness spilling from him and flooding the room, swamping the floor, rising up and up until Will is choking on his own joy.
Will loves it.
He never minded being choked, anyway (not when it is Hannibal stealing his air).
After Will finishes the last bite, Hannibal grabs the empty plate in one hand and Will with the other, carrying both of them downstairs. Chiyoh is nowhere to be found—asleep, perhaps, considering it is now ten o’clock. Winston, however, is wide awake. He gives a soft woof of contentment upon seeing Will and Hannibal. His paws tap lightly on the wood floor as he follows them into the kitchen.
Hannibal sets Will onto the counter, then lowers the plate to the floor for Winston to lick clean. Hannibal’s face is one of faux-shame as he finishes washing the plate, refusing to respond to Will’s wide, knowing grin.
“I never thought I’d feel like the odd one out, but it seems like the two of you have a special bond.”
Hannibal gently noses at Will’s hairline, a smile on his lips. “I owe Winston all my gratitude for helping save your life; and besides, he is much more effective at pre-rinsing the dishes than a sponge ever was.”
Will giggles and hugs Hannibal close to him, simply enjoying the other man’s warmth, his sturdy figure. He allows himself to bask in it for a moment, then slides down from the countertop and begins walking toward the pantry.
“You ready?” Will asks, throwing Hannibal a glance over his shoulder.
“I believe I should be the one asking you that question, Mylimasis.”
“Oh, I’m ready,” Will says, teeth flashing as he bares a sharp grin. “I’ve been thinking about almost nothing else ever since we returned.”
“Then it is time,” Hannibal says. He follows Will into the pantry, then down the steps leading to the hidden basement. Hannibal’s broad palm remains firmly planted on Will’s lower back as they finally reveal themselves to the pitiful figure strapped to the metal table at the center of the room.
Dulcie Veleno has certainly seen better days.
As soon as Hannibal and Will had arrived from (the burnt remains) of her estate, Hannibal and Chiyoh had brought her down here and strapped her limbs down to prevent movement; not because she might escape (her broken arms could not possible undue the tight leather cuffs around her wrists and ankles) but because she might fall and die while alone, and Will was reserving the right to end her life himself, not leaving it to chance or gravity.
“Hello,” Will greets, voice startling cheerful in the gloom of the cavernous room. “Comfortable?”
The IV hooked to Dulcie’s right arm allows a steady drip of nutrients into her veins; just enough to keep her alive, though not mixed with any medication to ease her pain. She jerks at the sound of his voice, but her eyes remain closed.
“Rude,” Will mutters. He goes to one of the stainless steel cabinets, opens a drawer and selects a fresh scalpel as well as a pair of gloves. He will not take any of Dulcie’s organs for consumption; she is not worthy of entering his body, not worthy of nourishing him and Hannibal. She already has infected him with her blood and genetics; Will cannot change his DNA, but he can make sure Dulcie never leaves a mark on him again.
“Has the vision of your tableau changed?” Hannibal asks, his voice betraying nothing but mild curiosity.
“No,” Will replies. He steps up to the table, lowered to accommodate his height (or lack thereof), and gently rests the edge of the scalpel against Dulcie’s shoulder. She is bare, not even a hospital gown to cover her bruised skin. Another way that Will has stripped her of her dignity, her humanity.
Will pictures every time he lacked clothing as a child. Every time his father failed to feed him, shelter him.
Love him.
Each blow that landed on Will’s skin, each bruise that blossomed beneath the surface, each broken bone and torn tendon. The endless nights of hunger and agony, of wishing he were dead (of wishing he had never been born).
All of it, all of that misery, until he met Hannibal.
Hannibal, who clothed Will with the finest fabrics a man can buy. Hannibal, who fed Will the very hearts of those who dared to insult their relationship. Hannibal, who sheltered Will by providing him a home, a bed, a sense of belonging that Will had never experienced before—that Will did not think he ever would experience, assuming belonging (like affection) was a made-up concept to trick the masses into complacence.
Hannibal, who loved Will.
Will’s eyes fill with unshed tears, and he quickly wipes them away with the back of his hand, gripping the handle of the scalpel so hard the metal digs into the flesh of his palms. He is a mix of emotions, sorrow for the past (what could have been, if only Dulcie had not abandoned him), relief (that because of Dulcie’s betrayal, Will was able to find Hannibal, his other half), and anger (that even now, Dulcie lived, still believing she had any sort of claim to Will).
With a snarl, Will slides the scalpel beneath the skin on Dulcie’s shoulder and begins peeling back the layers, not stopping until he reaches muscle, then bone. He continues down to her elbow, removing her flesh until the bone is exposed.
Hannibal watches from the side, quiet.
Eventually, Will’s fury begins to wane, and Dulcie’s weak cries of pain with it. She is barely conscious as Will takes a momentary received, blood-soaked and sweating from exertion.
“You are doing wonderful, Mylimasis,” Hannibal whispers, the voice of the devil in Will’s ear. “Do you require assistance?”
“Yes,” Will says, breathless. “Show me. I want to witness her transformation.”
For Will’s tableau will be a transformation of Dulcie in every sense of the word; she will become what she never had before, what she was never able to give.
Will is going to transform Dulcie into a heart.
Hannibal steps behind Will, then guides him back to the stainless steel table. Hannibal’s warm hands envelope Will’s tiny fingers, holding tight as Hannibal shows Will exactly what cuts to make, how much pressure to apply, which skin must be pulled off and which can remain in order to complete Will’s design.
It takes over seven hours before they are finished.
Will’s back and feet are sore, his hands are calloused from holding a scalpel for so long, and there is more blood on Will’s clothing and skin than left inside Dulcie’s body. Even his eyes water from staring so intently for so long; Will did not want to miss even a moment of this, his first tableau.
And oh, the transformation is beautiful.
Cherry-red muscle stretches up in a graceful arc, a final defiance against gravity. It folds at the bottom to create ventricles, the muscles of Dulcie’s legs twisted and sculpted into the apex. Along the back of the heart, Dulcie’s vertebra provide support for the large tableau, a support that Dulcie never gave during life (and so much of her has only proved useful in death, though Will does not mind the change). The ligaments in her neck remain as the heart’s aortas, though no part of her trachea or skull can be seen; she has no need to talk or think, now. The raw materials of her body have created a finer love than her tongue ever could.
“It’s perfect,” Will whispers.
“Yes,” Hannibal replies, but his eyes are only on Will.
Together, they shower off the blood and viscera from their bodies, then fall into bed just as the sun is beginning to rise. They wake around noon, both famished, and join Chiyoh and Winston in the kitchen for a late lunch.
“And what is the schedule for today?” Chiyoh asks, eating a small bite of panzanella, the sharp scent of vinegar wafting from her fork. “We are off to a rather late start.”
“Unusual,” Hannibal concurs, looking down at Will with a look of such ardent affection that it nearly overwhelms Will’s empathy and causes him to faint. “But Will and I had to finish an important task before sunrise.”
“Before the meat spoiled,” Will says. Not that they would eat any part of Dulcie Veleno—she was poison, after all—but the meat had to be fresh in order to be sculpted into its final form. Will takes a bite of the salad, then asks Chiyoh, “Will you be helping us with the display?”
“No,” Chiyoh says. “I have seen my share of tableaux. Far be it from me to stop you or Hannibal in your…artistic endeavors, but there is line I must draw when it comes to participation.”
Will nods, understanding. “I’m not mad. I just didn’t want you to feel left out. You are our family.”
Chiyoh sniffs, clearly trying to hide her emotions from Will, but it is no use. Will can sense her gratitude (her relief at finding a place for herself among people she loves) as though it were his own.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and the conversation shifts to the upcoming psychiatric conference Hannibal has been invited to attend alongside his mentor.
That evening, an hour or so before the sun has disappeared long the western horizon, Hannibal and Will walk back down to the basement and set their finished creation onto a stainless steel cart. Dulcie’s ‘heart’ is heavy, but Hannibal is used to lifting entire bodies much larger than hers; Will cannot help the blatant arousal that flares through him upon seeing Hannibal’s strength displayed so effortlessly. It is almost enough to have Will begging for a quick round before they have to leave (preferably with Hannibal’s muscular arms wrapped around Will’s waist, keeping him completely off of the ground as Hannibal fills Will up over and over again), but time is of the essence, and there is always later for such things.
Hannibal had replaced the getaway car which Will and Chiyoh drove to the cliffs. A new car is now parked at the end of the tunnel beneath Hannibal’s home, this one a silver sedan that has more than enough trunk space for the tableau to be stored during their journey.
Hannibal opens Will’s door for him—Will blushing at the sweet gesture, enamored no matter how many times it has happened—then walks around the car to the driver’s side.
As they pull into the rapidly-cooling night, Will says, “We don’t have to display it, you know.” He bites on his bottom lip, sucks up the fresh blood that swells onto his skin. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“Darling,” Hannibal says. He glances over at Will, extends a hand across the center console so that the two of them can be touching. “This design is yours. Completely. If you wish it to remain private, no one will appreciate your art more than I. However, if safety is what you are concerned about, know that I have more-than-ample experience in displaying such things, and never before have I been caught.”
“But you have!” Will cries out, releasing Hannibal’s hand so that he can tug on his curls with his fingers. “You have been caught. Dulcie’s private investigator took pictures of you killing Linda Roche. He even followed us to Italy. How can you be sure that you will be safe?”
Hannibal pulls over to the side of an empty street and takes off his seatbelt, turns so that he is completely facing Will. Hannibal’s eyes are mired in grief, guilt. He reaches out and grabs Will’s chin so that Will is forced to stare the older man in the eye. “Oh my dear boy, how I have failed you.”
“No,” Will chokes out, surprised to find tears running down his face, dripping off his chin and into the collar of his shirt. “Never. You have never failed me.”
“But I have,” Hannibal replies, voice almost silent. “I let you come to harm, when I promised to always keep you safe. I let you be taken from me, when I promised to always keep you by my side. And now, I fear that my promises are worthless to you because I have broken so many before.”
Will shakes his head and scrambles over the center console, climbs onto Hannibal’s lap and wraps his arms around Hannibal’s neck.
“No,” Will repeats. He buries his face into Hannibal’s hair, enjoys the familiar scent of goat’s milk and sandalwood as a balm to his rapidly-beating heart. “I love you, Hannibal. And that means I trust you. Neither of us could have prepared for Dulcie, but in the end, even with all her resources and connections, she still couldn’t stop you from saving me. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Hannibal. I just worry because I love you. I don’t think I will ever stop worrying about you.”
“Nor I, you,” Hannibal replies. He gently massages Will’s back, his broad palms sweeping up, then over to Will’s shoulder blades, before finally running down Will’s sides before beginning the process all over again. With each pass of Hannibal’s talented hands, Will feels his anxiety dwindle, melt, disappear along with his doubts.
“Okay,” Will eventually says, pulling back so that he can look into Hannibal’s face. He notes the red-tinge around Hannibal’s eyes, the dried tears along his sharp cheekbones. Will bends down and licks up the remaining salt, content now that he has the taste of Hannibal on his tongue.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I trust you to keep both of us safe. And I trust myself to know that this, displaying what we created together, is really what I want.”
Hannibal beams, and the crinkles that appear around his maroon eyes make Will’s heart nearly leap from his chest, so overcome with love for the man that Will isn’t sure how he ever survived without Hannibal, the very air he needs to breathe, the blood pumping through his veins, the voice inside his head that keeps him sane when everything else falls away.
“Then let us proceed,” Hannibal says. “I am so proud of you, Will. So, so proud.”
Will chokes out a small gasp and crushes his lips to Hannibal’s. They stay like that for a few moments (or longer, Will isn’t sure), the taste of salt and love swapped between their tongues, hot breath fogging up the windows of the car. When Will finally pulls back, Hannibal’s hair is in complete disarray from Will’s fingers, his lips are plush and swollen, and his pupils have dilated so large that almost no maroon is left to be seen.
“Thank you, coeur,” Will says. He forces himself to crawl off Hannibal’s muscular thighs and back onto the cold, unfeeling leather of the passenger seat. “I’m ready.”
They drive for another thirty minutes until they arrive at an abandoned chapel not far off the interstate. Will had spotted it once when Hannibal had driven him to a nearby restaurant, but it wasn’t until Will returned from Georgia that the chapel reappeared in his mind as the perfect final resting place for Dulcie; both abandoned places where saints once appeared.
“It’s perfect,” Will breathes, emerging from the car with shaking hands and a manic grin. He feels something bubbling beneath the surface of his skin, some swirling mixture of excitement and anticipation and darkness that feels so damn good he can hardly believe it’s real.
It is here, in this rotting church with its sunken-in roof and doors that hang from their hinges, that Will is finally becoming. Where he will elevate himself to a god by sacrificing a work of art at his own altar, just as Hannibal had done in another abandoned chapel almost a decade ago.
Here, Will and Hannibal will form a union that no god or priest would ever sanction, that no heaven would ever bless. Here, Will and Hannibal will finally become one, binding themselves together in blood and viscera rather than rings of gold. And as Will glances back at Hannibal, this beautiful, terrible, awe-inspiring man more devoted to Will than any acolyte has ever been to a deity or religion, as Will watches Hannibal labor to bring their heart up the crumbling steps of the church and through the nave before finally placing it on the broken altar, Will thinks that, maybe, he finally understands what the prophets of old meant when they said, thou hast made us for thyself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it finds its rest in thee.