He's dripping.
Every droplet seems to take an age to fall, an eternity to slide off his curls and onto the floor, and yet-
He's been dripping for one minute now. Two. Five.
And suddenly he's in front of him, filling his vision, eyes level with his own.
"Hello, Will." Hannibal says. "You've made a bit of a mess."
He stares at him, as much as he can behind glasses splattered with blood. It's beginning to dry around the ages, brown and crackling but his hair, his face-
They're still a deep, dark red, the red that is only found in arteries and organs and hearts. His mouth feels wet, feels red.
"I-" he starts, and stops. What can he say? He breathes out instead, harsh, heavy, the sound clogged in his ears, like an asthmatic.
"Shhh." Hannibal soothes, running a hand through his hair. His fingers come away red. He's slipping behind him, making soothing noises. And then he feels a hand on his fly.
He makes an aborted sound, a low whine like Winston does, and Hannibal shushes him again, soft. He places his chin into the hollow of his collarbone, an oddly intimate gesture. They are the exact same height.
"Will." He says, and oh god. His voice is next to his ear, that same intimacy again, like a devil- an angel- on his shoulder, everything he's ever hated, ever wanted.
And that hand has not stopped it's relentless, slow progression. It's inside his pants, having undone his belt, and his arms hang loose at his sides. Blood drips from the tips of his fingers
How, he wonders, dizzily and out of focus, is he covered in so much blood?
"Will." Hannibal repeats, voice low and dry. "Do you see what you have done?"
His hand has started a slow, steady rhythm, but it's dry and painful, the friction too much. Will whines again, and shifts.
"Will." Hannibal says it sharply, and squeezes him.
He jumps. "Y-yes."
"Yes, what?" Hannibal says, his hand beginning to move again.
"Yes, I see what I have done." Hannibal removes his hand, and Will forces down the third whine in his throat. He clenches his jaw, and Hannibal is running his hand through his hair, down his face. He leans into the touch, cat like, and-
Hannibal is touching him again, but there's a slickness and a slide that wasn't there before. He experiences the curious sensations of his gorge and arousal rising at the same time.
"Will." Hannibal says. "Do you know what that is?"
"What?"
"Do you know what that is?"
And he looks out in front of him, looks at the three corpses strewn around the room, looks at all the blood.
He knows.
"People." He says, bitterly.
This earns him a sharp squeeze, and he gasps, pain in his throat.
"No."
"Bodies."
Again.
"No. Now, Will, I expected more from you. What is that?"
There's pressure at the base of his cock, uncomfortable, painful. He breathes out, pushing through it, focusing on the dry voice in his ear. Of course, it's not just in his ear. It's in his head. It has been for a while.
He listens to that voice.
"Meat."
"Very good, Will." Hannibal's voice is approving, and he can feel his smile against his cheek.
He is rewarded with the steady rhythm of his hand come back, and Hannibal's thumb swiping across the tip. He rocks into it, unable to help himself. He is not punished for it.
"Now Will," Hannibal says. "What did you do?"
He pauses, thinks. He does not want to give the wrong answer. "I killed them."
A squeeze.
"No. Will, what are they?"
"Meat." And the hand continues it's path, but slower than before.
What do you do to meat? Oh. Of course.
"I butchered them." He says.
"Oh, Will. That is very good." And Hannibal's voice is warm, and so approving, and his hand is speeding up. And he can't help it, he rocks into, let's his neck laze back, listens to that warm voice in his ear.
"One more question Will, you have been very good for me. One more question, then you may come. What is this?"
"W-what?" he asks, breathless.
"Is this yours?"
"Yes."
"Then what is it?"
His head rolls, his heart aches, and his mind, his mind is so fractured, and is scrambling to find the answer, find the key-
He breaks open the last piece of his shattered mind, finds the answer inside.
"This," he pants. "This is my design."
"Oh Will." Hannibal says, fond, almost. "My beautiful thing. My broken Petroclus. You have become such a beautiful thing."
He doesn't care, he doesn't care. "Please," he groans, pleads. "please."
"All right, Will." Hannibal says gently. "You may come."
And he rocks forward into Hannibal's fist once, twice, and it's all white, and all red.
He's dripping.