From the deep of the night The Great Red Dragon materialized, taking up the space that had once belonged to Hannibal. Will instinctively took a step back and a handgun with a suppressor fitted to it was pointed right for his chest.
"Don't run," the dragon warned in a raspy voice and Will stilled. "I'll catch you."
Hannibal had pulled himself across the floor and out of the way, using the lyre post to support himself by pressing the middle of his shoulder blades into it. His other hand was busy holding pressure to the wound down by his right hip. He was breathing hard, like he had just finished an extraneous run.
Will closed his eyes with a deep breath, doing his best to still his face into something emotionless. Something that wouldn't tell the dragon exactly what had happened between earlier that day, though it was highly possible they had been watched the entire time.
"Hello, Francis," Hannibal gasped out and Will was curious if he was putting on a show or if speaking really took that much effort.
The gun was lowered as Francis regarded his prey. "Hello, Dr. Lecter."
Not really knowing what else to do, but knowing that if he were to keep playing the part, Will brought his glass to his lips, sipping at the wine as if he couldn't care less. But something deep in him was aching, tugging at him, begging him to step in and do something, though what he was at a loss for.
"I'm so happy you chose life, Francis," Hannibal pressed on, voice nowhere near the suave and collected it normally was. He had to be putting on a show. He was gasping and huffing for air with pain in every breath and Will sucked on his teeth as he watched the performance, certain that he had never acted in such a way when he had been shot. "Suicide is the enemy." Another pained inhale. "You were seized by a fantasy world..." The words must have struck a chord because Francis lowered himself to the floor, setting the gun on the ground and pulling a pack from his shoulder that Will hadn't been able to see with how dark the room had been. "...with the brilliance and freshness and immediacy of childhood."
Francis' attention was captured up so tightly by the strained words that Will nearly dared to make a move, but all the logic in him held him glued in place. He held to the wineglass for grounding and watched as the situation continued to unfold before him.
"It took you a step beyond alone," Hannibal finished.
"I'm going to film your death," Francis stated slowly and clearly, his eyes never leaving Hannibal's face as he pulled a camera and tripod from his bag.
He would rewatch it, Will concluded. Over and over again. His greatest victory. He would get drunk off of the kill until it finally wasn't enough and like a druggie, he would start looking for his next fix. He would evolve, grow, escalate too far and devolve. Will hoped that they were more towards the devolving part of the cycle. This was where the mistakes would be made, the cockiness so easy to manipulate and use to their advantage.
"Dr. Lecter, as dying, you meld with the strength of the Dragon."
Delusional. He had always been delusional, but if he really thought that he would obtain any sort of strength or skill from Hannibal's death, he was sorely mistaken. But it wouldn't stop him from trying. It was like the angel maker. He could only sleep with the angels of his own making, praying and protecting him. What a grave misconception.
"It's a glorious and rather discomforting idea." Hannibal's gaze finally went to Will who met it head on, silent in the mess that surrounded them. His face was cold, but his eyes glistened in the dim yellow glow of the lamp light. They held more in them. A pleading for any solution to get out of this in one piece.
"Watching the film will be wonderful." The camera whirled softly as it came to life, Francis focusing it right where Hannibal still laid slouched against the piano. "But not as wonderful as the act itself."
The click of a knife flicking open was thunderous in the space between them and Will could only stare back at the same plea in Hannibal's eyes that were in his own. The gun that Will had slipped into his back pocket hours before sat with a sudden heaviness, the memory of its existence jumping to the forefront of his mind. He had to be careful, swift, clean.
Will's hand slid to his back pocket, fingers pushing at the hem of his white dress shirt. The roughness of the gun pressed into his fingers, but it was a short lived breath of possibility. In a blur of movement, Francis pounced from where he squatted, movements efficient as one hand seized Will's shoulder and the other drove the blade of the benchmade into the side of his face.
More glass shattered across the wooden floor as red wine splattered like pain.
The shock stopped the immediate pain, but copper flooded Will's mouth, causing him to choke on it, or maybe it was shards of his teeth. Blood sputtered past his lips, the pain finally registering when a strength equal to that of Hannibal's tugged on the handle of the blade. It was pure and hot, suffocating and blinding. The blade bit further into the bone in Will's cheek as his feet were removed from the floor, kicking as if that would help him touch the ground again.
His hand shot out for Fracis' shoulder for some leverage to keep the knife from, what felt like, splitting his face clean in half. His mind couldn't even comprehend what was happening around him as Will's body finally touched down, his back hitting hard and cold concrete and him rolling with the force of Francis' throw.
Out. Out. Out. Out. Out. Out, Will's mind screamed in a loop, begging for the pain to eb.
His shirt clung to him with hot stickiness when the same strong grip dragged him from the ground. Will's hand shook as it stretched up to his face. He didn't have time to inspect the damage, and didn't have time to consider what exactly his action would do to his own body. He simply had to live and this was the only weapon he had to use against the fortitude of the dragon.
He could feel every inch of the blade as he pried it from his face. It swiped against his tongue, and more liquid rust filled his mouth. He swung the weapon blindly behind him, aiming for the faint idea of where the dragon stood. At a sudden stop and a yell of angry pain confirmed Will's aim and he was released with a single hand and he fell forward, unable to find the willpower to hold himself up.
His mind scrambled for something, anything to do, but remained blank, only being shoved further into darkness as he was yanked upwards by the collar of his shirt and the knife was driven once more into him, this time piercing his shoulder just below his collar bone.
Freedom dropped Will onto all fours, radiating agony spreading outwards from the new wound. Blood ran down his arm, both hands completely soaked in it, threatening to slip out from under him.
Muffled struggling pulled Will's hazy attention over to where a separate fight had broken out. Will could only watch as Hannibal's body tumbled into a large rock. When had Hannibal gotten to his feet? When had he jumped into the action? When had he decided that Will had had enough? It had to have all been an act. A ploy to sit and watch Will's delicious undoing unfold once more.
Francis stalked towards Hannibal on powerful legs, no hint to any of the injury Will had imparted on him. Hannibal had curled in on himself and Will knew that it had never been a lie. Hannibal was hurt, honest to god hurt and in trouble. And if their conversation early meant anything, held any minute truth in it, then Will wasn't about to lose what he had finally come to accept, had finally gained.
His hand trembled as he once more reached up for the protruding handle and he shakily ripped it free, care tossed away to any damage that it would cause him. Later. He could worry about all of the aftermath later.
Hannibal was pulled to his feet, fists closing around his throat in an attempt to cut off his air. Hannibal's hands snatched up Francis' forearms as he was lifted from the ground, in an attempt to hold onto any leverage he possibly had. The grip around his windpipes tightened and through blurring eyes, Hannibal waited patiently for the staggering Will to find his balance.
It came swiftly, naturally to Will. His feet moved with purpose as he rushed over to the two men. A leather clad shoulder was seized up and Will dug the knife into the dragon's side. He was able to pull it free before Francis' fist connected with Will's face without any hindrance. As if Will hadn't even left a single mark.
Hannibal groaned as he met the ground again, nose crying from being met with a shoe. His shoulder landed in a pile of chopped wood that was waiting to be used if he had ever wanted to start a fire in the pit at the edge of the property. Metal clanked against cement, calling Hannibal's attention. A hatchet lay there, glistening in the moonlight, waiting to be picked up and used.
Hannibal didn't hesitate. He couldn't, wouldn't waste the time. Not now that the ticking down of it finally meant something again. Not when there were so many maybes and what ifs still to live through. So many many experiences still to be lived with Will by his side. He wouldn't give up now.
With the hatchet firmly in his grip, Hannibal clambered gracelessly to his feet, his knees weak beneath him from the loss of blood. In a single swipe with as much effort as he could conjure, the edge of the hatchet made contact with the dragon's calf. There was a cry, but Hannibal couldn't hear it. Not above the music that played for the dance that he once more found himself in with Will.
Will's knife found purchase again in Francis' side and with another strike, the hatchet made contact with the dragon's calf, making a sister cut just above the other. Dark crimson flooded the stone floor beneath them, dragon mixing with monster and knight.
Hannibal was the first to his feet, circling around Francis and carefully keeping Will's staggering form in view. Will couldn't keep on his feet. Instead he used his hands for balance, doing his best to push off only to once more fall forward again and Hannibal couldn't help but catalog the extensive list of Will's injuries and get a rough estimate on how much blood he had lost.
It wasn't good. There was only so big a puddle could grow before there was no way to turn the clock back and the amount of blood that soaked the front of Will's shirt made Hannibal frown in concern. He twisted the hatchet in his grip, adjusting it as he waited for Francis to right himself.
A fleeting glance to Will and a met gaze told Hannibal all he needed to know for their next steps in this waltz. The hatchet was dropped from his hand and when all of the dragon's attention mistakenly placed on Will, Hannibal raced forward.
He jumped, wrapping himself around the back of the dragon. His arms circled around Francis' shoulders and he used the momentum to wrench back Francis' head. Without a second though, Hannibal's teeth found the open flesh and he ripped and tore as deeply as he could into the man. There was a loud scream in Hannibal's ear and a slickness covered his legs that were wrapped for support around his waist. Will must have gutted him with the knife, done something devastating enough to cause that much blood to loosen Hannibal's grip.
He let himself drop, the sharp stop against stone jolting on his knees, but he ignored it. Instead he pushed himself to his feet as hastily as he could manage. He had to keep both men in his sight. One needed to stay down and the other he needed to desperately get back up.
The dragon lay slaughtered, his blood seeping out and away from his body as if trying to create the wings he had always dreamed for himself.
Hannibal paid no mind to the poetry behind it. Instead he stepped around the masterpiece and to where Will was still struggling to right himself, trapped halfway between kneeling and on his feet, his hands once more his only support.
An ache set into Hannibal's limbs as he limped closer to his boy who looked as if he had given up trying to get to his feet and now was on his knees, one hand up for balance. His eyes were fixed on it for a long while and he exhaled shakily, lingering on a cough that never came. The hand lowered, ready to catch his falling body, but outstretched again as if it had sensed Hannibal's closeness.
"It really does look black in the moonlight," Will said, his voice far stronger than Hannibal thought it would be after everything that had happened.
Hannibal took the outstretched hand, using all of his strength to help Will to his feet. It was too much and Will crumbled into Hannibal's chest. Hannibal struggled to hold them upright. One of his hands took Will's hip, the other supporting Will's forearm.
Will was breathing hard and he clung to Hannibal to keep himself on his feet. There wasn't enough air. He could fill his lungs. It couldn't reach the depth he needed it to. He was going to suffocate if he didn't catch his breath.
"See?" Hannibal's voice called to him, distracting him from the burn in his lungs and the nauseating torment that littered the rest of him. "This is all I ever wanted for you, Will." Will knew it, had known it deep down all along. He had just been too afraid to accept it and he wondered why he hadn't allowed himself to fall sooner. "For both of us."
Will stole a glimpse at the slain dragon, taking in the magnificence of it all. He returned his eyes to Hannibal, letting out an airy laugh, unsure if he could do anything else. He was so tired.
"It's beautiful," he admitted, the truth of it sinking into his bones. This was who he was always meant to be and he would never wander again from it. This was right and good and he had Hannibal by his side. He would always have Hannibal by his side.
His hand took Hannibal's shoulder, the fabric of his long sleeved shirt no longer soft, but tacky with inky blood. He let himself go weak against Hannibal, resting his cheek against Hannibal's shoulder and letting Hannibal's hands hold him closer, supporting his nearly dead weight.
How would they get out of here? There was no way Will was going to be able to keep himself awake long enough to take care of Hannibal. And even if he could manage it, he didn't have the medical know-how to even begin caring for Hannibal's wounds. They needed help. Needed someone else.
Hannibal nuzzled against Will, causing Will to turn his face in an attempt to keep the cool night air hitting his face in hopes that he would be able to breathe more fully soon. The world around him spun and the crashing of the waves on the bluff were so loud they drowned out every other sound save for Hannibal's labored breathing.
Will stared at the mesmerizing waves below as they crashed, enjoying the way that Hannibal's hand felt warm and strong against him. And he wasn't about to lose that. He would do anything and everything to keep this man beside him.
Will hoped that his vision didn't betray him. He swore he could see the lights of a boat coming towards the cliff they stood atop of and the decision was made. This was the best choice they had. They were going to be the only people around for miles and if there was any hope at all, Will had to take the chance. He hoped Hannibal would understand, and would forgive him if they lived through this.
Will's arms wrapped around Hannibal's neck in as secure of a hold as he could manage and he pressed his nearly dead weight into the man. It was enough, or maybe Hannibal had allowed it to be enough.
Will's stomach rose into his throat as air rushed around him and Hannibal's arms gripped him tighter in the freefall. The dulling of Will's senses back tracked and came alive at the sensory overload. The view was unfamiliar and even in the dark showed like the most vivid picture, the air being the only thing between the two men and the ocean.
The air was crisp and fresh, the sharpness finally forcing the air into Will's lungs that he craved. The rush of the wind in his ears was loud and lulled him into a faux comfort like white nose used to sleep. The pressure pushed at his body and his wounds cried as his body chilled.
The impact was harsh and sucked any remaining air from Will's lungs. Every inch of his body was broken, screaming, begging for death. He was so utterly alone, any fiber of Hannibal stripped from him. The burn of his lungs turned to flames as icy salt water rushed in to take the place of the missing oxygen and the moonlight faded as he slipped further below the icy surface of the ocean.