Hannibal sits near Will and studies him as he dreams, his eyes shuttling back and forth beneath their lids. It's nearly three a.m. Since Hannibal collected him yesterday evening, Will has slept in one and two hour intervals, waking alternately from nightmares or because his body compels him. Each time, Hannibal, a light sleeper, woke first. He gave up on sleep an hour ago and has been watching Will since then.
This nightmare started a few minutes ago. Hannibal wonders how long it will last. How long Will can last.
As Will sweats through his fourth shirt, Hannibal wonders if this is normal for him. If so, he must have mountains of laundry hidden somewhere. Hannibal doubts it. He's not seen such piles during his visits to Will's house. It's clear that Will sleeps shirtless once he's soaked his first shirt. For all the trust he extended earlier when he obliquely asked Hannibal to sleep next to him, Will is unwilling to remain shirtless. To do so makes him feel vulnerable – or perhaps he's just cold. The former, of course.
And yet Will has come so far tonight, relying more and more on Hannibal to help him up as he grows weaker but seeming less and less humiliated by his need for help. He is not a man accustomed to accepting assistance from anyone. A motherless vagabond: how could he be? Yet he seeks Hannibal's comfort now.
Hannibal wonders how Will will act once he's well. To try pretend that this night never happened would be disingenuous, entirely out of character for Will. Yet Will is conflicted by his affection for Hannibal as a friend and his obvious desire for Hannibal as a sexual partner.
Though Hannibal does not need such a partner, he would not say no if Will were to acknowledge what's written on his face and body when he thinks Hannibal isn't looking. Indeed, Hannibal would take Will to heights of pleasure Will has not reckoned.
The idea itself sends blood straight to Hannibal's groin. He shifts slightly in the chair.
But as much as he would savor every moment, Hannibal knows it's best not to let Will into his bed yet – or at all. An affair would almost certainly end with death or incarceration. Hannibal enjoys Will's company too much to initiate such destruction.
However, he cannot say what Will might do once night turns to day.
Hannibal watches intently as Will's hands clutch at the sheet and mattress, the flexors, extensors, and brachioradiales of his forearms tight like steel cables. Clenched jaw, frantic breathing, beads of sweat collecting on the towel that covers the pillow: this is a bad one.
Perhaps he will let Hannibal show him the good he chooses not to see in himself.
Hannibal dwells on this thought as Will becomes increasingly agitated. No words issue from Will's lips. Just the harsh, quick breaths of a man in desperate flight.
Will gasps and his eyes fly open. Hannibal has seen terror in so many pairs of eyes, but never has he seen terror so limitless, so absolute.
Once recognition glimmers in Will's eyes, Hannibal leans forward and places his hand on Will's, softly stroking Will's open palm. Will regards him like a drowning man does a lifeline: for a moment, he's utterly dependent on the eye contact.
Then Will looks away and groans softly. He lifts a trembling hand to wipe the sweat away. Hannibal offers him a handkerchief.
"You're not even trying to sleep anymore," Will grumbles as he dabs weakly at his face.
The corner of Hannibal's mouth twitches, but he says nothing.
"You're going to be tired today," Will adds.
Because of me, Hannibal hears. Will has reverted to self-censure. His nightmare must have featured harsh rebuke.
"I have no appointments until the afternoon," Hannibal assures. "Plenty of time to sleep."
Will scrutinizes him, then looks away, satisfied enough with the answer. Perhaps even comforted by it.
Before he can speak again, he hisses and his face contorts – a sight Hannibal has seen too frequently over the past several hours. Hannibal helps him up and supports so much of his weight that he may as well be carrying Will as they work their way to the bathroom.
Hannibal retreats to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. Seeing Will like this transports him to his late teens: a village on the Mediterranean, a fine meal of mussels, and the two days of unrelenting torment that followed. He was afflicted by everything Will has in addition to tortuous tingling and the perception of ice as heat and warmth as chills. His body recoils at the memory. He cannot remain in the kitchen while his flesh shrinks so.
Hannibal fetches fresh towels and arranges them on the bed. Though he focuses his attention on the well-executed performance of Ravel's piano trio playing lightly in the room, he cannot help but hear Will struggling. His bowels constrict sympathetically. His jaw clenches and he swallows tightly. Wishing to hear no more, Hannibal carries the wet towels and shirts, along with Will's clothes, to the laundry room.
Such a menial task should annoy him, but nothing he does in service of his plans for Will can do that. Even this task is preparation for the final movement in the symphony unfolding between them.
When Hannibal returns to the sweat-redolent room, Will is leaning heavily against the door frame, shirtless and sagging. Face pressed against the steady wood, he doesn't see Hannibal. When Hannibal slides an arm under Will's shoulders and takes his half-dead weight, Will doesn't acknowledge him. Hannibal was young and spry when he faced a similar illness - able to recover quickly; Will, older and overworked, is not so lucky.
Will lies down as if commanded but doesn't arrange his haphazard limbs in the fetal fashion he's chosen so often. He closes his eyes and trembles. Hannibal wordlessly reconnects the life-giving fluid and selects three unopened vials from the bag of supplies he ordered after Alana called him yesterday. He loads three syringes and sets them aside.
Hannibal places a hand on Will's clammy, too-warm shoulder.
"My friend," he says, "neither of us benefits from these interruptions. It may be time to try something else."
Will blinks slowly, his eyes unfocused. After a moment, his eyes clear and he looks beseechingly at Hannibal like a pilgrim who has traveled without pause and finally found the shrine of his redeemer.
Hannibal smiles benevolently and gently squeezes Will's overtaxed arm.
"I think it's best to treat your symptoms more aggressively so you can sleep," he says.
Will blinks again, his eyes threatening to close. Hannibal sees a hint of apprehension under the weight of exhaustion.
"And the dreams?" Will murmurs.
"I'll add a sedative," Hannibal says.
Will looks up at him again. He searches Hannibal's expression once – and surrenders.
Hannibal brushes the damp, matted curls from Will's forehead. In soft, rounded tones, he describes the three drugs and their effects as he injects each one into the IV port.
He can't tell when Will falls asleep – only that it happens too quickly. In spite of his own tiredness, he watches Will breathe for half an hour until he's certain he has not given Will too much diazepam.
Hannibal turns out the lamp with a snick, climbs into bed next to Will, and listens to him breathe until they share a single slow, steady rhythm.