Disclaimer: I don't own NBC's "Hannibal" or Jerry Bruckheimer's "King Arthur," wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is an AU/reincarnation fiction involving "Hannibal" and the movie "King Arthur," specially revolving around a romantic relationship between Hannibal (who is the reincarnation of Tristan) and Will Graham (who is the reincarnation of Galahad). This story was made possible by a prompt on the Hannibal kinkmeme. Please see original chapter for complete information regarding the specifics of this prompt.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for the movie, and just to be safe, all of Hannibal, season one, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore, murder, emotional manipulation, implied cannibalism and mature content.
Rinascere
Chapter Five
He was already counting down, his free hand smoothing the neat line of his trousers, idly caressing a splotch of blood that had soaked in to the expensive threads, when, like clockwork, Ronald Jefferson's cell phone suddenly rang.
It startled all of them save for himself. The sound was muffled through the neat pile of clothing he'd left folded on the ground – yet clearly audible in the sudden quiet. It was a canned Hawaiian luau, gross and flashy - Mrs. Jefferson's ringtone. It was their usual 10pm goodnight, a custom they kept whenever he was working out of state. Only this time Ronald had never made it to the airport.
She wouldn't suspect anything for at least another few days and he'd already taken the liberty of contacting the airport. No one even knew he was missing. His wife would call the police on the third day, his mistress, the day after. He only wished he could see their faces when they were finally introduced. Hell hath no fury, indeed.
He almost smiled at the others' discomfort. It was the first time he'd seen them unbalanced since they'd turned the tables on him. The range of emotions that flashed across their faces was delicious to behold, a full spectrum of emotion that ranged from apathy to a bastardized form of guilt.
Ronald's phone beeped again, the screen flashing. 1 new message.
"Do you know why it is that you do what you do?" Arthur asked, breaking the silence easily as he smoothed the cuffs of his dress shirt, his movements precise - immaculate.
His tongue came out to wet his lips, about to speak. But the man held up a hand. "I'm not asking for a psychoanalytic answer, doctor. I want to know why it is you think you do what you do," Arthur clarified, his gaze hard and uncompromising, suddenly every inch the commander he claimed to be.
His amusement evaporated.
A thought flashed through his mind, random and close, a near miss. Something bathed in blood and an honest sweat, something that told him that it had only been when he'd been bleeding that he'd truly been alive.
Because I like it, because it reminds me of-
The words were on the tip of his tongue but for some reason he couldn't say it. Not because he was ashamed of course, he'd never been ashamed of what he was. That would defeat the purpose. It was because of who was asking.
This Arthur had managed to throw him off-balance in a way few ever had. He felt disturbingly off keel with the man. The power dynamics were skewed, conflicted. No, he was conflicted.
He blinked, recognizing the emotion rising in his breast for what it was - uncertainty. He didn't like it.
A hiss of breath caught between his teeth when he realized that the man had been watching him the entire time, close, suffocating, circling. He should have expected nothing less. The man was like a predator making tracks around his wounded prey, lazy and confident. Like he believed the game was already won.
A rare sheen of anger rose up in the back of his throat as he watched the man watch him. Something happened when their eyes met, a fusion of sorts, but neither of them seemed inclined to back down. The others remained silent.
"There is a war going on inside of you, a battle fought between mind and soul – reality and memory. Everything you see, everything you taste, touch and hear is telling you that you are anchored here. That you exist here. But despite everything your eyes tell you, it has never been that simple, has it?" Arthur demanded, his palms open at his sides, body language alive with supplication and eagerness.
But it only made him want to rip into the man's throat, to sink his teeth deep into that soft, vulnerable flesh and tease out all the lies. He wanted to disprove everything the man was spouting, drag it out into the light and hang him with it, just like he had with Ronald, with Mrs. Stanton and countless others.
Pigs.
But this man was different. Better. His thumb traced down the side of the scalpel, imagining how he'd do it as his fingers trailed across the expensive steel - blood slick and warm. There were so many options, so many dramas he had yet to play. But perhaps simplicity was the best card to wield, considering the circumstances, something effective and familiar, but still satisfying. After all, slicing him down, layer by layer until silence was the only thing left to him did hold a certain appeal.
He'd carve him hollow; carve him empty, just like his promises.
"You have lived your entire life on the outside, out of sync. Watching, waiting, but never quite fitting in. Like the answer to a question that has remained just out of your reach, life has always left you dissatisfied – incomplete," Arthur continued, taking another cautious step forward when he remained motionless. "We have all felt that way, all of us have been where you are now."
His lip curled.
"And I have that answer. The answer to the question that up until tonight you didn't even know you'd been seeking. All you need to do now is ask," Arthur stated, voice a base-line thrum as he extended a hand out before him, almost as if the man actually expected him to take it.
"Madness is like gravity – even to the well-ordered mind, all it takes is a little push," he pointed out, voice unaccountably rough after the long pause, eying the man's hand with undisguised disdain.
"I have never lied to you and I don't intend to start now," Arthur replied. "As for sanity and delusion, for what is real and what is not, well, I will not pretend to be unbiased. And I certainly won't tell you what to believe. That is not my decision to make. But what I will say is this, what is more real? The life that you live now or the life you live when you dream? You know the ones, when you wake up in a cold sweat, still riding the high from some half-forgotten landscape, your blood singing – soul soaring - the laughter of your brothers echoing in your ears, melded together with the pull of old leather and the shrill scrape of forged steel swinging at your side? Is it wrong to believe that that life could be just as real as the one you are living now?"
There it was, that honesty again, the man reeked of it. There was no falsehood or ill intent behind his words, nothing that hinted at any darkness that lurked just underneath. The man knew, no, the man believed every word he said. There was conviction there, assurance, and despite the fact that he knew the difference between reality and fantasy, he couldn't fathom why the man's words had any effect on him at all.
His posture shifted and suddenly he realized that his fists were clenched tightly at his sides. Defensive.
"We understand how it sounds," Lancelot assured, carrying on where Arthur had left off. "It was different for all of us. Snatches of memory, things we couldn't explain, skills, instincts, reactions. Memories of people we'd never met – none of it made sense until Arthur found us."
"You've spent your entire life wondering why, explaining it away and suppressing it. Yes, even you," Lancelot continued, insistent now, trying to sway him, delay him as Arthur eyed him from across the close space. Considering, thinking, planning.
"Even now, you know us. We are familiar, you can't place us, but you know," Dagonet added, voice gentle, calming even as the situation began to devolve. Like a hawk circling, searching for its prey, all that was left was the long fall.
"And we know you." Gawain added, ferocity and conviction broiling just under the surface as the others nodded – an irrepressible force that was hemming him in from all sides.
His jaw clenched, muscles tensing just underneath the skin as he held his ground. Pride and sadism keeping his feet firmly planted as the man called Arthur took a step forward and then another. So close he could smell the scent of him, a mixture of base sweat and expensive cologne, eagerness and crushed pine.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek until the taste of iron swept across his tongue – desperate to steady himself. But that only made it worse, because suddenly-
A body moved underneath him, coltish and young. A man with a mop of dark brown curls and a smooth, curving back that seemed to stretch out forever, naked and glossed with sweat. His hips thrusted forward, arcing in a series of slow, sharp little snaps that had the man underneath him begging. His partner's calloused hands curled around his forearms as the boy pleaded, trying to get him to turn them over so that he could see – the man wanted to see his face when he came.
His boy.
Only he didn't move, instead he whispered filth in the man's ear as he bent down, fisting a handful of his dark curls. The boy clenched around his cock, likely in a misguided attempt for retribution that ended up backfiring on both of them spectacularly. Because it only made him shove the man deeper into the pile of furs they were nested in. His lover's pulse was pounding through his skin in a beautiful staccato beat as he yanked the man back onto his forearms by his hair, sucking a line of brutal kisses across the cords of his neck as the boy nearly hiccuped in pleasure.
It was a deflowering. The boy was ripe. Overeager. He could barely restrain himself.
"Tristan, Tristan please… I want to see-"
He rolled them deeper into the furs, but kept the man on his belly. The glimpses of the man's face as he tried to turn, tried to watch as he rutted into him, muscles gleaming in the low light as his hair hung, stringy and full over his eyes, were too delicious to pass up - all red-faced and eager. The man was oblivious to how wrecked he looked, how well fucked. He probably wasn't even aware of the noises he was making anymore; his pleads and mewls as he ground himself deep into the man's ass. His rump was pert, rippling with each thrust, inviting. He couldn't help but spread the man's cheeks, watching as his cock split the boy apart, his hole sloppy and well-used, red and stretched around him as he smacked the boy's flank for good measure. Watching as the force of his blow colored the man's cheeks.
So pretty, his boy.
One of the horses whickered softly; just outside of the small hut they'd taken shelter in for the night – hobbled and grazing. But he paid it no mind, because his boy was almost there. He could almost taste him shattering – breaking open as he moved inside him. The man was whining now, well past the point of pleads and demands, one hand sneaking underneath him as he stripped his cock – grunting into the furs as he tightened around him – close. He gritted his teeth in an effort to hold back his own release, not content to spill until his lover had reached his own.
"Tristan I-"
The boy's name exploded from his tongue as his balls suddenly tightened, surprising them both when it was pulled out of his throat unbidden, a raw growl of sound and syllables that ended up doing them both in. Because a second later he was rewarded with a shout and the sensation of the boy convulsing around him before his eyes rolled back in his head – losing himself inside him.
Galahad.
His eyes fluttered shut, bliss and uncertainty melding together in an explosive cocktail of two intertwining realities that were slowly becoming one. Gooseflesh shivered up his skin, puckering the flesh on his arms, teasing the hairs despite the warmth of the room.
Impossible.
His tongue swiped across his lower lip, barely able to suppress a shiver. Every action became sensuous and tactile as pleasure centers lit up across his skin - like the very memory was somehow wired into his nervous system. Heat rushed to his face, the precursor to arousal, he bit down on the urge to turn away, to keep something of the moment to himself – private. But something of it must have shown on his face because Arthur was moving again, now just meters away with a question on his lips.
And quite suddenly, the entire affair, which had so enamored him in the beginning, abruptly ceased to be interesting.
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – The next chapter should be up soon!
"Everything is connected, like a delicate web. Ever growing, ever changing. New silvery strands come together every day, and once the strand is formed, no matter what superficial circumstances may sometimes keep you apart, it is never broken. You will meet again, perhaps in another lifetime. The connection is unbreakable, lying dormant in your subconscious." ― Chelsie Shakespeare, (from The Pull)