In life, there are inevitably times when one must take a leap of faith. It's a truth Hannibal knows and accepts, and one he admires, for being who he is, he would quickly get bored otherwise. Determinism is so dull compared to dice; it's the moment of anticipation just before the roll that keeps Hannibal's world turning. The excitement and amusement of teetering on the edge of chaos is, to him, much worth the risk of falling.
Well, that and Will Graham.
Of course, this is not so much teetering on the edge as it is vaulting right over and into oblivion with all the grace of a wet dog in dance class, but when it comes to Will, Hannibal has regrettably found that more often than not his better ('better') nature flies out the window. It's thrilling, but somewhat destabilizing; Will is fiery and unpredictable, enough so that sometimes Hannibal wonders if he has indeed entered into that fateful game of dice with God. But if there's one positive quality Hannibal has, it's integrity: he won't be caught in hypocrisy, so instead of stopping the ride before it can start, he will simply strap himself in and allow himself to be swept along in all the uncertainty.
Currently, he's caught in a conundrum. Right now, Will is at his door—he knows this because he's standing in front of him, shivering remarkably like a wet dog—but right now Hannibal is also in the middle of a rather critical part of the "committing a crime" process, and Will, being FBI personified (minus ten points for not being completely insufferable), probably isn't the best person to invite in. Logically, he should turn him away.
But then, he wonders, where would be the fun in that?
"Good morning, Will," he says. Judging by the confused frown on his face, Will has taken note of the fact that Hannibal is already fully dressed before even the birds are fully awake, but no matter: Hannibal has been meticulous in crafting his person-suit, and he's sure if he were to tell Will he has a secret collection of sleeping suits, Will would simply take it in stride.
Integrity, see: that's what Hannibal has, and in spades!
"Would you like to come in?" he asks, never one to pass down a challenge. He's also curious what has brought Will to his door at three o'clock in the morning. He doesn't seem drunk, but tired—bad dreams? What Hannibal would give to look inside Will's head for a day, to see the delicate cogs and whorls of thought turn and twist into all manner of great shapes!
It breaks him out of his reverie when Will nods and steps in; Hannibal, still obstructing the door, is treated to the smell of Will's sweat and the warmth of his body against him—for a moment, at least. If only it were the warmth that lingered, and not the smell of sweat.
Still, he's nothing if not a good host, and Will is a most esteemed guest, so Hannibal parks him in the living room and goes upstairs to find a fresh shirt for him to wear. Poor Will must have been in a state when he woke, for him to have rushed to Hannibal so quickly he hardly had time to change.
Luckily, in the so-called 'drawer of shame' he keeps hidden in the back of the closet, Hannibal has a collection of more casual clothing: jeans, T-shirts, even a hoodie, albeit old and worn—and, for the most part, unworn. He takes a clean T-shirt out and returns to the living room, stealing a blanket from the linen closet on his way. Maybe he should make Will something warm to eat or drink.
Will hasn't moved from where Hannibal put him, other than to drift slightly closer to the fire. He seems in a daze (or doze, as it may be—perhaps Will is or was sleepwalking), listening to the merry chatter of the fire and the birds outside; when Hannibal places a hand on his shoulder he jerks out of his reverie and looks around, frowning slightly. "Thanks," he murmurs—awake then, Hannibal thinks—stepping away and shrugging off his jacket so it falls unceremoniously onto the floor: were he in his right mind, Hannibal would glare at it, but as it stands he has the much more interesting sight of Will removing his shirt to stare at instead; oh, how he wishes it were easy to look away! These days are much more complicated and feeling-laden than the old ones, where he would gleefully cut a swathe through Baltimore without fear of repercussion. Now, he must consider Will's role in all this, both in what Will would approve (or at least not disapprove) of and in Hannibal's ongoing mission to tease out the darkness he knows slumbers inside.
He can see it now, reflected in the glitter of Will's eyes in the firelight, so close he can almost taste it. A recurring wonder these days is whether Will would be amenable to mutual consumption of the erotic variety, though he does his level best to tamp down those thoughts before he loses grip of the reins. God only knows what would happen otherwise.
Will plops down on the rug before the fire, which briefly recoils at the gust of air from his movement before yapping back with a vengeance. It's a miracle Will hasn't gone into the kitchen, Hannibal knows. He's still in that moment of uncertainty, suspended with adrenaline rushing through his veins, half-debating whether to 'accidentally' leave the kitchen door open to see what Will would do. He's endlessly fascinating. Every day, Hannibal thanks God that Will exists near and around him. Well, not God—again determinism settles uneasily in his brain. He could thank fate, but that's no better, and besides, Hannibal has never believed in soulmates anyway: he firmly believes that a relationship is borne from the collective effort of both parties, and the mutual transformation thereafter. To place the onus on a third party, whether in blame or gratitude, seems nonsensical to him.
So, he concludes, he really ought to thank himself.
That settled with a short nod, he asks Will, "Are you all right? Would you like something to drink?"
Will takes a moment to respond, then says, "Bad dreams."
"I'm afraid I don't serve those."
The line makes Will laugh, which seems to snap him back to reality. He rubs his face. "Uh, coffee would be nice."
"Of course. Would you like to discuss these dreams or simply keep company?"
"I don't want to talk about it," Will says. Hannibal crouches down expectantly and Will glares at him. "I don't like the … implications."
"The implications of dreams are often worth considering; they can be expressions of our deepest fears and desires."
Will snorts. "My dreams don't always have some deeper meaning. Or at least, I hope not."
"Why?"
Will hesitates; Hannibal holds his breath. "It'd be hard to trust myself. Deepest fears, deepest desires, right? Sometimes it's hard to draw the line."
"Sometimes there is no line, or the line is blurred and indistinct. Perhaps you're afraid of something which you know, deep down, you crave more than life itself," Hannibal replies. It's a feeling he knows intimately, and one he's (mostly) accepted by now.
Certainly, Will would no longer be alive were Hannibal still in its most violent throes, so it's safe to say he's had at least limited success. Psychiatry, he supposes, can sometimes be more than just a murder machine.
He waits for Will to reply; Will doesn't reply. Instead, he continues to stare into the fire and ignore Hannibal, who purses his lips and stands up; "Would you like something to eat?" he asks. Will shakes his head.
He's just at the door, considering how he's supposed to open it without Will seeing the red-painted walls inside, when the man himself speaks up and says, "A craving isn't something you want, but rather something you need." He turns to look at Hannibal; the angle at which he is situated against the fire makes his eyes look quite black. "How can I indulge without becoming reliant? Without it consuming me whole?"
Hannibal smiles. "Oftentimes it is more advantageous to trust the forces of fate to direct our fall. Might I suggest a leap of faith?"
Preceded by a yawn, Will murmurs, "So, what, just … let the chips fall where they may?"
"Of course not. It's choice and trust in the unknown which bring the spark to life. Otherwise, where's the fun?"
"I suppose. I guess it's just easier to let fate take the reins. I don't need to wonder whether I'm doing the right thing if circumstances are out of my control."
"You worry too much, Will," Hannibal says. "But never fear; you can always talk to me. Now, I'll get that coffee you ordered—I'm sure it will have quite the calming effect."
When he returns, Will has migrated to the couch. He's sinking into it, barely an inch away from being sucked between the cushions, absently cleaning his glasses. In the set of his face, the dulled spark in his eyes, Hannibal finally sees how exhausted he truly is.
"Thanks," Will says, taking a sip of coffee. He sighs heavily and places it on the side table. They sit in silence for a few seconds, until Will says, "Not just for the coffee, for … everything. It sounds sad, but I'm not used to having a friend whose house I can go to in the middle of the night, no questions asked." A beat. "Most of the time I don't mind, but still … we're social animals, right? We need someone to trust."
"You can absolutely trust me, Will," Hannibal replies, sitting as close beside him as he dares. "I only ever have your best interests in mind."
Will hums non-committedly and settles against the couch, leaning his head back. His eyes close; two minutes pass and he's already asleep, glasses askance on his face.
Hannibal stays quiet all the while, until Will's mouth falls open slightly—Hannibal would think it endearing, but trite cooing about cute things is beneath him, of course, so he doesn't. He thinks it charming instead.
His sketchpad is on the table; really, he ought to use the time to clear up the mess in the kitchen, but Will is so very soft and tempting where he lies. Hannibal picks up the sketchpad and begins to draw.
He's aware of every shift, every snore, every movement Will makes. Looking over, Hannibal sees that frown return: more bad dreams, probably. He wants to smooth the frown from his face, he thinks; Will does look rather lovely when he's happy. Maybe one day Hannibal will try to fluster him: he can almost picture the soft pink that will dust Will's cheeks like clouds over sunset.
He continues to glance over at Will, memorizing the curve of his features and completing the base of the sketch. It'll never be perfect, of course—Will is so complex, so beautiful, that even the most accomplished of artists could never truly imitate his beauty—but Hannibal, prostrate at the altar of this new god of his, is more than happy to attempt the impossible.
So engaged is he in his pursuit that he fails to notice as Will slides lower on the couch: fails to notice, that is, until he feels a warm cheek against his shoulder, soft curls against his neck, steady breaths pressing into his torso.
Holding his own breath, he pauses mid-stroke and stares at Will, his beloved. He resists the temptation to reach out and touch his cheek; he does, however, briefly press his face into his hair, smelling shampoo and sweat and, underneath all that, pure, unadulterated Will. He feels as a lowly churchgoer might upon seeing the heavens open and the face of God look down upon them.
He's not sure how long they sit there: certainly long enough for the sky to turn from black to blue to golden. It's an accurate metaphor, he thinks, for Hannibal's life: dark, black feelings consumed him as a child, twisting and writhing in his chest with no means for escape save to kill those who took his Mischa from him; blue, as he settled into a steady state of melancholy, delighting in fleeting pleasures while aware all the while that something was missing; and now, golden-brown, Will appearing like the sun over the horizon and casting all of Hannibal's preconceived notions about the world into a new light.
He stays statue-still the whole time, determined not to squander the precious gift he's been given. He's unsure how long it will take for Will to reciprocate his affections—for he will, Hannibal knows; he's already lost on Will—as for now, he has to focus on bringing out the strange darkness that lurks behind Will's eyes, always shirking away from itself for fear of what others might think. One day, he hopes, the only one whose thoughts Will cares about will be Hannibal. He isn't sure when it started, this creeping desire which oh-so-gently curled its tendrils into his brain and around his heart, directing his aspirations toward the one beside him now, but he's caught firmly within its grasp, and he finds himself reluctant to escape. One day, he thinks. One day, you will be mine.
Of course, Will is already his—he just doesn't know it yet.
All good things must come to an end, however, and eventually Hannibal begins to feel the telltale signs of a return to consciousness. He notes how Will, contrary to what he reported earlier and in their sessions, hasn't woken once; Hannibal smugly decides to claim victory for that. It's just another thing Will doesn't yet know: how much he loves Hannibal, how much the mere presence of one soothes the other.
Still, Hannibal has never had the chance to observe Will waking up, so he sets aside his sketchpad and turns to watch the way Will's face shuffles through various expressions, to listen to the sweet snuffles he makes as he returns from the deep, to feel that jolt of energy when Will shifts and some new part of Hannibal's body is blessed with his touch.
Will yawns and blinks blearily up at Hannibal; he must be still half-asleep, for it takes him a few seconds to register their positions: Hannibal, relaxed against the couch; Will, practically falling into his lap.
"Shit, did I fall asleep?"
"You did," Hannibal says, inclining his head slightly.
Will winces; "Sorry," he says—though, Hannibal notes, he makes no attempt to move.
"It's quite all right," Hannibal replies, resisting the temptation to play with a lock of Will's hair: it just looks so soft. "You seemed tired. I thought it best not to disturb your slumber, given what you have told me about the rarity of your having a peaceful night's sleep. I should like to see you taking proper care of yourself."
"Still, you didn't need to let me drool all over you," Will says. "I'm surprised I didn't startle you with any nightmares."
"Don't worry, Will," Hannibal murmurs, close to Will's ear; he feels more than sees the shiver that runs down Will's spine, and smiles, pleased. "I'll always be here to take care of you."
Will smiles up at him then, a brief nervous thing, and sits up, still close but not close enough. He removes his glasses and starts cleaning them as an excuse not to meet Hannibal's eyes. "You can't just … say stuff like that," Will mutters. "It's not fair." He seems still only half-awake; and, oh, Hannibal thought he loved Will before, as a man with fire in his eyes and darkness to match his own, but now, having been granted a glimpse of the soft, pliant man Will could be in their moments alone, he finds he only loves him more.
All of a sudden, Will takes on a whole new dimension, and Hannibal's feelings solidify in his chest—and Hannibal has never believed in soulmates, but maybe, just this once, he might.
"Whyever not?"
Will swallows, just as Hannibal feels a tinge of sourness taint his scent—he's nervous. "I … I mean it's confusing. You say we're just having conversations, and you act like … like this all the time, but then when I try—" He cuts off, swallowing.
Hannibal can hardly breathe. "When you try what, Will?"
Will shifts away from him, to his regret, clearing his throat and putting his glasses back on. Finally, he turns toward Hannibal, though he still fails to meet his eyes. "You're so hard to read," Will says at last. "I never know where we are with each other. And I—" He coughs. "I know it's probably some violation of ethics, and I understand if you—"
There's a pause, during which Will seems to spiral spectacularly, falling into himself with the grace of an angel. "If I what?" Hannibal asks, gently prompting.
"Sorry, I don't think I can—" Will stands up abruptly. "Look, I need to get home, make sure the dogs are all right. Thanks for letting me sleep, but I should really—" He cuts off again as Hannibal grabs his wrist in a gesture: stay, it pleads. They both stare at it, at the place where they're joined; something of a sacred feel permeates the air.
"Will," Hannibal says firmly, determined to do his part of their collective effort, "if there's something you wish to tell me, then by all means, do."
Will sucks in a breath, exhaling shakily. Swallowing, he turns slightly more toward Hannibal, though quickly stuffs both his hands in his pocket. Cute, the traitorous thought says as it drifts across his brain.
"I've wanted to tell you for a while," Will says. "Or at least, what feels like a while. It's only really been a few weeks. But I think it's been this way for longer than I realized at first."
"What do you want, Will?" Hannibal asks. Will, however, has again been overtaken by a bout of reticence, and so Hannibal weighs his options and decides to take a leap of faith. Reaching over, he pulls Will's hand out of his pocket and tugs him gently down onto the couch, so close that one of Will's legs is laid over Hannibal's knee.
Will, still staring down at where their hands are joined, starts when Hannibal reaches up with the other to cup his face, turning him toward him. They're mere inches apart, and yet it must seem a gulf to Will. This close, he isn't able to avoid Hannibal's gaze; his eyes are swimming in uncertainty, for once with a deplorable lack of trust in his own judgment.
Hannibal simply has to give him the faith to take the leap.
He leans forward ever so slightly, just barely hinting at what he truly wants. Will's breath hitches in surprise, but it seems to have been enough for him to muster up the courage to close the gap.
The moment their lips meet, Will shudders and presses closer, seeming to want to make the most of this. Hannibal won't argue; Will is a fantastic kisser, or perhaps Hannibal is simply too lost on him to be objective. Probably both.
It's gentle at first, all warm, shuddering breaths and soft almost-moans coming from Will's lips, accompanied by the tentative clutch of his hand on Hannibal's shoulder. When Will finally accepts that he can have this, that Hannibal isn't going to pull away, he suddenly presses forward much harder, with bruising force. Hannibal smiles as he's pushed against the back of the couch, Will moving to straddle him. So firm, so warm; Hannibal willingly turns toward that heat, seeking it out and allowing it to penetrate to the deepest part of his soul. Perhaps one day he will allow it to encroach on the darkest, coldest part of him, that snow-coated tomb whence he came; for now, he thinks, he will simply enjoy the weight of Will on top of him.
Will pulls away a few seconds later, cheeks flushed from excitement. He's breathing heavily, though not panting; one hand on Hannibal's shoulder and the other on his hip, he's also ensured Hannibal can't escape. Not that he wants to, of course.
"God," Will says, laughing nervously. "I never thought …"
"Never thought what?" Hannibal murmurs, brushing a hair away from Will's face. Hand on waist, he draws Will down and closer, until Will is settled against his side in much the same way as he was before. "Never thought I could love one as extraordinary as you?"
Will pauses where he's playing with Hannibal's shirt button. "Love?" he asks. "Already?"
Hannibal smiles, and for once doesn't mind the terribly sappy words coming from his lips. "I've loved you from the start, Will, and I'll love you past the end."
"I told you you're hard to read," Will says. "I had no reason to believe you'd reciprocate. I'd … resigned myself, to riding it out alone."
Hannibal's heart breaks, then, at the thought of his Will feeling compelled to keep secrets for fear of his reaction. "You should know by now," he says, "that there is no part of you I dislike; there is no part of you I would shirk from in fear. The good and bad, the joy and pain, the confidence and fear … these burdens that you carry, they are mine as well."
Will laughs, a watery thing. He clutches the fabric of Hannibal's shirt: he'll never iron it again.
"That's just life," Will says. "There's nothing especially notable about my burdens. I know you have plenty of your own."
"They are notable, because they're yours." Hannibal tilts Will's chin up to look at him, to search deep in those fathomless eyes and see if he can find the real Will and pull him out. He smiles softly again, kisses Will once more, and then stands up and holds out his hand.
He's not sure how Will will react to the scene in the kitchen, but with naught but hope to guide him, he thinks he can make the leap.
"Come. Help me make breakfast," he says.
And Will, his wonderful Will, surprises him one last time and asks, "How do I know the meat's guilty?"
Hannibal pauses for a moment, and replies, "You don't. You must take a leap of faith." A beat. "Do you trust me?"
And Will, God bless him, does.