The dinner party had long since been over. In the dining room, a sense of despondency spreads over the table, much like white cloth, hovering over candle stubs as their wax drips steadily down wood and marble. Past echoes of laughter from the lively conversations of departed men and women hang in the air like glitter. Will Graham doesn't move from his seat.

Neither does Dr. Lecter.

He shifts in the cushioned chair to get a better view of Will by the window, framed in whirling snowflakes that throw themselves at the glass trying to escape the storm. They bring in the chill that slowly reddened the tip of Will's nose, their frostiness coloring his blue gaze bluer.

Hannibal was content to just observe like this. He really was, in the same way he liked to step back and allow events to unfold after he set them in motion.

He may not know it himself, but Will fits under that characterization. An object set in motion, doomed to continue its downward descent until eternity- or, external influence from another object. The collision would lead to the most dazzling fireworks display; Hannibal was an appreciator of art in all its forms.

But it couldn't stay as passive observation- the best moment of the hunt is when the prey realizes it's being hunted. A whiff of their scent becomes shot through with fear, carried by the wind, and they bunch their muscles to bolt.

It is due to these visualizations that Hannibal doesn't notice Will's approach until the other man's boots scrape against his polished floor.

He looks up sharply after the lapse in his attention, one of his hands—calloused from rubbing against paper—checking that every strand of hair was in its place.

Will averts his eyes, his gaze wandering listlessly around the room just as much as the rest of him is doing. He unconsciously mirrors Hannibal, but his unruly curls tangle in his fingers, and he curses softly.

Hannibal finds his voice. "What prompted the end to your contemplation by the window?"

Will changes directions mid-step and his hands close over the edge of a side table, where collected cutlery gives a feeble glint.

"I retreated too far into my mind. And you know how it is when that happens," he says darkly.

It is easier when he isn't looking. Hannibal is vaguely surprised by this amateur notion and silently stores it away to examine more throughly at a later time.

Will has discarded his suit somewhere in the living room, and the sleeves of his sky blue dress shirt are rolled up despite the temperature. The lights of the dining room, half of them off, shine down like spotlights. They bring every crease and fold of his clothing into sharp relief; Hannibal finds his fingers itching for pencil and paper. He imagines that Will wouldn't be the most flexible or still poser, but an intriguing one. Who could capture the veiled threat in the lines of his body, the storm brewing beneath his skin? Hannibal accepted the challenge with relish.

"I'm still a psychiatrist at heart, Will, even if my license was revoked. You could share what's on your mind; familiarity grounds us to the present moment, after all."

He frames it as an open invitation, infusing genuine concern into his voice, which lilted pleasantly. Vivid images of a wall of books, lamplit armchairs, and the clinking glasses full of rich, glowing liquid trickled through his mind in a steady stream. He could recall the notebook of appointments, Will Graham inscribed in its pages in careful strokes, and how the flames in his office's fireplace had happily consumed that piece of him.

It is not the first time Hannibal has envied flames.

Will's head of curls gave a slight shake. He releases the table at the end of a long exhale and turns around, one hand on his hip.
"I'm sure you needn't ask, Dr. Lecter. I don't have to imagine it now: you're…combing through my thoughts?" A mirthless laugh. A haunted shadow flits over Will's eyes. "Sparking a few revelations?"

Hannibal half-smiles, the professional aura withstanding, and Will grits his teeth in response.

"You're not a psychiatrist—you're just an excellent manipulator. There's a big difference."

There is no reaction from Hannibal save for a raised eyebrow, still somehow elegant and composed in the face of accusation. It only stokes the hot coals that sear Will's skin from the inside out.

He has realized that, no, he's not truly an individual. He is a patchwork of influences—he is who he surrounds himself with. This makes him Hannibal's puppet as well as his peer. The man drew people in, changed them, irrevocably so, and leaves them disorientated with just enough incentive to come back for more. When Will looked in the mirror, he's become increasingly afraid of Hannibal looking back.

If he did, though, if the hunter showed his face in all its equal glory and wretchedness, Will's own curiosity and intrigue was far from satiated. Would the same scars adorn Hannibal's silhouette? Did he get dressed in shadows one leg at a time; how tightly did his person suit stretch? What is the material? Could it be as pliable as lace, or brittle as bone?

Will found himself fixated on the swirling paisley patterns on Hannibal's tie. It morphs into a fractal, with no ends, only beginnings. He wants to tear it from his throat. He wants to break down this facade, this mask, the meaningless cardboard cutout of a man who is not a man, but an enigma, a puzzle and never a piece, a predator who must step away from his own trap.

Will doesn't let him.

He is reaching out, and his fingers brush against fine fabric, and suddenly Hannibal has them in a bruising grip, they make contact with his sharp canines, and Will clenches his other hand into a fist at the shocking bloom of pain at the bite. His widened eyes flick to Hannibal's, who blinks back slowly, letting go of Will.

Will's lips curl into a triumphant, if subdued, smile. Hannibal wasn't unpredictable after all.

"Always full of surprises, Doctor." The words tumble out smoothly. They have played this game before.

Hannibal tilts his head, the blood over his tongue distracting.

"I will not lie by apologizing." He frowns and clears his throat.

"Nor should you," Will tells him, handing over a glass of bourbon, as if it would wash the taste from his mouth. Hannibal reaches out to take it, but Will lets it drop from his hand before his fingers could close around the glass stem. The glass shatters all over Hannibal's pristine floor.

A pendulum swings through Will's psyche.

In slow motion, he closes the distance between them and grasps Hannibal's tie, previously untouchable. The paisley patterns beneath his fingers mumble out in conflicted agony, the dots and lines squirming away from the heat of his hand.

Will pulls, a channel of strength traversing through his veins, their electrifying intensity reaching a crux as Hannibal falls.

Will had expected him to find his balance, for inexplicable reasons. It was almost disconcerting that Hannibal did not bounce back from where he had been thrown. Instead, he lays still, the glass shards having pierced through his torso.

He is pretending. He is acting as if Will has murdered him.

Will knelt down, tiny bits of glass embedding themselves into his jeans. He feels for a pulse and comes up empty.

He watches as Hannibal's head turns, and his mouth opens, and bone-white antlers grow from it like ferns. They pierce through flesh, bypassing blood, and pause at Will's still-beating heart. They ensnare it, drag it out of him, and it goes down the throat of the other man. The last thing Will sees is Hannibal, restored and immortal, straightening up with half of his face in shadow. He lowers his head, golden hair obscuring his face, and presses a scorching kiss to Will's fingers.

The pendulum swings once more.

Will's vision is clear: he is face-to-face with paisley. Hannibal's hand is to his chest, rising and falling slightly with each dull thud that makes it shift minutely. They arrive faster and faster, and a buzzing fills Will's ears. The air tastes acidic and he hurries to expel the toxins, breath rasping in his throat as he coughs.

The air is not full of bone-white antlers. He is not choking and they do not have his heart impaled. Hannibal is alive and close.

A scorching kiss is pressed to his fingers, mixed with pain from the marks in his skin.

"An apology?" Will pushes through his hysterics.

Hannibal moves to the side, the weight of his hand shifting. His lips touch the healed bullet wound on Will's shoulder over his dress shirt, from when he couldn't tell friend from foe, when he was in the exact same position as he is now. He shivers, the fracturing edges of his mind knitting together furiously.

"A-Apology?" Will repeats, as if that is the only thing that matters.

"Abetment," Hannibal replies, the word dressed in shadows.

Will gave a shaky laugh, his fingernails digging into the leather of his belt. The winter night no longer seems to touch his skin.

"You'll be the death of me."

Hannibal's eyes, fathomless, meet his.

"And you will be mine."

They promised as if exchanging vows. They believed wholeheartedly as if entranced and unbroken.

Love is an elusive, spinning mirrorball. It shines amidst glass and bloodstains; the gravity of it thrums steadily at the heart of the earth, intertwined with loss, with possession and obsession, with violence and destruction.

There is something comforting about having someone to fall back onto. There is something inevitable about the lingering, quietly flourishing decay of their entanglement. They don't speak of it. They don't think, or predict, or claim to understand. They coexist with a vengeance, crossing paths with reverence, the richness of bourbon dressing their words, honey coating their hearts—clinging and sickly-sweet.

Like ambrosia.