At this time, Hannibal cannot imagine abandoning Will, even to save himself, and he can likewise not imagine Will abandoning him. Unlike Will, perhaps, Hannibal cannot see himself laying down his own life for the sake of his lover's, or at least not in a deliberate, planned act. If someone were to try to shoot Will, Hannibal would ensure that he was between the bullet and the man he loved, but that is something different. Perhaps that is why he is Achilles, and Will Patroclus. There is no romance in the more-than-human Achilles putting on the human Patroclus's armor and going into battle to die.

And yet Hannibal dearly hopes that his end, when it comes, comes at the hands of his lover. And that Will's death may come at Hannibal's.

He kisses Will once more before climbing off the bed and standing, his hand outstretched to his lover. He is entirely comfortable in his nakedness, his easy posture reminiscent of a figure painted on a Grecian urn, even with his hard, dripping cock standing straight and proud.

"Come, Will," he murmurs, his smile and his eyes warm.