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When Hannibal asks Will to come to dinner the night before they're to have their fateful meal with Jack, Will thinks maybe it's one more evening of planning, another few hours for Hannibal to be sure that Will is really ready to do what he says he will in regards to Jack's murder. As usual they talk around each other, neither one admitting anything, touching on things just enough to avoid being untruthful, never really saying anything. But the nothing they say is heavy with intent, and the moves they make are like a game for which neither of them knows the rules.

Hannibal asks about Jack, finally, and the question is framed in such a way that Will can easily deflect rather than answer directly. But even as he says what he does, about Jack's fate being preordained, he thinks that there's a part of him that could do what he's told Hannibal he can, could help Hannibal kill him. He doesn't cherish the idea of murdering Jack, doesn't imagine it will give him the rush of power he felt when he put ten bullets into Garrett Jacob Hobbs, when he nearly shot Clark Ingram in the head, when he broke Randal Tier's neck. But he's started to lose sight of where his reality ends and his deception begins.

Letting Hannibal in, giving him permission (and invitation) to be close, has given Will new insight. There's something in the vulnerability they've shared, even if some of it had been manufactured on Will's part, that makes some part of Will loathe to turn on Hannibal as was his initial design. It's not as if he's forgotten what Hannibal did to him, because he hasn't. But he's starting to understand why, to see the flesh and blood behind a man who is most certainly a monster. Hannibal can be cold and calculating and cruel, but he's passionate as well, he has the ability to be broken hearted, and the capacity for love.

Before he'd brought up Jack, Hannibal had talked about an imago, and the more Will considers it, the more he starts to realize that maybe Hannibal is hinting at something. He has in his mind his ideal for Will, a partner, Will thinks, someone he can share his intellect with, his thoughts, dark and light, someone who can and will understand him. But it makes Will wonder if Hannibal's seen through the cracks of Will's deceit, as fine as they are, if he knows betrayal awaits him when Jack arrives tomorrow night. It makes bile rise in the back of Will's throat, not because he's afraid of what Hannibal will do, but rather because the idea of hurting Hannibal in that way squeezes at his heart in a manner he never thought possible.

Will takes a sip of his wine in an attempt to wash the guilt down, but it sticks in his throat, burns in his sinuses. He can hear the intake of Hannibal's breath, ready to speak, but the words that come out of his mouth aren't what Will expects.

"We could disappear now, tonight," Hannibal suggests, his voice low and honest in a way that Will can feel vibrating in his bones. "Feed your dogs, leave a note for Alana, and never see her or Jack again. Almost polite."

There's a long silence then, spun out between them, and Will's instinct is to deflect again, say something that isn't a no or a yes, just words to fill the space. But, in his heart, all he wants is to agree, to leave all of this behind and run away with Hannibal, for better or worse, whatever that means. Jack would see him as a traitor, a liar, Alana would know it was weakness, giving into Hannibal's designs (because she knows exactly what that feels like), but, besides having to leave his dogs, Will has nothing to lose. He doesn't feel loyalty to the FBI, he doesn't have Jack or Alana's complete trust. He doesn't have Hannibal's either, and there's always a chance that Hannibal will kill him as soon as they get away, but Will suddenly understands that he doesn't care. This life, the one he's been pretending to live these few months, is what he wants. He's never felt more alive, has never understood himself better, than when he's with Hannibal.

"Yes," Will says quietly, his eyes meeting Hannibal's as he nods softly, his gaze clear and unburdened for the first time. "Let's go tonight. I want to," he adds, wanting his intentions to be completely understood, nothing disguised by the veil that usually hung between them.

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It's just three blocks, but as torturous as it is it feels like three thousand, like they have to cross the entire width of Paris. Hannibal takes the walk at a steady clip, ignoring the discomfort of the tightness in his trousers, ignoring any looks from passersby. It's late afternoon, and the Parisians are going about their own business, as they are wont to do, so the likelihood that anyone will pay attention long enough to notice his increasingly obvious arousal is low.

When they reach the building Hannibal pulls a set of keys out of his pocket, unlocks the front entrance, and holds the door for Will. The building is from well before the time of elevators, so there's a four story climb to get to the top floor. Hannibal would take the steps two at a time were he not dragging a suitcase. Again, it feels like forever, like the staircase winds up into infinity. But finally, finally, they reach the top. Hannibal's hands are still miraculously steady as he unlocks the door, opens it, strides in just far enough to allow Will to enter. Then he drops his suitcase, sets the wine down, closes the door behind Will, grabs his lover's face, and crushes his lips to Will's.

Will knows there's beautiful, amazing things around him, churches and gardens, an entire gorgeous city he's never seen before, but all he can focus on is Hannibal's back as he leads them to his apartment, his shoulders tense as he walks as quickly as he can. They're both exhausted, short on sleep, their muscles stiff from their rough coupling followed by hours of sitting in cars and on the plane, hindered by the physical expression of their building desire.

Will is envious of the steadiness of Hannibal's hands as he opens the doors between them, first the outer entrance and then the one to the flat, both of them breathing hard from the four stories worth of stairs in between, his own shaking with desperation, his legs trembling too. But he's imbued with sudden strength as soon as Hannibal shuts and locks the door between them and the world, and he catches Hannibal as he lunges, his hands catching the front of Hannibal's shirt in tight fists as Hannibal drives his back into the door, kissing him deeply, forcefully, all those hours of forced distance fueling them both.

Will growls into the kiss, yanking Hannibal impossibly closer, his mouth and lips aching already from the fierceness of their kissing. Their teeth collide, their lips and gums pinched and bruised, and Will can't control the sounds coming from him, animalistic grunting and deep, soulful moans, his entire body spilling over with desire, with lust and love and want and need, his fingers grasping at every part of Hannibal they can reach now, groping him through his clothes.

Will's noises resonate deep in Hannibal's chest, and he moans in reply, a low, aching sound. He kisses hard, Will filling his senses, the taste of berries and coffee, the smell of desperate arousal, the feel of heat and tension and lust. Hannibal still maintains a relentless air of control, of not completely giving his will over to his own lust, but it's a near thing, the desire to just let go of everything vibrating in his head.

While still kissing Will deeply, Hannibal pulls back just enough so that he can unbutton Will's coat, push it from his shoulders, then grasp both sides of the front of Will's shirt and with one yank tear them apart, the buttons remaining from when he did this in Baltimore popping off and clattering to the floor. He pulls the shirt off of Will, letting it fall to the floor. Next his hands go down to Will's trousers, unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his fly, and tugging down the zipper. He wants Will naked, and now.

Will yelps into their kiss when Hannibal physically tears his shirt apart, and he thinks about those two buttons still on the floor in Baltimore, probably lost under a dresser, scattered to the corners of Hannibal's bedroom. He wonders if Jack will find one of them, if he'll think of it as evidence, another piece of the undeniable tableau he and Hannibal left in Hannibal's house when they fled. The memories of before collide with the present and Will groans as Hannibal strips his ruined shirt off him, then swiftly and efficiently opens his pants. Will stands on shaking legs as Hannibal kneels at his feet, unlacing his shoes, and Will braces a hand on Hannibal's shoulder as his shoes are then removed, his socks, and then the tangle of pants and boxers around his ankles, leaving him naked and hard.

When Hannibal stands again, entirely clothed in opposition to Will's nudity, Will thinks it could equate to an unequal power balance, but it doesn't feel that way. Will feels like a piece of artwork that Hannibal is admiring, one he itches to reproduce with graphite and fine paper, and Will feels heat bleed through his chest under the admiration. Licking his lips, he watches Hannibal look at him, and he wants to get Hannibal naked too, but he doesn't want to move and break the moment.

Finally, he reaches out with one hand, finds the lapel of Hannibal's coat and tugs him close, pushing the garment off decidedly but not in the same rush as before. He won't destroy Hannibal's shirt, the fine linen too strong and well made to rend the way Will's had, so he works the buttons as swiftly as he can, baring Hannibal's chest. Then he presses his hands between the halves of it, his palms finding Hannibal's chest and smoothing down it, feeling the coarse hair, strength and heat beneath it.

When Hannibal is on his knees he gazes up in admiration, love and lust at his lover, so beautiful in his nakedness. He lets his gaze caress Will, from his feet slowly up to his forehead, taking in every line and curve and light and shadow. When he rises he locks his eyes on Will's and runs his fingers lightly up and down his side as Will unbuttons his shirt. He draws in a breath as Will smooths his hands down Hannibal's chest, smiling at his friend, his lover. Slowly he removes his own shirt, letting it drop forgotten behind him, and reaches up to tenderly cup Will's cheek as Will explores his chest. He finds it intriguing that things have slowed down, that their lust is manifesting not as a conflagration but rather as a slow burn. It is indicative, he feels, of the admiration, affection and love between them, that they want to fuck each other, yes, but just as strongly they want to know each other. Know each other's bodies, minds, hearts, souls.

He lets Will decide where to go from here, if he wishes to strip Hannibal the same way Hannibal stripped him, or if he has something else in mind.

Will had been worried at first that Hannibal wouldn't take to the sudden change in direction, but like so many other things they fall into this exactly in sync, from desperate and rushed to slow and measured. The heat behind it hasn't dissipated in the slightest, it's only shifted in direction, and Will finds and holds Hannibal's gaze as he slips his fingers into the front of Hannibal's trousers, tugging him a few inches closer before he moves to button and unzip the fly. Hannibal's clothes are all expensive and perfectly tailored and while a part of him loves the idea of destroying that, of ripping seams and leaving come stains on dry clean only fabric, he's reverent to it now, kneeling the way Hannibal had before to take down Hannibal's pants then remove his shoes and socks, leaving Hannibal standing before him in nothing but his silk boxers, erect cock tenting the front of them, a dark spot where the tip has leaked pre-come.

He's not sure what compels him exactly, but, still on his knees, Will presses his face into the heated mass of Hannibal's genitals, his cheek rubbing at the length of Hannibal's cock through the silk. He inhales Hannibal's scent here, musky and hot, opens his mouth and turns his head to span the girth of Hannibal's cock with his lips, his saliva further dampening the material. He's never thought of sucking a man's dick before, and he's not sure he can really do it yet, but he finds he loves the way this feels, Hannibal vulnerable to him this way, one of his more sensitive parts so near to Will's teeth. Will's hands move to cup Hannibal's ass and pull him close, his mouth working over Hannibal's erection through his boxers, finding the head with his mouth and lapping the taste of him from the silk.

Hannibal gazes fondly down at his lover as Will mouths his silk-covered cock, caressing his hair gently. Were they still in frantic, aggressive mode, he might grip Will by the hair and thrust roughly into his mouth. Now, though, they are being gentle, exploring each other. Hannibal is certain that Will has never fellated another man before, so as Will is exploring Hannibal's scent, his warmth, his taste, Hannibal is watching as Will's world expands.

"You can remove my boxers," he says, his voice quiet and warm. "If you wish." He doesn't know if Will wants to deepen his exploration, or if he's using the silk to maintain a distance, however slight. Either answer would be an interesting revelation.

Hannibal is being so gentle with Will, here and now, a far cry from the way he'd handled him back in Baltimore. Will doesn't think it's that Hannibal's changed, or that his desire for Will has tempered in the slightest. This is something Hannibal has always been capable of, and he's not giving Will this space and time because he's luring him to a place where he can eventually turn the tables. It's because Hannibal wants this. He's wants to experience Will's tenderness, his careful exploration. This is all a part of Will's becoming. He's not only accepting the murderer inside him, but also the part that desires another man, that wants to experience everything that entails.

Drawing back with a rough, heated breath, Will turns his eyes up to Hannibal from where he's kneeling at Hannibal's feet, and he's like a disciple genuflecting before his savior. Raising his hands again, Will tucks his fingers in the elastic of Hannibal's waistband, carefully drawing the silk down and over Hannibal's erection, letting the boxers fall to Hannibal's feet.

Will is left at eye level with Hannibal's prick, heavy with blood and arcing up from between Hannibal's thighs. Will looks at it for a moment without touching, noting how far the foreskin has drawn back naturally with the engorgement of the shaft, the path the thick veins take along the length of it, the way Hannibal's testicles hang in his scrotum. Despite having the same genitals, Will has never spent this much time scrutinizing a penis, and he finds he likes the form of it, the heady smell, what it being in this state symbolizes.

Slowly, Will wraps a hand around the base of Hannibal's dick, sliding his loose fist from root to tip, drawing the foreskin back up to just cover the head before retreating, rolling the skin back. He does it again and again, feeling the heat, the weight of Hannibal in his hand, and then, taking a breath through his nose, he leans in and rolls his tongue over the glistening end, tasting the fluid there, feeling the soft, smooth skin. A part of him wants to see Hannibal's face, but Will can't make himself look up, just closes his eyes and takes the cap of Hannibal's cock in his mouth, licking over it before he slides back off, his lips brushing as he finally turns his eyes upward, looking at Hannibal through his eyelashes.

There may well come a time when Hannibal again manipulates Will, when there will be some end that he desires, either for his own sake or for his lover, that will only be achieved with Hannibal's own brand of truthful deception. But that time is not now. He has no agenda aside from what is right here and right now, aside from this man kneeling before him like a supplicant. Will is his friend, his lover, his disciple, his creation, and this moment is as much coming into his true being as was the moment of Randall Tier's murder. Because there are no machinations, no moves to plan out in his head, Hannibal's mind is quiet of everything save this, this sensation, both physical and psychological. It's very unusual for him. The pleasure, the love, is able to bloom fully without check, and as Will explores, as his tongue runs along the tip of his cock, Hannibal closes his eyes, slowly exhaling as the warmth fills him, body and soul. When Will takes the head of his cock in his mouth Hannibal draws in a breath and opens his eyes, meeting Will's, so dark and hungry.

"My Will," he whispers, running a hand fondly over his lover's curls, caressing the side of his face. He's entirely open, entirely vulnerable, his heart as tender and exposed as his genitals, and yet there is strength in that, strength in the trust he has in this man, the trust they have in each other.

The touch is validating, the words, as simple as they are, a form of praise and encouragement. Will thinks if he ever told anyone who knew what Hannibal is capable of this story they wouldn't believe a word of it. Hannibal is like a teacher, an architect, and he's instructing Will with positive reinforcement, giving him space and time to discover these things on his own. He's treating Will like a virgin, and, in this, Will is one.

It's that idea, that he's giving Hannibal, again, something he's never given anyone else, that drives Will to continue. Having received a number of blow jobs the mechanics aren't entirely foreign, so Will knows to reduce the tension in his lips as he moves to take more of Hannibal in his mouth, careful of the position of his teeth as he tips his chin up to a better angle. The slide of the plump head of Hannibal's cock on his tongue makes him moan, the sound muffled as he lets Hannibal's dick move all the way in just shy of his gag reflex.

Already his jaw feels stretched and a little achy, and Will thinks about the position he's in, naked on his knees, mouth half full of Hannibal's considerable manhood. It's dirty in a way Will finds suddenly very arousing, and he wonders if Hannibal might draw this later, maybe in the style of a French painter, a portrait of them from the side. Or if the image will be from Hannibal's point of view, his cock disappearing past Will's widely stretched lips, Will's watering eyes turned up seeking adulation.

Blinking, Will decides to try moving, drawing back and fraction and then taking Hannibal back in again, bobbing carefully and slowly. He's a novice and it shows, the rhythm uneven and not nearly fast enough to drive Hannibal's pleasure very high. The bulk of Will's concentration is on his teeth and their relative position to Hannibal's flesh, and on keeping Hannibal's cock head from going too far into his throat and choking him. Maybe after some practice he'll be able to take more, but for now it's too new, and even just an extra centimeter would cause Will to gag. Because he's focusing so hard on where Hannibal is in his mouth, he's completely unable to do anything about the excess saliva in his mouth, all of it dribbling down his chin, dripping on the floor and sliding along the line of his throat.

After a few minutes, Will pulls back and off, needing to swallow and to breathe. He wraps a hand around Hannibal to replace his mouth, wiping his chin on the back of his free hand and looking up to meet Hannibal's eyes. "Needs some work," he says simply with a soft smile before he licks his swollen lips.

Will is certainly not the most skilled at fellatio, so it isn't the physical sensation that Hannibal takes pleasure in, but rather the sight of his lover on his knees, doing his best to pleasure him, performing an act that he had never before performed. Hannibal is well aware that Will is not homosexual, per se. That his attraction to Hannibal is not borne of a general attraction to men but rather a deep, burning desire for only him. It's gratifying, watching how in this way Hannibal has also bent Will to his image, outside the parameters that Will might have expected of himself before encountering him. Hannibal breathes deep as he watches, as Will experiments with the depth of Hannibal's cock in his throat, as his saliva drips down his chin. Hannibal finds that arousing, how Will is helplessly losing fluids for the sake of his lover, something akin to the helpless dripping of precum from the tip of his cock.

As Will continues to experiment, Hannibal lets his mind wander, and it reaches back to the dream he had on the plane, he and Will in the chapel at Palermo. Only now, instead of consuming his heart, Will is in communion with Hannibal by seeking to swallow his seed. As Hannibal watches the supplicant Will reverently sucking his cock, he sees the look in his lover's eyes go deep, dark, and then he bites, and Hannibal gasps as blood and sperm erupt from his cock into his lover's mouth, who drinks it all down in long swallows...

Then Will pulls away, leaving Hannibal unsated, not yet reaching climax like he had in his vision. Still, he smiles and brushes Will's cheek with his knuckles. "Admirable for your first attempt. There will be sufficient time for you to improve, should you wish it."

Again, Hannibal speaks to Will as a teacher to his student, encouraging without making demands, giving positive reinforcement. It makes Will wonder if this is the role Hannibal will take when they finally settle, if he'll carry his false identity through (though likely under another name) and become a professor. It's clear he has the capacity for it, even if it's less genuine about his praise when it's not with Will.

"It seems like a mutually beneficial skill to acquire," Will says in response to Hannibal's suggestion for practice, and as awkward and clinical as this first trial has been, Will can see himself enjoying going down on Hannibal once he can relax enough to doing it without over thinking.

The concept itself doesn't bother him in the slightest. As Hannibal correctly assumes Will doesn't consider himself gay (aside from the fact that his current activities would at least make him bisexual), but he doesn't see sucking cock as something vile or wrong, and he's certainly not doing it from Hannibal's benefit alone. His sexual desire for Hannibal isn't in spite of Hannibal's being a man, he isn't forcing his mind to get past any long held revulsion. He desires Hannibal, meaning he not only wants to connect with his mind and his heart, he wants to experience Hannibal physically as well. His attraction to Hannibal's body is completely organic; he wants Hannibal, Hannibal is a man, thus Will's hunger is directed toward his maleness. Seeing Hannibal's cock, hard and flushed, turns him on, as does the idea of having that part of Hannibal in his mouth or up his ass, in his hands or pressed against him.

"When I imagined this on the plane," Will says, still stroking Hannibal's dick slowly with a loose fist, "I thought we'd end up here, in the middle of the floor," he goes on, and of course he had no idea what the space looked like, but the idea is the same. "I imagined that we'd shove our pants down far enough to get our cocks out, then just rut against each other, frantic." He licks his lips, pushing his hand down to the root of Hannibal's cock, squeezing. "I know we have plenty of time to get to the bed," he tells Hannibal, his eyes on the head of Hannibal's erection, the pearl of pre-come growing there. "But I still like the idea of doing it here."

Hannibal can see the flush in Will's cheeks, the way his lips are swollen, can feel the heat of his palm, can smell his arousal and hear his heart beating. He knows his lover is achingly hard even though he cannot see his cock very well from his position. He is looking forward to his turn of examination, experimentation, of looking and touching and smelling and tasting. He imagines Will tied down and helpless as Hannibal takes his time, exploring every inch as Will writhes in pleasure.

"I imagined something quite similar," he answers, still stroking Will's hair as Will stroked his cock. "I expected the fire that's been burning in the two of us to consume us, right here, right now."

His smile grows, sharpens, his eyes go dark, and he curls his fingers into Will's hair, drawing it into a tight fist.

"It still can," he says in a low purr.

Will gasps when Hannibal's hand fists in his hair, tight enough to pull, sharp little pains across his scalp making his cock throb between his thighs. He tips his chin upward minutely, meeting Hannibal's eyes as he unwraps his fingers from around Hannibal's dick, arms hanging loose at his sides, his chest wide and exposed. It's strategic; he doesn't want to stop touching Hannibal, but he does want Hannibal to see that Will is ready to give himself up to this, to let Hannibal control him if that's his wish, or to receive Hannibal as an equal if he desires that instead.

"I want you," Will says, and it's obvious, but he hasn't said it aloud until now, not in a sexual connotation. He wants more than just sex from Hannibal, and Hannibal knows that too, but right now it's all he wants. He's ready for that inferno Hannibal just described, for the slow burn that's been smoldering here between them to catch fire, to burn bright and leave them shattered in the aftermath.

"Hannibal," he says, his voice a low, rumbling plea. He's trembling in anticipation, still servile at Hannibal's feet, his chest heaving, his pulse picking up speed, waiting for Hannibal's next move.

Hannibal wants Will, too, more than he's ever wanted anything in his life, and for a man comfortable with his desires, that's saying a lot. But he doesn't answer in words. He hums, a low rumble in his chest, in appreciation of the sight of Will so open, vulnerable, needful. Before the sound ends he's moving, dipping down, wrapping his free arm around Will's waist, and hauls him up by the waist and by the hair. With three quick steps he crushes Will against the wall behind him, and kisses him hard enough that they will both be spitting blood for some time afterwards from their lips caught in the fray that only their teeth can withstand without injury. He doesn't let go of Will's hair; rather he twists his hand, pulling tighter, causing pain and demonstrating dominance. He drops his other hand to Will's hip and grasps it, his fingers digging into Will's flesh, and with that anchor he begins to grind against him, hard and steady.

The sound Hannibal makes is almost like a low growl, and it's completely appropriate for the way he moves, swift like a big predator, catching Will in his arms and driving Will's back into the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Will doesn't even have a chance to fill his lungs again before Hannibal's mouth is on him, crushing them together roughly, their lips and gums casualties of his fierceness. The copper tang of blood fills their mouths and Will groans into their kiss at the taste of it flooding over his tongue, and the sting of split flesh.

The hand in Will's hair pulls and tugs sharply, letting Will know that Hannibal is in control now, that Will is going to put his head exactly where Hannibal wants it. Each yank tears strands of hair from Will's head, flashes of pain lighting up all over Will's scalp, and Will's head is spinning, his body flooded with adrenaline and arousal. Hannibal's body presses close, and soon Hannibal's thick cock is rubbing roughly against Will's, the two swollen shafts grinding against each other, side by side, the scrub of Hannibal's pubic hair making Will moan and buck wantonly.

This is the fire they wanted, and Will can barely keep ahead of the blaze. His hands are clutching Hannibal's back, his nails digging in, mouth pressed into Hannibal's, tongue shoved deep, searching and twining. Their teeth clash as they come together again and again, blood smeared on their lips, lower bodies, shifting and stuttering frantically. It's good, it's so good, and Will can hear their mingled voices, grunting and whimpering like fighting animals. It's going to be over so very soon, so much, too much, and all Will can think about is how he never wants to stop.

There is no hesitation, no refinement, no art or artifice to what Hannibal is doing, to what they're doing together. It is animalistic, pure base instinct, coming from the gut and not from the brain. Hannibal finds great freedom in that, in letting be what will be, in chasing pure physical pleasure rather than a complicated outcome, the sex an end in itself rather than the means. He grunts wantonly into the kiss, teeth clattering against teeth, tongues twining in their own ecstatic battle, and thrusts his hips roughly and without rhythm. The heat between them is incredible, all hot blood and friction, so near to making that fire literal. It doesn't need to be to consume them, though. Already, here and now, they are alight, burning to ash. Hannibal imagines them in the middle of a conflagration, the flames licking upward, capturing and destroying them, and yet they are in the center, fucking each other, that ultimate act of passion worth being consigned to the flames.

And what has Will done if not taken Hannibal's hand and walked into the fire?

As Hannibal nears his climax his hips jerk harder, his groans becoming growling cries as those flames are now licking up his skin, turning it brown then black then bubbling then he is alight and Hannibal roars as he comes, his seed erupting hot between them.

Will feels like he's outside himself as well as inside, watching and experiencing all at once. Trapped back against the wall, Hannibal is his universe, Hannibal's body a cage he's more than happy to be inclosed within, and Will's bucking and struggling is only to feel more, falling deeper into the wide, hot center of the destruction of his old life. Hannibal is strong and powerful, passionate, desperate, unbridled, and Will follows the same path willingly, giving himself up entirely to his own rebirth.

Hannibal loses his balance here first this time, grinding on Will, using Will's body as a means to release his pleasure, and Will revels in it, pulling Hannibal in close when it explodes from him, Will's fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of Hannibal's neck, his other hand pressed hard into the center of Hannibal's back. The sound of Hannibal's voice, dark and broken, stripped of pretense, is what drives Will over, his head thrown back as he continues to cling to Hannibal, his spunk adding to the mess between them.

When Will can breathe again, deeply enough to speak, he presses his lips against the rim of Hannibal's ear, still panting hotly. "Bed," he says, his voice low. "And wine," he adds, his chest heaving, body still trembling the the aftermath.

Hannibal can barely keep his feet, his strength spent, his muscles weary from everything that's happened since dinner, last night yet so long ago. Yet collapsing right there in the hallway will not exactly make his muscles any happier in the long run, and he wants to take his lover somewhere comfortable, so they can be together and warm and tender. It was the other half of what he had envisioned for them once they reached their destination.

He hums at Will's words, and turns his head to caress Will's ear with his lips and breath. "Yes," he murmurs, then slowly steps back. His movements are as graceful and powerful as ever, yet Will is certain to notice the fatigue. That Hannibal is not trying to hide it is another testament to his trust in his lover. Showing weakness to a rival leads to losing control. Will is far from a rival.

Hannibal heads toward the bedroom, crouching first to retrieve the wine.

The bed is a large four-poster, and it has been made with silk sheets, a heavy down comforter, and plenty of pillows. Hannibal has had the option of using this apartment at a moment's notice open for some time now, and had hired a housekeeper to come in and ensure that some basic things were ready for his potential arrival. He puts the red wine on the nightstand and lifts the white.

"I shall put this in the refrigerator and fetch us a corkscrew and two glasses. Please, make yourself comfortable."

It takes an immense amount of effort for both of them to move away from each other, to stand under their own weight and walk toward the bedroom. Hannibal's gait is weary, worn, the last of his energy used up in their frantic coupling, and Will considers it a bald show of trust. Like an animal, Hannibal's not one to show his wounds, to allow anyone to see a weakness they might be able to use to their advantage. But allowing Will to see his exhaustion, the way his muscles are aching, he's showing Will his vulnerable belly, exposing himself utterly. He's even more exposed than naked now, and Will's heart squeezes under the implication, moved by this gift that Hannibal's given him.

Unlike Hannibal's bedroom in Baltimore, Will doesn't spend much time inspecting the one here. He glances around enough to see that it's just as elegant and beautiful as Will had expected it to be, lush and gorgeously decorated, but he doesn't focus on anything beyond the bed, his own weary body yearning for a soft, comfortable place to rest. There will be more than enough time to take it all in later, after they've had their wine and slept some; maybe he'll conduct a drowsy, post-coital survey from the bed later.

He turns to Hannibal when he speaks, offering to go to the kitchen to chill the white wine, to retrieve the glasses and the corkscrew while Will gets to relax. There's a very faint voice in the back of Will's mind, an old one that tells him it could be a deception, allow him to let his guard down, giving Hannibal an advantage. But Will pushes it away quickly; if Hannibal wanted to kill him, he wouldn't bring him all the way to France to do it. He knows what Hannibal wants from him, with him, and Will most certainly needs to be alive for all of it.

"Hurry back," Will tells Hannibal, his eyes moving over Hannibal's naked body, his abdomen spattered with the combination of their come (just as Will's is), his skin still flushed and a little dewy with sweat, and his expression is hungry and longing when it reaches Hannibal's eyes again. It's not that he wants more sex, not immediately at least; he just wants to keep Hannibal near him, not wanting yet to be apart for long.

Interesting how their relationship behind the veil is in some ways animalistic in nature, rutting like desperate beasts, hiding or revealing weaknesses based on whether the other was predator or pack-mate. Hannibal considers the implications as he makes his way to the kitchen in the nude, comfortable in his own skin. Art, sophistication, manners, they are all important, and the rude would still find their way into Hannibal's rolodex and on his menu. One's public face and private face are separate, necessarily. All men are born beasts, but must transcend in order to be worthy of humanity. And yet his friendship with, his love of Will has re-affirmed that it is still pleasant, no, vital, to be able to appreciate, nurture, and share your beast. Murder exists in that strange in-between, the beast expressed through what is typically, at least for Hannibal, a highly aesthetic act. He looks forward to sharing that with Will as well, both of them appreciating, nurturing and sharing their beasts.

Of course, there are many beasts who devour their mates. That thought, of slowly killing Will and consuming his sweet flesh, is to Hannibal quite arousing. He wonders if it is the same for Will, if one day his lover will consume his heart. If one day Hannibal will offer it to him willingly.

The kitchen is well-equipped, a fact Hannibal is sure will shock Will not at all. It is in need of stocking, and a full set of china and silverware, but there are some basics, among which are wine glasses. Hannibal puts the bottle of white in the empty and immaculate refrigerator, takes two wine glasses from where they hang upside down above the counter, then retrieves a corkscrew from a drawer that also held a butcher's knife.

Merely the essentials.

Hannibal returns to the bedroom, and as he sees Will he feels a warmth in his heart that is, for him, unusual. Will is so deep inside him, and there is terror to that but also exhilaration. He smiles, and moves to the bed, setting down the glasses and the corkscrew.

Once Hannibal had departed for the kitchen, Will had settled into the massive, beautiful bed. For now he stayed on top of the covers, figuring it might be prudent for himself and Hannibal to clean themselves at least cursorily in order to not necessitate immediate laundering of the sheets. The duvet is lush and made of fine fabric, so it doesn't irritate Will's skin when he lays back on it, his upper body supported by a cluster of soft, expensive pillows.

Now that he's alone and recumbent, he takes a moment to look around. The flat is decorated in the style to which Will has become accustomed to associating with Hannibal, a richness to everything, an aesthetical purpose. This room doesn't feel comforting exactly, but the way it puts Will on edge isn't to do with fear. It's more like there's a feeling of anticipation, like something could happen here with a moment's notice. It's an oddly sexual energy, and Will wonders if this room has always been decorated this way, or if Hannibal requested someone come and make changes before their arrival. He knows the fact that he's here was never a sure thing, but it had been discussed before Hannibal (in whatever way he did) discovered Will's deception.

There's no high mounted mirror here, however, which Will finds a little disappointing, but he has a feeling Hannibal will be receptive to the suggestion of that addition. Will imagines what it would look like, to be able to lay back and watch Hannibal fuck him from an external position, what his face would look like when Hannibal was pounding into him, the way the muscles in Hannibal's back and ass and thighs would clench with the effort. He's spent and exhausted, but the idea makes heat flash through him, and he closes his eyes to the wave of arousal. It isn't that Will hasn't enjoyed sex in his past, but there have only been a very few instances where he's thought about having it with a specific person outside the moment when he's engaged in the physical act.

Will opens his eyes when he hears Hannibal approaching, his bare feet padding on the wood floor, and when Will turns his head and meets Hannibal's eyes he feels a collision of the desire from before and an entirely nonphysical longing. Hannibal sets the glasses and the corkscrew on the bedside table, and Will has a flash of a vision, of Hannibal getting into the bed and the two of them coming together, everything blurring until it's nothing but a flurry of skin and mouths and touching, the wine open but no glasses involved, liquid being poured into mouths and spilling over, running down over skin, soaking the bedclothes, sex and wine and sweat and come. Will swallows, and he knows Hannibal can see every indication his body is giving of his lust, the flush rising to his skin, the quickening of his breath and hardening of his nipples.

"I'm thirsty," he says, and he knows Hannibal can tell he means it in more way than one.

A slow smile spreads across Hannibal's face. There are so many things that Hannibal finds himself desiring right here and now, ways to explore his lover, or have his lover explore him. Things involving sex and wine and sweat and come, yes, and also leather and rope and steel and blood, soft and harsh words, thirst and hunger and pain and pleading, and all exquisitely beautiful. All of that lay before them, from now into the foreseeable future. At the moment Hannibal cannot see them parting until death, of one or the other of them, or possibly both simultaneously. It isn't something Hannibal is planning, and yet it's a general idea that he finds quite pleasurable.

For here and now, though, Hannibal tilts his head, regarding his lover with his eyes glittering.

"Tell me what you're thirsty for, Will." He wants Will to confess to him, to put his desires, his wants, into words. Perhaps at some point Hannibal will have him plead. For now admission is sufficient.

The way Hannibal asks, it brings back memories of many a conversation in Hannibal's office, seated across from each other in matching chairs or leant against Hannibal's desk or his book cases, pacing his floor. Back then Will's answer would have been carefully constructed, concealing as much as he was revealing, never enough to truly satisfy Hannibal's curiosity. It was a game between them, it always had been, like chess, giving a little, making it seem like a bigger sacrifice than it was, baiting and bluffing, thinking three moves ahead.

There's no reason to play here, not anymore. Laying in Hannibal's bed in Hannibal's Parisian apartment, Hannibal is inviting Will into his confessional, asking Will to admit to his desires, to those sins of the flesh he's considering committing with Hannibal right here, if not tonight then on another one not too far into their future. There's a vulnerability to it, but the rewards definitely outweigh the risks in this scenario.

"Wine," Will answers simply, the corner of his mouth twitching into the beginning of a wicked smile. "When you brought the glasses for some reason I thought of you bathing me in it," he goes on, lounging back against Hannibal's pillows, loose limbed and pliant. "Right here, pouring it down my throat, letting it run over my skin, almost red enough to be blood." It's not thick enough, obviously, but there's an aesthetic parallel.

"You," he adds after a moment, his eyes moving over Hannibal's naked body, lighting for a long moment on Hannibal's genitals, his flaccid cock hidden entirely inside his foreskin, the heavy sway of his scrotum. "I'm thirty for you," Will repeats, his eyes lifting to Hannibal's face. "I've never desired a man before," he admits, though he knows it isn't a revelation for either of them. "I want to learn how to pleasure you, what you enjoy the most, how you like to be touched."

His tone is indeed close to, if not exactly like, that he would use in a therapy session, and there's a good reason for that. He is plumbing the depths of Will's psyche, and he possesses tools to that purpose, those he has been trained to use and those he has developed himself in his many years of study and experience with uncovering the minds of his subjects for manipulation or his own interest and amusement. Will's answers draw a smile from him, and he picks up the wine, considering the bottle for a long moment.

"Almost red enough." He glances up at Will. "I'm sure you're quite aware of the parallels between those two thirsts. You want to pleasure me. There are many things I take pleasure in." His smile is deceptively mild, the sharp hunger in his eyes. "I would enjoy pouring wine down your throat. Pouring it over your body. Watch you become drunk on it, reveling in the excess. And I would love to forego the symbolism of the wine, and give you blood."

The image of Will drinking blood, letting it spill over his lips into rivulets on his chin, on his chest, is quite thrilling. He could imagine licking that blood off his lover's skin, or perhaps Will licking it off Hannibal's chest.

"However, when it comes to being bathed in either blood or wine, I must ask that we delay. If only because it would necessitate remaking the bed."

He picked up the corkscrew and began to twist the spiral into the cork. "Tell me Will," he said without looking up. "Is it ever my blood you imagine yourself drinking?"

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(I'm sorry this is so late! Weekend was a bit crazy.)

No worries!

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