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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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Will can't help the gaspy shudder that comes when Hannibal's tongue slides over his abused nipple, when he speaks, his breath just a little cool against the wetness of Hannibal's saliva and making Will's nipple draw up even harder, aching from the tug of Hannibal's teeth. He doesn't know the answer to Hannibal's questions but he finds he desperately wants to, and he loosens his grip on Hannibal's hair as he watches Hannibal move down his torso, his body trembling with anticipation and desire.

He takes a breath to ask Hannibal how long he's wanted this, the rapture of sex, one of the many pages in the book they're writing together, but he doesn't get the chance before Hannibal is hovering over his groin, Hannibal's eyes meeting Will's, dark and hungry. Will makes a broken whimpering sound when Hannibal licks at him, gets his first taste, Will's cock jerking of its own accord as Will's thighs go tight as he denies the instinct to thrust, to push into the glorious attention Hannibal's providing.

"Fuck," he breathes, stroking the back of Hannibal's neck, a gentle touch of encouragement. "Tell me," he manages, his voice shaking. "How long have you thought of me this way?"

Hannibal can see, can feel, the tension of Will's body as his lover fights the urge to thrust, as he clings desperately to the last remaining shreds of his self-control. It's beautiful in a tragic sort of way. For so long Will has been fighting for those scraps of conventional morality, while Hannibal has been slowly and methodically stripping them away, until only the raw truth of Will's authentic self remains. How long he has desired Will goes hand in hand with how long he has been sculpting him in his own image. Paradoxical, then, that as the desire has deepened, he has come to appreciate, indeed to love, those parts of Will that were different.

"From the beginning I have found you attractive," he murmurs, breath hot on Will's erection. He wraps a hand loosely around it and begins a torturous stroke. "A feeling that has only deepened in the time of our acquaintance." His eyes on Will, he teasingly brushes his lips against the head of Will's cock. "That attraction bloomed into sexual desire later. When you sent the orderly to kill me."

The thought makes Hannibal's own cock ache, and he closes his eyes for just a moment, drawing a slow breath, before again opening them to catch Will's, pupils wide with hunger, so like a shark.

"As I stood there," he says, his voice deepened by his arousal, "my arms bound and my neck noosed, so close to my own demise and at your command, I thought of you. Of how I would fuck you. Would kill you. Would consume you. Had I not been rescued, had I met my death at the end of that rope, your rope, my last conscious thought would have been of you, and my last sensation would have been climax."

Eyes still locked on Will's, he lowers his head again, this time taking Will deep into his mouth. It would be so easy to bite, to castrate Will here and now with his teeth, to then bite into the femoral artery and watch his lover bleed out. That thought found expression as he slowly pulling back, his potentially violent teeth gently scraping Will's sensitive skin.

Will finds it entirely impossible to keep himself still and quiet while Hannibal touches him like this, speaks to him about how long Hannibal's found him attractive. He trembles as Hannibal strokes him, just enough to tease in the most maddening way, just enough pleasure and friction that Will wants to chase it, knowing he needs to wait.

He takes a long, shuddering breath when Hannibal begins to tell him about the night Matthew Brown came to carry out Will's command, the favor he'd requested, his mouth going dry. Jack had killed Matthew that night, and Will had never heard the story of what Matthew had done, not in so many lurid details. Even back when Hannibal had first confronted Will about it what he'd done, Will had gotten the impression that Hannibal was more proud than angry, only disappointed in that Will hadn't tried to kill him with his own hands. It's very clear now there was more than pride involved, that Will's attempt on Hannibal's life, even through a surrogate, had aroused Hannibal utterly.

Will thinks back to Hannibal's house in Baltimore (it feels like it was weeks ago they were last there, rather than hours), about how Hannibal had strangled him just as he'd rolled over the crest of his orgasm, the act of Hannibal throttling him adding to the intensity of it, the ecstasy, one second away from being Hannibal's next murder victim. He groans as it comes together, as Hannibal drops his warm, wet, talented mouth down over Will's cock, his fingers curving and pressing, fingernails biting into the thin skin at Hannibal's nape. Hannibal answers with the drag of his teeth, sharp enough to serve as a warning, a promise, and Will mewls, just shy of begging for whatever Hannibal is threatening.

They are just alike. They both yearn for death in a way that makes life all the more sweeter, more pungent. The idea of being torn apart by Hannibal's hands makes Will's entire body go hot and tight, and thinking about doing the same to Hannibal causes Will to curse lowly, overwhelmed with desire.

"I wish I could have seen it," he says roughly. "What you looked like, strung up, caught, choking," he goes on, his voice breaking with need, head tipped to watch Hannibal's mouth moving over him. "Fuck, bleeding," he manages to finish, his fingers moving to cradle the back of Hannibal's head, fingers twisting into Hannibal's hair. "I bet you were fucking beautiful," he admits thickly, and he thinks about if he had the chance to do it himself, to make it his design, how he would do it, what image he'd leave behind.

"I want to scar you," he says suddenly, the idea making his skin flush darkly. He knows about the ones on Hannibal's wrists, his by proxy, but he wants to make his own, ones he cut into Hannibal's flesh. "I want you to do the same to me. I want, I want to be marked by you. I want you to see it and remember, remember what you do to me, what I want you to do."

Will could see it, if he wanted to. He could recreate the scene that his emissary had created, Hannibal noosed with his arms stretched out, and witness for himself what Hannibal looked like, strung up, caught, choking, bleeding. There's no way of doing it that's perfectly safe, but he's certain that's not a hindrance. The thought of submitting to that, of allowing his lover to hang him to sate his murderous impulse, makes Hannibal smile as he continues to bob his head, stroking Will's cock with his lips and tongue and teeth.

And then Will declares his desire, and Hannibal cannot help a low moan at the thought of being marked by Will, of having him carve his mark into Hannibal's flesh. He pulls back from his lover's erection, needing to draw a breath, his own cock throbbing with need.

"How would you scar me, Will?" he asks, his eyes dark.

As much as Will's body deeply needs Hannibal's touch, Hannibal's mouth, Will isn't frustrated or upset that Hannibal pulls off Will's cock to speak. Hannibal's words are almost better than the physical touch, and Will's eyes lock on Hannibal's, his fingers still tangled in Hannibal's fine hair.

"I want to open your skin," Will says, his voice shaking with want. "Clean lines, with a knife," he goes on, shifting his hand to rub at the back of Hannibal's neck. "Or a scalpel," he amends, thinking about the one (or more) Hannibal already has on hand. "Your wrists, across the ones I should have given you myself," he tells Hannibal, his eyes moving over Hannibal's face. "Low on your belly, where it meets your pelvis, inside your thighs," he continues, listing off all the places he wants to leave his mark. "And your breast, above your heart," Will finishes, taking ownership of Matthew's attempt on Hannibal's life, of Hannibal's sex, and of Hannibal's heart.

Curving his hand around, he brushes his thumb along the line of Hannibal's jaw. "How would you mark me?" he asks, sliding his thumb down the center of Hannibal's spit damp chin.

Will's words make Hannibal's pulse quicken, his breath hitch. He has never truly belonged to someone before, and the idea would have felt strange, alien, even repellent. He forms his life around his finely tuned capacity for control, of his environs and the people in it, and relinquishing that control for whatever reason disrupts his whole being. It was sometimes exhilarating, a temporary challenge that he took great joy in surmounting. But this is not a challenge to be overcome. This is a permanent alteration, a permanent surrender, appropriately to be marked by Will's designs carved into Hannibal's very flesh. He is offering up to Will, this man who he loves, his heart, his sex, his life. As he listens, as he aches, he slowly turns his head side to side, brushing his lips over the head of Will's cock, his breath hot.

When Will asks how Hannibal would mark him, Hannibal takes a moment to consider the beautiful canvas that is his lover's body. How indeed? He will scar him when he removes the kidney, of course, but there's more that can be done. So much more.

"I would take my time," he answers, his eyes caressing Will's body before returning to Will's eyes. "I would carve into your flesh the image of a stag. Not all at once, of course. The outline first. Then, after that has healed, several sessions of detail, with a period of healing after each. I have yet to decide, however, whether I will utilize your chest or your back." He lifts his eyebrows. "Do you have a preference?"

The last few days have been a complete upheaval of Will's life. From deciding to set a trap to catch Hannibal in order to prove that Hannibal framed Will for murders he'd committed, to changing his mind in an instant and becoming not only a fugitive, harboring a known murderer, but also Hannibal's partner, confidant, and lover. Likewise he's seen many changes in Hannibal over that period as well, glimpses of his true self becoming wide open offerings. When they'd fucked in Baltimore, Hannibal had maintained restraint and dominance, but here in Paris he's giving Will everything, showing Will his unveiled feelings of love and desire, of trust and a yearning to be complete equals in all things.

Seeing Hannibal break like this, his breath hitching as Will describes how he wants to cut marks into Hannibal's skin, leaving possessive scars, lends much more weight to what Hannibal is willingly giving to Will. If Hannibal's love for Will wasn't complete he would be afraid of this offer, but there isn't a fleck of fear in Hannibal's eyes, only arousal.

Will's pulse is heavy in his veins as Hannibal speaks, and he can feel it throbbing at his wrists and the sides of his throat, at his groin where Hannibal idly touches him with his lips and his breath as he tells Will what he wants to do. Will's thoughts had been basic, long straight lines, something clean and surgical that Hannibal could explain away as old injuries if he wanted to, or needed to. It shouldn't surprise Will that Hannibal's designs are so much more artistic, something that could be done by putting a brush in the hand of a surgeon, painting Will's flesh with the finely sharpened blade of a scalpel.

He imagines Hannibal at work, bent over Will's back like a canvas, leaving red slashes behind as he creates a living masterpiece. Will shivers at the thought of it, of being part of Hannibal's design and living to tell the tale. He swallows against the rush that comes through him, pleasure and desire, the thrill at the prospect of controlled pain, at submitting to Hannibal's whim.

"My back," he says after another moment of dizzying contemplation. "So you'll see it when you fuck me," he explains, and they both know Hannibal's not always going to take Will like that from behind, that Hannibal's not always going to be the one taking. But the idea of being marked with the image of an animal, one that has haunted Will's dreams as a reminder of Hannibal's influence, makes Will imagine himself again as Hannibal's mate, bowing and submitting to Hannibal's call to instinct, and he wants Hannibal to see what he's made when he mounts Will that way, taking what belongs to him.

Hannibal's entire experience with Will has been varying degrees of unusual. He had originally been (and in many ways still is) a fascinating experiment, how a man of carefully constructed morals can be coaxed free of them, can be brought to empathize with the devil and thus become him. What Hannibal had not expected was the effect of his own empathy, how he would come to hold compassion for Will, come to wish more between them than researcher-experiment, than doctor-patient, and even more than friends, and then finally to find himself becoming like his subject, their beings bleeding into one another. Hannibal has always been one to seek to experience life, particularly its pleasures, to the fullest (within his aesthetic standards, at least). And how better to experience this pleasure, of profound connection, than with equally profound trust? It is a self-surrender for the sake of something far greater than absolute control.

Hannibal smiles at Will's answer, an expression equal pleasure and hunger. He can imagine it, too, scalpel in hand, Will's bare back before him, gently rising and falling with each breath. He can see that first cut, the slow separation of the skin, blood beginning to spill out. He imagines mounting his lover, holding him close, fucking him hard, the blood running over Will's ivory skin, collecting in a crystal chalice, drip by drip.

He moves up, slowly, over Will, muscles rippling beneath his skin, to to catch his lover's lips in a searing, possessive kiss.

Hannibal looks predatory when he unfurls himself from where he's been resting between Will's thighs, crawling up over Will like a big cat, ready to lunge at the throat of its quarry. And though Will wouldn't mind feeling Hannibal's teeth, he's glad to feel the hunger of Hannibal's bite against his mouth instead, teeth held back as Hannibal gives Will his lips and tongue.

Will's never been kissed like this, the pressure so heavily sustained, the taste and texture of him savored, attention paid to him like that Hannibal pays to food and wine. It's like Hannibal's sampling him every time, and Will loses himself in it, disconnecting from reality in a way he doesn't usually when he's not getting into someone's head.

His mind is full of Hannibal, but not his calculated words. Will, too, is experiencing Hannibal, noticing the way Hannibal tastes, how his tongue feels when it pushes deeply into Will's mouth, the faint scrub of Hannibal's stubble against Will's own, the way Hannibal catches Will's upper lip when the kiss ebbs only to sink back in again after they've both caught quick breaths. He's listening to each small sound Hannibal makes, breaths and soft grunts of desire, low like growls in his chest. He's feeling the way Hannibal's body moves against him, Hannibal's pelvis slotted into the cradle of Will's thighs, their cocks, hard and heavy, pressed side by side between their abdomens, Hannibal's chest hair brushing Will's skin intermittently and making Will shiver at the sensation of it.

Hannibal is supporting most of his own weight on his arms, and Will isn't sure if he's intentionally holding himself away, but Will wants to feel Hannibal pressing him down into the expensive sheets. He slides his palms over Hannibal's shoulders to cup his scapulas, arching his chest up as he tugs, trying to urge Hannibal down. His mind flashes with images, of the two of them coming together, of Hannibal filling Will up again, but face to face here in their bed in Paris. He has no idea if Hannibal has any extra linens stored here, but he thinks about the mess they could make here, just from their sweat and come, fucking for hours. Neither of them have the endurance for that now, so many hours without sleep, but if Will can't have hours, he at least wants to burn off the last few ounces of energy they have like this, giving everything until there's nothing left and they collapse where they are, sleeping without any worry about when they'll have to wake again.

Will's intentions and desires are clear, and Hannibal gladly presses himself down along the full length of his lover's body. The physical reality of the two of them so close together that they may have difficulty telling where one stops and the other begins is an appropriate parallel with what has been happening to their minds, their souls. Hannibal imagines what it would be like to physically meld with Will, their bodies melting into each other, becoming one flesh, ebbing and surging like water, an indistinct yet graceful collection of skin and bone and hair and teeth, and from that primordial substrate there arises a dark god, who stretches his arms of destruction and opens his eyes of flame.

Hannibal curls a hand under Will's neck, holding on as he continues the deep kiss, continues devouring his lover, while with his other he takes hold of Will's thigh and draws it up, pressing it back and to the side, opening him up. Without his lips leaving Will's he shifts, so his cock slides beneath Will's cock, beneath his scrotum, and nudges up against Will's entrance. The angle is wrong to enter at the moment, but the intention is clear.

Hannibal moves exactly as Will wants him to, and it's almost as if Hannibal can read Will's mind, if that simple tug was enough to tell Hannibal every desire in Will's head. And maybe it was, because Hannibal knows Will better than anyone's ever known him. It's why Hannibal was so easily able to manipulate him, and also why Will was able to do the same in kind. It's also why Will is here, in Paris, in Hannibal's bed; Hannibal found Will's deception and, possibly in a moment of mania or weakness, he offered Will a way out, one Will hardly hesitated to accept.

Here and now they don't even need to speak, moving together like two halves of a single entity, like something that was long ago cleaved in two and is now desperate to come back together. They kiss perfectly in concert, parting exactly when they both need to breathe, and when Hannibal's pelvis shifts to put Hannibal's cock down between Will's thighs, Will tips his hips like he knows precisely where he needs to be despite having never been penetrated this way, having only ever had sex with a man, this man, a little more than twenty four hours ago.

They'll need lubrication, Will knows, but he wishes it could be as organic as it feels. His body doesn't feel like it needs to wait, and Will doesn't want to, the leg Hannibal shifted out of the way hooking around Hannibal's muscular hamstring and pulling him down and in, the head of Hannibal's dick slipping past Will's hole as the ridge of Hannibal's shaft skids down. Will makes a broken sound against Hannibal's mouth, his hands gripping Hannibal's back as his body rolls up into Hannibal's, speaking of impatience and unsated desire.

Sadly, Hannibal doesn't have any lubricant. When he had arranged for the apartment to be prepared, he had not planned for this, for Will Graham in his bed, for this urgent need to copulate. When they go on their shopping trips for the essentials, that will certainly have to be on the list. But for the moment, they will have to make do, one way or the other.

Hannibal breaks the kiss and looks into Will's eyes as he gently rocks his hips, the length of his cock running back and forth over the tender skin surrounding his lover's entrance.

"I didn't anticipate this particular eventuality," he murmurs, "and so there is no lubricant in the nightstand, nor the dresser, nor my luggage. However, I do have some basics in the kitchen."

He dips down and kisses Will, his kiss soft and sweet, even as his cock ached to be inside his lover.

"If you wish, we can satisfy ourselves in another way. Or, we could utilize some...shall we say, more classical techniques."

Will isn't exactly shocked by Hannibal's admission; even if Hannibal had assumed – at least until he'd smelled Freddie's perfume and thus learned of Will's deception – that Will would come here with him, he probably hadn't suspected they'd so quickly (if ever) become lovers. What does come as a pleasant surprise is how easily Hannibal admits he hadn't seen this coming. Of the things Will knows about Hannibal, the fact that Hannibal is always either entirely in control of a given situation or quick enough on his feet that he can make a person believe he's in control is an absolute. Telling Will he wasn't expecting them to be here, in Hannibal's bed, desperate for each other in this way, is another small gift Hannibal is giving him, just a fragment more proof that what they're becoming together is as important and precious to Hannibal as it is to Will.

Will makes a low sound of fractured indecision as Hannibal lists their options, his body trembling with the desire to feel Hannibal inside him again, his hands gripping Hannibal's upper arms in a way that makes it obvious he doesn't want to let Hannibal go. This is all still very new, not just between them but to Will entirely, being with another man certainly, but also desiring someone so completely, so desperately, wanting in a way he's never experienced with anyone before. There's no reason to rush, there's not finite timeline, but Will can't help how greedy he feels. Making a choice in this instance is almost insurmountable a task.

What makes the decision for him, ultimately, is the way Hannibal uses the word classical, an intriguing twist of his tone that makes Will curious and covetous. "Tell me," Will says, his body moving serpentine beneath Hannibal's to feel the press of Hannibal's skin, the solidity of his body. "What techniques do you have in mind?"

The way Will's body is rippling beneath Hannibal is exceedingly arousing, and Hannibal can't help a low groan as he kisses Will again, the sound vibrating deep in his chest and finding resonance in Will's. Self-control, and, when necessary, self-denial, is an important thing for Hannibal, finding pleasure in doing what is most aesthetically pleasing at the exact right moment, such as killing for the sake of his elaborate dinner parties, stringing rude people along until the right moment to transform their existence into something beautiful. However, the need to do something so immediate is not unheard of...for instance, while killing Beverly Katz had been a regrettable necessity, he had taken great pleasure in her display, honoring her in a way by making her beautiful, insides and all.

Now, he believes, is one of those moments of urgent necessity. The beauty is not in self-restraint but in letting the moment blossom into something incredible and precious.

"A more natural choice for lubrication," he murmurs against his lover's lips, and smiles. "Indeed, arguably Greek in origin. Do you wish to stay here while I fetch the olive oil? Or do you wish to accompany me to the kitchen?"

Will staying will take more time, and sex there will almost certainly ruin the sheets. Going to the kitchen, however, would open the possibility of sex right there, on the preparation table, rubbed with olive oil, knives and cleavers and mallets so close at hand...

Again he kisses Will, tasting him and the wine and imagining how the olive oil would complement it all.

It isn't far off from what Will expects, using cooking oil in place of commercial lubricant, and Will wonders idly if the Greeks really used olive oil for this purpose in the past. It seems reasonable enough, but Will doesn't have enough knowledge of the history of homosexuality to know for certain (though he has a feeling Hannibal probably does know, and he finds the concept of Hannibal researching such a thing not a little intriguing).

It brings back a recent conversation they had in Hannibal's office, about Achilles and Patroclus, Hannibal having recreated an image of the men, Achilles mourning Patroclus's death. It had rung very clearly to Will even at the time, the parallels between the ancient story and their own, Hannibal's and Will's, Will having been sacrificed as he had been made to wear Hannibal's mask. At them time Will's end had only been a few weeks of incarceration, but the tone had suggested a bit of a threat, or perhaps a promise, for the future,

The implication of Achille's and Patroclus having been lovers had been barely veiled, and if Hannibal had meant to leave Will to die in his stead, as it were, Will would have most likely resented him for it. As it is now, the idea of laying down his life for Hannibal's is only unappealing in that Will wants and needs more time in order to live beside Hannibal instead. And, if he can have his way, he'd prefer Hannibal's death to be by his own hand (and his own by Hannibal's in return).

But this moment isn't about death, at least aside from the little deaths they'll surely experience when they find their mutual climax. Will wants nothing more than to continue to be Hannibal's lover, and having sex in this way – in Hannibal's kitchen, marrying the concepts of Greek lore and Hannibal's passion for unorthodox culinary arts – is immensely appealing.

Leaning up heavily into Hannibal's kiss, Will presses in deep, letting Hannibal feel his enthusiasm, not pulling back until Hannibal's breath catches, leaving him slightly winded. "Take me to your kitchen," Will says, licking his kiss bruised lips and meeting Hannibal's dark eyes with his own. He knows this is only their first journey to Hannibal's domain, a small taste of what's to come, and Will's mouth is absolutely watering for it.

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.

The way Hannibal offers his hand to Will now is like the completion of a circle, one that began when Hannibal made the same gesture as Will sat at Hannibal's table in Baltimore. They're still at the beginning of this journey, their new life together, but it's symbolic, the fact they left their lives in America after coupling, and are now bridging the gap to where they are now, their flat in Paris.

Will takes Hannibal's hand without a moment of hesitation, though he feels more self-conscious about his own nudity once he's standing at Hannibal's side. It's not that he has a problem with being naked, it's more the transition, moving from the bed to the kitchen through the halls of the apartment, past windows that, though they're shuttered, are allowing sunlight in. It reminds Will that this is more than sex, more than something that's happening in the dark, impossible to deny. It's new to Will, being someone's lover, being someone's partner like this, and while it puts him off balance, he finds himself wanting to lose himself in it.

He follows Hannibal to the kitchen, blinking his eyes into focus on Hannibal's broad back, the flex of heavy muscles, trapezius and latissimus dorsi, the tapering at Hannibal's waist drawing Will's gaze downward. He inhales sharply as he realizes he's admiring Hannibal's buttocks, noting the way the skin moves, the smoothing and tucking as it stretches over the rise of Hannibal's ass down over his hamstrings. Maybe it's part of the intoxication he's found in being intimate with Hannibal in this way, but the desire in him flares as his eyes roam over Hannibal's body, attracted to the masculinity, to Hannibal's in particular.

By the time they reach the kitchen, Will can feel his pulse heavy in his groin, and when Hannibal turns to face him Will's eyes fall immediately to Hannibal's cock, thick and flushed and slick at the tip. He licks his lips and raises his gaze to Hannibal's face, knowing how obvious his arousal is, how his eagerness to feel Hannibal inside him again has grown even just in the few feet they've traveled from the bedroom. He exhales a shaky breath, his eyes skirting to Hannibal's lips and back to his eyes again, his stomach tightening.

"I never thought I could want anyone the way I want you," he admits, his voice a husky whisper.

Hannibal has far more experience admiring the beauty and sensual power of the male form than his lover, yet for him as well there is something novel, that being the feeling of compassion, love, for the man who held the form. The concept that one's beauty may be enhanced in the eyes of a lover is not foreign to him, yet Hannibal has not before experienced it this strongly. Will is lovely, lithe and slight and well proportioned, yet with the warmth that Hannibal feels in his heart, in his soul, in his entire being, the man is luminous. He can tell that Will is self-conscious, but he still takes a moment to just look, to enjoy the vision that is his beloved.

Will's admission brings a smile to Hannibal's lips. "The sentiment is mutual," he murmurs back, although he suspects that what triggers that sentiment in him is quite different than the one in Will. It is not the physical desire that takes Hannibal aback, but the deep emotional attachment.

Hannibal gestures to the kitchen's preparation table. It is expansive, which makes sense for someone as serious about the culinary arts as Hannibal, yet Will can almost certainly perceive one of the most salient facts about the table's dimensions.

It can easily accommodate the laid-out body of a full-grown man.

"Will you lie upon my table, Will?" he asks, his eyes sparkling with the many implications.

Will isn't expecting Hannibal to return his feelings quite so effusively, at least not verbally, and it makes something possessive and proud flare in Will's chest. Hannibal has the ability to have anyone and anything his heart desires; as a master manipulator with a well augmented toolset all he really needs is time. Even Will was a product of that, at least at first. Now Will knows it's that Hannibal no longer has to manipulate him that makes Hannibal so drawn to him, that has allowed Hannibal to peel back his fallse face and show Will what really lies underneath. The fact that his true self embodies much more than darkness and evil is what has begun to utterly ensnare Will.

When they stop (after Hannibal's had a moment to appreciate Will visually, taking in his slight nervousness but obviously unaffected desire), Hannibal shows Will his table, and Will has a feeling that if he went into any of the flats in the same block Hannibal's is in he wouldn't find a single other kitchen with a table as large as the one Hannibal has here. For the unaware it would come off a bit extravagant, and though it fits quite well in the space, it might appear needlessly massive for an apartment in the heart of Paris.

Will swallows, and he thinks about who else might have been on this table, and what state they might have been in, and he finds himself tasting the bitterness of jealously in every scenario he conjures. Licking his lips, he meets Hannibal's eyes, seeing the glint of mischievousness there, and he can't help the was his own slight smile surfaces in response. He glances back to the table, bare but elegant in its empty state, and while he's going to find himself laying on it like a slab in a mortuary or an operating table, the idea doesn't leave him feeling anxious or cold. In fact he finds himself thinking about the surgery Hannibal will eventually perform on him, taking his kidney, the thought of that and of the sex they're about to engage in coming together in Will's brain and making him flush.

There isn't a graceful way to get onto a table clothed, and Will finds the act even less graceful while naked, having to sort of pull himself up backward with his arms to sit on the surface. His naked skin sticks to the finish, so moving to center himself isn't a sexy display either, but he has a feeling Hannibal would need to see something pretty unpleasant to ruin the mood for him now. Will stays seated for the moment, nude in the middle of Hannibal's table like some kind of living art centerpiece, thighs splayed and cock mostly still hard between them.

"Are you going to prepare me now?" Will asks, unable to resist the double meaning.

It would perhaps please Will to know that he is the first man to grace the table. And that Hannibal fully intends for the first death on that table, aside from le petit mort of orgasm, to be one that he and Will are equal parts in. However, the sight of Will there, naked and vulnerable even in his beauty, brings exquisite thoughts to his mind. As he crosses the kitchen to retrieve the olive oil from its cabinet, he imagines again how he would kill, prepare, and cook Will. Perhaps not in that order.

"Preparations will be simple," he remarks, closing the cabinet and turning toward Will, bottle in hand. Extra virgin olive oil, the pure, unadulterated stuff. Hannibal's preparations demanded quality.

He comes closer, his eyes again traveling the lines of his lover's body. "You look delicious just as you are. Some olive oil will merely bring out your flavor."

Will knows as well as Hannibal does where their trains of thought are going, have gone, and Will finds himself less and less surprised at how often they cross paths perfectly. He inhales deeply through his nose, able to smell the subtle scent of the olive oil even before Hannibal opens the bottle, and Will wonders if Hannibal would cook him in it as well as use it the way he plans to now. He knows all about Hannibal's proclivities where cuisine is concerned, has wondered idly since he knew what Hannibal was if Hannibal had a dish in mind for him. But the comment Hannibal makes here leads Will to imagine that when Hannibal does finally eat him, it will be a simple preparation, something that will leave Will's true flavor shining through.

Right now, however, all Will can think about is how Hannibal is about to touch him. He just felt all of this not that long ago, but it feels like days rather than hours, and this time he'll have the benefit of seeing what's happening, the gift of getting to watch Hannibal's face. The hours between the last time and this time have tied them closer together than Will had imagined, and Will doesn't feel the slightest bit detached or anxious. All he feels is heated anticipation.

Will's eager to see how Hannibal will go about getting him ready, if he'll stand at the side of the table like a chef or climb onto it like a lover into a bed. Will's eyes move to Hannibal's hands, and his legs fall wider apart, ready to feel Hannibal's long, elegant fingers inside him again, making space inside for more. "I'm glad I taste good to you," he says simply as his gaze moves up to Hannibal's face. "Right now that all I want."

Hannibal imagines what it would be like to prepare Will for roasting. He rubs the oil into Will's skin, along with salt and sage. Will is watching, smiling at him, and Hannibal smiles back. He watches Will's skin shimmer, then redden, then crackle and brown, all the while his eyes remaining alert.

The image fades into the reality of his lover sitting before him, his arousal as clear in his face as it is in cock. Hannibal meets those pupil-blown eyes and his smile deepens, love swelling in his chest. As appetizing as the fantasy is, the reality is what he is hungry for. To enjoy Will, consume him, the oil preparing his lover's flesh in a different way. He comes up close, at the edge of the table, then opens the bottle and pours some oil onto his fingers. He reaches out and slides his hand slowly up the inside of Will's thigh, the oil leaving a slick, fragrant trail. Once he reaches Will's groin, he circles the base of his lover's cock with his fingers, then caresses his testicles, then moves down further, slow, deliberate, his eyes on Will's as his fingertips finally circle his lover's entrance.

Fat, heavy droplets of oil spatter the surface of the table when Hannibal coats his fingers in it, and Will wonders if Hannibal has ever been so careless when preparing a meal, from slaughter to carving. Will had seen Hannibal's kitchen in Baltimore many times, and every single one, even when Hannibal was in the midst of cooking, there hadn't been a surface that wasn't immaculate. Of course this isn't the first mess they've made together, just the first one in the kitchen, and Will finds a giddy part of himself hoping it won't be the last,

Will shifts to lower his back to the tabletop when Hannibal reaches for him, his breath shuddering out of him as Hannibal's fingers trace the line of his inner thigh, his following inhalation rough and audible when Hannibal's touch wanders over his genitals, paying service to each part of him before dipping lower, finding the tight bundle of muscles below Will's balls. Licking his lips, he tries not to arch into the touch, wanting to feel Hannibal make the decision when to push, giving Hannibal every ounce of control. His head is tipped so he can watch Hannibal's face, can see the hunger and the lust, the desire and love in his darkened eyes. He blinks and he sees images of Hannibal, moments in Hannibal's office, at the FBI, on site at a crime scene, and it's all fractions of that same expression, a yearning long held and finally realized.

It's the same for Will, though he didn't really understand it at the beginning. Hannibal has been opening him up since the day they met, preparing him for this, leading him down a path that had the potential to bring them here. There are other outcomes, of course, if Will had taken a left where he gone right anywhere along the way things could be very different. But as Hannibal's oil slickened fingers trace over one of the most intimate parts of Will's body, Will is more than a little grateful their decisions have brought them to this place, one of love and equality and trust and knowing, sex and companionship and so much more on the horizon. Will doesn't speak, but he hopes Hannibal will see all those things he's feeling in his eyes, in the way his breathing shakes and his body trembles, wanting more, needing everything.

His beautiful Will has been opening to him since the beginning, allowing him inside, deep inside, and while others may well think of what he has done to the man as fucking him, Hannibal sees it quite differently. All this time, when he realized it and when he didn't, he has been making love to Will Graham, making love to his mind, to his soul, to his sense of self, to what lay in his depths, to the dark beauty waiting to arise. And Will has been reciprocating, to various degrees and with various levels of awareness. At times their lovemaking has been rough, painful, left scars. But is that not an indication of the force to which they cleave to each other? Hannibal suspects (perhaps even knows) that they will be in this meta-coitus for the rest of their lives, that the culmination, that world-destroying orgasm, will be the destruction of them both. However far, it's an experience Hannibal looks forward to.

Hannibal watches Will quiver in need, sees the desire and devotion in the dark of his eyes, and Hannibal thinks of the lamb, led to slaughter, laying trustingly on the altar, vulnerable to either a gentle or a cruel hand. Will is doubtless aware of the many ways Hannibal could cause him lethal pain instead of loving pleasure, and yet he trusts him. He wants him. He loves him. And for a moment Hannibal can only gaze in wonder at the man he loves, as if he is gazing at a heartrendingly beautiful work of art.

Then slowly he presses one finger against that knot of muscle, gentle but unyielding, willing his lover to relax, to open up, to let him inside.

The look in Hannibal's eyes undoes Will for a moment, and his breath hitches in his chest, rough and broken. He remembers one moment in Hannibal's office, the air in the room thick with intent, with Will's very real desire to kill. It had lent itself as a means to the end Will was pushing Hannibal toward, but it was the most honest he'd ever been with Hannibal about those urges, the most truthful he'd been with himself. And Hannibal had known it, encouraged it, stoked the flame that burned low in Will's belly, the look in his eyes dark and hungry like the one he has right now.

Will didn't know before it was offered to him how much he needed this, to be close with someone who understands him intrinsically, intimately, to give himself over to his desires, the dark ones coated in blood, and the hotter ones, the ones that are more about flesh and sweat and saliva and come. He whimpers wetly when Hannibal begins to press inside him, the blunt tip of Hannibal's finger just slightly nudging in, and he has to clench his jaw against his impatience. It wants everything, and he wants it now.

Taking a breath, he works to make himself relax, his eyes locked on Hannibal's as he arches and rolls his hips. He wants to beg, the words right on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them away, pushing his shoulder blades against the polished surface of the table, his chest bowing upward. He knows everything he feels is plain in his eyes, in the twist of his lips and the halting cadence of his breath. Hannibal is too far away, only touching him by his one finger, and he knows he'll have more soon, but the seconds and minutes until then, stretching out, have begun to feel like torture.