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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 curious, how the two of them, solitary creatures in their own way, have found something so beautiful, so precious, together. As Will's body hums, Hannibal's hums in harmony. Will is needful, vulnerable, at Hannibal's mercy; and yet Hannibal is just as needful, just as vulnerable, just as at Will's mercy. Will pleads, and it for what both of them hunger for.

Hannibal pours more oil into his hand before putting the bottle on the counter. He clasps his hard cock in a loose grip and coats it thoroughly, his eyes on Will's as he slowly strokes, his desire smoldering. Then he moves closer, reaches out to his lover.

"Sit up for me Will."

The fact that Hannibal doesn't draw things out further, that he reacts with Will's first pleading word, it's all a reflection of how equal they are in this, their desire for each other. Hannibal's eyes don't leave Will's as he slicks himself with olive oil, more of it splattering to the wood floorboards, dripping down Hannibal's wrist, trickling over his balls and onto his inner thighs. By the time they're done Will's sure the oil will be everywhere, spread onto their skin, pooled on the tabletop, mingled with their own fluids, another tableau of their commingling.

Will inhales deeply at Hannibal's command, and he sits up as directed, shifting closer to the edge of the table, moving toward Hannibal. The way Will's seen the other man has shifted and changed so many times, from an unwanted observer to a trusted confidant and friend, then a murderer, a betrayer, an enemy, and now recently something much more intimate, a partner, and a lover. The way he stands at the end of the table now, tall and broad, is proud and confident, and Will finds himself admiring Hannibal's body, his strong shoulders and well muscled chest, lean abdomen and legs, and his cock, thick and shining with slippery oil, glistening in the ambient light and making Will's mouth water.

Breathing in deeply, Will turns his eyes up to Hannibal's face, meeting his heated gaze, eager to be devoured.

Hannibal is a man who has absolute confidence in himself, and yet that look that Will gives him makes his heart swell with pride. He cups his lover's face, stroke his cheek lovingly, enjoying that eager, hungry gaze. Then he steps closer, grips one of Will's thighs, and gently lifts it, drawing it up and to the side. With his other hand he guides his cock to Will's entrance, both prepared, hot and slick and ready. Gently he eases himself inside, his eyes on Will's, looking for his reactions. Once his hips are flush with Will's he takes Will's other leg and guides both up and around his waist. Once Willl's legs are secure, he wraps his arms around Will and kisses him, gentle yet firm.

The way Hannibal penetrates Will this time is the exact opposite of the way he did it the during their first coupling, so gentle in this moment, tender and loving. Someone who didn't know Hannibal as well as Will does might start to wonder how Hannibal could be two things simultaneously, brutal in one instance and sweet in another. But Will knows there are so many other versions of Hannibal too, and that each and every one of them is genuine in the occasion. Hannibal is taking Will this way now because it's exactly the way he should, the way they both want and need it to be.

Will moves as Hannibal guides him, wrapping his legs around Hannibal's waist, his arms around Hannibal's neck, and they so close together that neither can move. Hannibal's cock is seated deeply inside Will's body, Will clinging to him, savoring the feeling of being stretched, of being filled, his pulse beating heavily around Hannibal's girth. Hannibal presses in snugly as they kiss, their mouths coming together wetly and hotly, tongues pushing deep and twining, lips rubbing. Will fills Hannibal's mouth with his moans as well, pouring himself into their connection, lost to it, to Hannibal, to their life together.

Their coupling in Baltimore had been about claiming, about marking, about domination. He needed to establish, especially in light of the impending betrayal, that Will was his. He doesn't need that now. Despite the short time since then, Hannibal is certain now. Certain that Will is not only his, but that he is Will's. That their relationship, their partnership, is deep and powerful, far deeper and more powerful than any other Hannibal has known. So this coupling is unlike any other he has known. He's not claiming Will, or manipulating him. This is communion. This is love.

Hannibal moans into Will's mouth as well, letting himself act as the spirit moves him instead of in a calculated manner. Slowly, tenderly, he begins to move his hips, just a little, gentle thrusts.

Will can feel the difference already, not only between how he and Hannibal had been together before but also between this and every other sexual encounter Will has ever had in his life. It's not that Will hasn't enjoyed sex before this, because he has. But the act has never been meaningful before this, had never been anything beyond sating a physical, biological need. And though Will still needs this, needs it more than he's ever needed anything before, it's not just sex, it's about so much more than seeking sexual gratification.

They're in love. It's a strange concept only in that Will's never been in love before, and he's not sure Hannibal has either. Hannibal's affection is so often a tactic, a false face used to manipulate, and Will has never bothered with it, finding no comfort in it or yearning for it. But when Hannibal starts moving, the gentle way he pushes deep, rolling his hips and grinding in, goosebumps rise on Will's arms and his stomach twists and clenches with emotion. He makes a broken sound into Hannibal's mouth as they continue to kiss, his fingers catching hold of Hannibal's hair and twinging in, holding tight as he tips his pelvis to change the angle of penetration and making them both moan thickly. Will's heart is pounding and he feels Hannibal everywhere inside him, not just the girth of Hannibal stretching his ass, filling him up, but Hannibal's smell is flooding into his nose with every sharp inhalation, the sound of Hannibal's breathing, the soft little grunts of effort he's making, all of it crashing around Will's ears like waves breaking on the beach. He swears he can feel Hannibal's pulse in time with his own, and he imagines they're sharing one circulatory system, Hannibal's heart pumping blood into Will's veins, Will's heart sending it back.

As close as they are, Will can't help wanting to be closer, his fingers twisting in Hannibal's hair, other hand splayed on Hannibal's back, fingertips gripping Hannibal's shoulder blade. He works his body down against every push of Hannibal inside him, his heels digging into Hannibal's lower back, and the sounds he's making are raw and wet and wordless, the vocalization of want, of need and desire, of love given with abandon.

Hannibal has enjoyed sex before, of course, like he would enjoy a fine meal, or a well-played chess move. But in those cases the joy was not in the person he was coupling with, but rather the physical act itself, or the ends it served. But this, this is something entirely different. This is taking deep pleasure, and more than pleasure, in this man in his arms. Hannibal and Will have long been dissolving into each other, and now, his arms entwined around Will as Will's are entwined around him, Hannibal can feel, can imagine, them physically merging, their skin growing together, splitting apart, merging, their rib cages opening to clasp each other, their hearts combining, stitched together, beating together, as the creature that is more than merely Hannibal and merely Will, writhes in ecstasy. They are of one mind and one body and one heart and one soul and one blood and one heat and one love, one love, one love. Hannibal has loved in his life, but not like this. He has never been in love like this. Has never felt with such absolute certainty that another human being held a piece of his soul that he never knew he had lost.

Hannibal moans as Will moves against his thrusts, drawing them deeper inside him. and Hannibal, encouraged, begins to move his hips with a little more force. Yet still it is not the violent, frantic rutting of their previous experience. It is tender, loving. He holds his lover steady, one arm across Will's shoulders while the other is anchored in the small of Will's back, steadying him to take Hannibal's cock deep.

Hannibal's movements become progressively stronger, harder, but there's no violence in it, nothing meant to cause pain, only pleasure. The sound of their bodies coming together rings through the room, skin on skin, their harsh breathing and guttural noises of effort and satisfaction. Hannibal's thrusts are powerful and deep, and Hannibal's hands on Will are possessive and firm, claiming. Will can feel the vibration of their pelvises connecting, all the way through his body, along his spine and into his jaw, and he pulls Hannibal in harder with his legs tugging around Hannibal's waist.

The slide of Hannibal's cock inside him is still slick and easy, the oil not going tacky like lube would have by now, and when Will tilts his hips to push a hand between them to cup his own erection the angle causes a spark of intense pleasure with Hannibal's next thrust. It's powerful enough to make Will call out Hannibal's name, and he tosses his head back, every muscle in his body clenching down, gripping Hannibal inside tightly. Will takes a breath, sobbing at the feeling, his hand pressed down over himself as he rides Hannibal's plunging cock, losing himself completely to what they've become, not two separate people but one beautiful entity, connected utterly inside and out.

Hannibal moans out Will's name, breathless, and moves his hand from the small of Will's back and slides it between them to clasp over Will's cock as well. He pulls Will close with his other arm and begins to thrust with abandon, surrendering to the the pleasure, physical, mental, spiritual, that is searing away everything that is not this, this moment, this man. Surrender is such an alien thing to Hannibal. Even when he appears to surrender, it is almost always merely a way of convincing his target that what was actually a tactical move on Hannibal's part was somehow their victory. This is true surrender, not only to the swiftly mounting pleasure but to Will, giving him everything, stripped bare before him in a way deeper than mere nudity.

Hannibal's breath becomes jagged cries, his thrusts irregular, and then he groans lowly as he comes deep into his lover, his cock pulsing, his body shuddering.

Hannibal took to calling Will by his first name the instant they met. At the time Will figured it was the psychologist in him, attempting to construct a sense of trust, a familiarity that would allow Will to be open with him. Since that first meeting the tone Hannibal uses to say Will's name has only ever slightly varied, and even when Will refused to call Hannibal anything but Dr. Lecter, Hannibal never stopped calling him Will. Hannibal's said his name hundreds of times, but it has never sounded the way he says it now, breathless and caught in pleasure, broken and completely genuine in emotion.

The sounds of it makes Will's heart clench and skip, and he moans in sympathy, their hands twining around Will's cock, not even moving just holding as the rocking of their bodies does all that needs to be done. Will's wild eyes are locked on Hannibal's as they move together, rough and erratic, racing toward the edge of their world and eager to plunge over. Will can see it as it happens, the way Hannibal's face changes, how he fights to keep his eyes open as his climax closes over him, dragging him under, the expression splitting across Hannibal's face the most exquisite thing Will's ever seen.

Will feels the burst of Hannibal's come flooding into him with a pooling of heat, an added slickness, a stuttering of Hannibal's hips, and he barely has a chance to take a breath before his own orgasm is pulled out of him, his cock spasming between his and Hannibal's palms, his body clenching down around Hannibal's own, still twitching member. Will's vision flares white like a flash of light, then cascades into black blotches, his every muscle strung and shaking, Distantly he hears his own voice, the heavy gasps of his breath and the low, rough shouts of pleasure. The arm around Hannibal's neck clings tightly as he starts to sag, exhausted, sated, lost in a sea of overwhelming satisfaction, unable and unwilling to let go.

Hannibal doesn't know what expression Will is seeing because he's not controlling it. That seems to happen so frequently with Will in particular. Hannibal has on a number of occasions found himself unable, or unwilling, to mask his emotions when they came to Will, perhaps because those emotions had surprised him. He had not been prepared to have feelings for the man, this slight, strange, shy, fascinating man, this medium for Hannibal's masterpiece of psychological sculpture. Perhaps the first time he used Will's first name the intent was as Will suspected. And Hannibal can't say exactly when it was that the meaning of that name on his lips took on such weight, such significance. But now, that name has been broken open, revealing all the raw emotion within. And Hannibal has been broken open, and his full self laid bare for the eyes of his lover.

The two of them gasp and moan and pant out their climax together, Hannibal appreciating the ecstasy on Will's face as if he were appreciating a Michelangelo. And together they begin to sag in exhaustion. They have given up the last of their strength, and it was well spent, but it does mean that Hannibal hardly has the strength to make it back to the bedroom, and somehow doubts Will is much better off. So once he has his senses, he carefully pulls out of Will, then wraps his arms around him and pulls him along as Hannibal climbs up onto the table and lies down on his side, Will wrapped in his arms. The symbolism is, in his weary mind, quite beautiful, that the both of them have been consumed by each other.

Will doesn't expect Hannibal's shift, and he's more than a little impressed that Hannibal has the strength to pull himself up onto the table, especially considering the amount of energy he just expended fucking Will out of his mind. Will feels like he's out of phase with reality, his skin damp with sweat but chilled as his heart finally begins to slow, making him a little shivery despite not really being cold. It helps immensely when Hannibal gathers him in his arms, the two of them tangled together in the center of the tabletop like a sacrifice, or the subject of a renaissance painting. The room is quiet now, still but for the sound of their heavy breathing, the heaving of their chests. A wistful part of Will's mind wishes there was some way to see what they look like from above, the image they make, flushed skin, sweat streaked hair, the mess of olive oil and Will's semen smeared between them and over the surface of the table top.

The whim doesn't last, however; despite how unforgiving the mahogany is beneath Will's shoulder and hip, the pillow of Hannibal's upper arm supports Will's head well enough, and Hannibal's even breathing is already lulling Will toward sleep. He's beyond exhausted now, they both are, drained from traveling and sex, the intensity of their feelings for each other, and Will thinks they could sleep probably in the middle of a busy highway at this point. There's a part of Will that wants to vocalize what he feels, to tell Hannibal what's in his heart, but he realizes as he tries to find the words that he doesn't have them. What he feels for this other man in intangible, unexplainable. Moreover there's no need to tell Hannibal, because it's something Hannibal already knows, the same way Will knows about Hannibal's feelings for him.

So Will let's go, allowing the warm insistence of sleep to drag him under, cast adrift into the sea of unconsciousness in the arms of the man he loves.

As when they were in the throes of coitus, Hannibal again has the sensation of physical oneness with the man in his arms. He can imagine the two of them as a single creature, powerful and deadly and calm, at rest. Hannibal is deeply curious about this creature, about it's potential, about what beauty it will birth into the world in darkness and blood. The creature has been long in becoming, and yet it is still remarkable how much it has flourished in such a short amount of time. They had been so close to everything falling apart. Hannibal knows that, had the betrayal continued, completed, he likely would have killed Will. He is grateful that this is what happened instead. That his deep affection for the man could now blossom into a strong, protective love, instead of one that was wounded and cried for vengeance.

Like Will, he wishes to somehow put this love into words, to tell Will what lies in his heart, his soul, even though he's perfectly aware that Will already knows. Words are important, however, and the spoken and unspoken need not make one another unnecessary, but rather can enrich each other. So as he feels Will relaxing into sleep in his arms, he whispers in his ear, words like a prayer. Hannibal bows to no god, but to his Will he will give supplication.

"Inquietum est cor meum donec requiescat in te."

Will hears Hannibal speak, but the exact words don't really register. He knows enough Latin to hear the word 'heart', and the other syllables float around in Will's half conscious mind and eventually become sentiment just as he loses the last light of reality to sleep. He dreams about the Wendigo, black skin and sightless eyes, proud antlers reaching toward a full moon. It wanders slowly along the perimeter of Will's dream vision, barely more than a shifting in the dark, until finally it steps into the moonlight, turning its eyes on Will.

That's when it crumbles, comes apart like ash, scattered across the flat ground. From the charred black remnants a fire is born, an ember at first and then a flame, one that grows taller and hotter, warming Will's skin. He closes his eyes to the flickering and the touch becomes human, warm hands on his bare skin, tugging him in, pulling him close. He lets go, feels himself twining with Hannibal, their bodies tangled, merging, their hearts beating in unison, and then growing together, one organ feeding them both.

It's cold when Will wakes, the sun having set leaving the kitchen bathed in darkness, lit only by ambient light from the city as it filters in the window. They've shifted some in their sleep, but they're still pressed close, sharing body heat, and though Will's body is aching, and he knows Hannibal will be awake himself soon enough, he allows himself to lay still, to listen to Hannibal's breath and feel Hannibal's heart beat. The words from before filter back into his mind and he puts them together, Hannibal's restless heart finding quietness, comfort, love, in Will.

Hannibal dreams of Palermo. Of the Capella Palatina, built over the deep, dark labyrinth of catacombs, with its centuries of dead. For so long this place has been the center of his mind palace, where he could retreat to find solace, peace, yet he was always alone.

Not anymore.

The chapel is candle-lit and silent, and he and Will walk side by side. As they step onto the skull engraved in the floor, Hannibal pauses, turns to Will, takes his hand. Their eyes meet and they share a smile before turning and continuing down the aisle. They climb the steps of the chancel to the altar, where rests a golden chalice. Together they raise their joined hands, and tighten their grips, until blood begins to drip from their palms, their fingers, falling drop by drop into the chalice. When it is full they release each other's hands, and Hannibal picks up the chalice and holds it out to Will, who takes it, and slowly, reverently, drinks the blood. Their blood. He offers it back to Hannibal, who does the same, drinking the blood, his eyes drifting closed in near religious ecstasy. When he opens them again the chapel is gone, the altar is gone, what remains is Will.

Hannibal shifts as he wakes, his body noting and objecting to the cold, to the hardness of the table. Yet he is careful to not disturb his lover wrapped in his arms. He opens his eyes and sees Will awake. He smiles, and touches his cheek, running his thumb gently along his cheekbone.

"Hello Will."

Will's mouth curves in a return smile before he even feels the desire to do it spread through his chest, his heart fluttering just a little in a way Will's never really experienced before. Will's body is uncomfortable, skin cold and sticky, muscles aching, still utterly exhausted, but his mind is warm and awake, caught in Hannibal's gaze. Eye contact has always been something Will's avoided unless he needed it as a gauge, to tell if a person was lying or hiding something. But Hannibal has been commanding Will's attention since nearly their first meeting, and now he doesn't want to look away, scarcely wants to blink. There's a gravity in Hannibal's eyes, one that draws Will in, and it's more than a fascination now; Will sees love in Hannibal's eyes, Hannibal's love, and Will's own reflected back.

Gaze still locked on Hannibal's, Will smiles again, just a bare quirk of his lips. "Do you have a shower here?" he asks, his palm skimming down Hannibal's side. "Or just a bathtub?"

Hannibal knows that eye contact is not the easiest thing of Will, and he cherishes it, cherishes the trust and comfort and care that is implicit in something as simple as a gaze. He has watched Will interact with other people, with Dr. Bloom, with Jack, and has noted and observed his tendency to shy away. It's to be expected, considering the fact that Will is likely neurologically atypical. Hannibal prefers not to use convenient labels, since he finds them unhelpful, even lazy. He does note, though, that Jack in particular had on more than one occasion willfully aggravated Will's particular sensitivities. It was rude. And one of a number of reasons he had planned for the man to grace his table. Perhaps he still shall.

Hannibal answers the smile and runs his own hand down Will's side. They are cold and sticky and messy. Hannibal's muscles ache, and surely Will's do as well. Few thing are so soothing as a hot bath.

"Both, as a matter of fact. Which do you prefer? A shower or a bath?"

In general, Will finds bathing to be perfunctory. Unless he's particularly sore, his showers are quick, just a means to clean himself, nothing he indulges in. He can't remember the last time he had a bath, but he suspects he was a fairly young child at the time. Before this moment he can't recall ever wanting to take one as an adult, but the idea of laying back in the hot water, feeling it ease his abused muscles, sharing the space with Hannibal, he can't imagine choosing a shower instead.

"Bath," he replies, his eyes moving over Hannibal's face, memorizing the creases and lines, the way it shifts. "In this instance, at least," he adds. "Assuming I'll be sharing it with you."

Hannibal smiles. "An entirely safe assumption. Somehow I think you and I will not be apart from one another for any significant amount of time for the next few days at least." It's only to be expected, Hannibal supposes, since they are in love and newly lovers. It is quite common for couples so freshly minted to cleave to one another, needful of the company of the other. And if anything, Hannibal would theorize that the two of them would be more so inclined instead of less, considering the pre-existing intensity of their relationship, as well as the watershed effect of a would-be betrayal, and a likely murder, precipitously overturned.

Hannibal leans in and brushes a kiss against Will's lips before sitting up, swinging his legs over the side of the table, and standing. He stretches his sore arms, rolls his head to stretch his neck, then turns, smiles, holds out a hand.

Hannibal leads Will to the bathroom. Like the kitchen and the bedroom, the bathroom is impressively large and ornate, with a large tub and a separate glass box shower. Hannibal goes to the tub and turns on the faucet, experimenting with the water until it is just below scalding. Then he leaves it to fill as he searches the cabinets for soap.

[I'm so, so sorry this has taken so long. The end of last week was a bit nuts and I'm just now getting the chance to catch up on everything.]

Will takes a breath at Hannibal's words, and he knows they're true. The idea of being away from Hannibal, separated for any extended period of time, makes Will feel anxious, uncomfortable. It has nothing to do with the worry of what Hannibal might do, a notion that's new to Will. He's not afraid of Hannibal anymore, he's not considering the ways Hannibal is manipulating him. His desire to be close to Hannibal stems from his affection, his attraction, the shifting of his obsession. He hasn't had enough of Hannibal, not even close, and he doesn't want to be apart from him until that part of him is more completely sated.

Will doesn't hesitate to take Hannibal's hand, and though his body is aching, he feels like he walking to the bathroom in a euphoric haze. He watches Hannibal as he fills the tub with steaming water, admires the stretch and pull of Hannibal's muscles beneath his skin, and his mouth waters anew. Never in his life has Will craved another person the way he does this man, never has he felt a hunger, physical and emotional, like he does for Hannibal.

The tub fills quickly, and Will is anxious to join Hannibal in it, to feel Hannibal's skin, to bathe and relax and be close. He's exhausted, bone tired, but the image of Will taking Hannibal in the water comes unbidden, splitting his thighs and straddling Hannibal's hips, moving until the blunt head of Hannibal's cock presses against him and then in in in, deep and thick. They probably won't fuck now, they're both too worn out for it, but the fact that Will thinks of it, wants it, is new to him, telling and wonderful.

Sitting on the rim of the tub, Will drags his fingers through the water, the heat causing goosebumps to rise on his arm before they settle again. He turns his eyes up to Hannibal, waiting for direction, to see how Hannibal wants them to arrange themselves in the bath.

Hannibal's own visions are in some ways similar, imagining them moving together, their bodies smooth and slippery in the water, Will in Hannibal's lap, Hannibal inside him, holding him close and gently rolling his hips, the two of them rising and falling together in a slow, almost sleepy rhythm. Then the speed increases, and as their pleasure mounts, the water around them turns red, and Hannibal wraps his arms around Will, captures his lips in a searing kiss, and pulls him under, the water turned blood swallowing them with barely a ripple.

Hannibal smiles at the thought.

The soap is in a cabinet with a few other bathing necessities, and when Hannibal returns to the tub he's carrying soap, shampoo, wash cloths, and towels. He sets them aside and turns off the water, then climbs into the tub, eases himself down into the water and lies back. The water is hot and feels wonderful on his skin and weary muscles, and he sighs in contentment, then holds a hand out for Will.

Will watches Hannibal's face, sees the wistful smile, and wonders what thought just crossed Hannibal's mind, if it's anything like the ones that keep coming to Will's. One thing Will does know, however, is that the smile is for him, a gift to let him know that the thoughts involve him, that Hannibal finds them pleasing.

Will's return smile is soft, barely there but enough for Hannibal to see, to feel the contentment behind it. Will watches Hannibal as he moves to climb into the steamy water, the long lines of his body moving and stretching gracefully despite how sore he must be, fluid and lithe as he breaks the surface of the water and lowers himself down to rest back, recumbent. Will takes his hand again without hesitation, and despite his desire to mirror Hannibal's easy dexterity, he fumbles a bit when he steps in himself, owing his not falling entirely to Hannibal's sure grip.

Will stands for a moment, knee deep in the water as he contemplates how he should arrange himself, his back to Hannibal's front or face to face. Each has their benefits and determents, but for the moment Will opts for relaxation, turning to face away from Hannibal and sit down carefully between his splayed thighs, leaning back until his back encounters Hannibal's broad chest.

Will's not tiny by any stretch of the imagination, but he's smaller than Hannibal and they fit this way remarkably well as long as Will tilts his head so Hannibal's chin will clear Will's shoulder. Will's arms are heavy in his own lap as he relaxes back, closing his eyes and letting his neck release, Hannibal's shoulder bearing the weight of Will's head. Will can feel Hannibal's heart beating against his spine and the rise and fall of Hannibal's breath rocks Will gently, forward and back. The water's warm as is Hannibal's body and Will feels himself sagging already, sure he could sleep if he let himself. But they're here to bathe, and sleep will come again soon enough, so Will merely indulges in the way their bodies align, takes a few moments to just be still together and feel each other exist.

Hannibal's grip on Will's hand goes tight as Will nearly falls, and he reaches out with his other hand to steady his friend. Once he's safely in the tub, Hannibal makes room for his lover, spreading his thighs further, leaning his head to the side to welcome Will's head on his shoulder. Once Will is settled, Hannibal wraps one arm around his waist and settles the other hand on Will's head, and sighs in contentment, contemplating how truly happy Will's mere existence makes him. It's all the more remarkable considering the number of times that Hannibal has attempted to end that existence, and that Will has likewise attempted to end Hannibal's. It is truly Providence that neither of them have succeeded, and Hannibal imagines there to be significance to that. The idea that they were somehow made for each other is one that a cynical man might consider overly romantic pablum. Hannibal, however, is not a cynical man. And while he is not a man to bow to a higher power, he can still recognize the hand of Fate. Their lives are woven together now, and while either of them might wield the shears of Atropos, they cannot cut off the life of the other without cutting short their own.

Hannibal turns his head to bury his face into Will's hair, closing his eyes, breathing in deep, drinking up everything about his beloved, his scent, his touch, his warmth, the beat of his heart and the twitch of his blood in his veins. He can feel his own heart increasing speed just slightly, just enough to beat in unison with Will's, as his breath also shifts to join the rhythm of his lover's.

Will has never felt more safe in his entire life than he does right now, held deep in a bath full of hot water and the tight in the embrace of a man he knows very well (very intimately) is a serial murderer and a cannibal. Hannibal has even tried to kill him before, though, so far, never with his own hands; still, despite how easily he could do it right now, wrap a firm hand around Will's throat or shift to snap his neck, could pull a concealed weapon and cut any number of large arteries, filling the tub with the hot flow of Will's lifeblood, Will knows he won't, not now, not for a long time to come. They have an path before them now, one that, for the foreseeable future, has no end, just twists and turns that they will follow together.

In addition to that, Will has made a decision to give Hannibal anything he asks for, has already given Hannibal everything he has: his trust, his loyalty, his heart, his body, and his life. He wants Hannibal to have it, he needs it, and he hopes Hannibal won't ask for Will's last breath until he's ready to breathe his own.

Sighing, Will reaches back carefully to cup Hannibal's head, his fingers smoothing over Hannibal's fine hair and down onto the back of Hannibal's neck. His fingertips press into Hannibal's cervical spine for a moment, the tension telling Hannibal all of those things he hasn't found the words to say before he lets his hand drop away back into the water.

"What will we do tomorrow?" Will asks softly, still relaxing, eyes closed and body heavy in Hannibal's arms.

Hannibal draws a slow breath as Will's fingers press into his spine, the affection intended perfectly clear. Hannibal has always appreciated the affection of others, but as one might appreciate the affection of a pet, or, perhaps more accurately, of a farm animal one is tasked to care for. A cow can be pleasantly affectionate to the farmer, but the farmer will still slaughter it when the time comes. And perhaps Hannibal will do the same with Will. However, the affection he is receiving from his friend feels different. Will is not merely a dog performing tricks on command, nor a livestock animal whose ultimate purpose is to nourish with his death. He's an equal, yes, but he is also something infinitely precious. Hannibal cannot imagine that his life would be anything but impoverished without Will in it, that the world would be anything but less beautiful. And the fact that there is a reciprocity there, that perhaps Will feels the same, is just as precious, just as beautiful. Just as vital to Hannibal's life now.

When Will relaxes against him, Hannibal smiles and reaches for the soap and a washcloth, careful not to jostle him. "There are a number of options," he says, dipping the washcloth into the water. "We could spend the day exploring the city. Or we could focus on stocking the pantry." He rubs the wet washcloth against the soap, working up a lather. "Or, we could stay here. Rest. And explore each other."

He puts the soap aside, and begins to gently wash Will's chest.

"Do you have a preference?"