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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 say he minds the view, watching Hannibal wash himself, and though it's perfunctory, just meant to facilitate getting dressed so they can go to the pharmacy, seeing the water running over Hannibal's smooth, pale skin is a beautiful sight. Hannibal's body is reacting to the cold, his skin starting to go pink where the water is hitting it, his nipples and scrotum tightening against the onslaught. But the look on Hannibal's face tells a different story, and Will wonders if some of those reactions are to do with something beyond the drive to stay warm. In fact, based on the way Hannibal is looking at him, Will is certain there's a level of pleasure being derived from the discomfort.

Will understands it because he feels some of it himself. He wouldn't say he's enjoying this experience; the cold water makes him feel a little panicky low in his belly, hurts the skin on his feet and the more sensitive parts of his anatomy. But there's an ache there behind everything else, one that throbs though him like a heartbeat and makes his insides tighten almost pleasantly.

He splashes water over himself, turns to let it run through the crack of his ass and rinse the last of the oil and come away. He tips his head back and the water runs over his face, pulling another soft gasp from him before he rights himself again. He turns, meeting Hannibal's eyes.

"Done," he says, another shiver working through his body, involuntary and uncontainable.

Hannibal is deeply fond of intense, liminal experiences that cause the body to release endorphins in a physiological reflex to stay alive. The cold of the water does that, in much the same way pain does, in much the same way an intimate brush with death does. If they had more time, Hannibal might deepen this experience here and now, press Will to the glass, clasp his throat, squeeze just right.

He smiles as he watches Will wash himself, amused by how differently they are reacting to the icy water, Hannibal still aroused while Will's hunger seems for the moment quashed. He wonders what it will be like to explore Will's reactions to the wide array of liminal experiences Hannibal plans to present to him, like serving a many coursed meal of the finest delicacies. Perhaps a time will come that Will might also find pleasure on the cusp of hypothermia.

For now Hannibal shuts off the water, and pauses for a moment, very close to Will, watching how the man is shivering, his muscles fighting the cold. Then the moment passes, and he opens the shower door and exits, retrieving two towels that are, of course, exceptionally soft. He offers one to Will before using the other to dry himself.

Will can feel Hannibal evaluating him, can see it in the way Hannibal's eyes track over his body, cataloging his reactions. It's difficult to tell from Hannibal's expression if Hannibal is disappointed or simply curious, if he's figuring out new ways to test Will's limits. Will has an idea what those sort of tests might be like, more of what Hannibal has been doing more subtly since the day they met. But now there's no more reason for subterfuge, and the idea of being manipulated by Hannibal's talented hands, his poison tipped words, brings a flutter of excitement he hadn't felt at the prospect before Hannibal had taken him completely apart in his bed in Baltimore.

The lessons may even start tonight.

Taking the soft towel from Hannibal, he dries off quickly, not indulging in the feeling of the expensive terrycloth against his skin. Time for luxuriating will come later, he has a feeling, and they've been holding back from each other long enough.

Hanging his towel on the rack, he moves back to the bedroom, knowing Hannibal will follow. Going into his duffel bag, he pulls out fresh clothes, underwear and socks and well worn slacks he knows Hannibal is aching to replace as soon as possible. It's very perfunctory, dressing quickly but not haphazardly, ready to put on another show in public. As he's putting on his clothes, Will is stepping back into Peter Beckett, realigning his perspective. Hannibal is his host in this country and, though they're meant to be here as colleagues, they are giving in to their baser instincts, engaging in a clandestine affair while abroad together. The way Will looks at Hannibal once they're out in the streets has to reflect that, and though it's not really a leap, putting on the sentiment sends a little thrill through him, an easy, but important deception they can build together.

Hannibal follows Will into the bedroom, watching the flex of his lover's muscles as he walks, the sway of his hips. As Will dresses, Hannibal does likewise, his motions just as swift as Will's yet with somewhat different results, his clothing neatly folded and practically wrinkle-free coming straight out of his suitcase, his practiced hands moving by muscle memory to button up then impeccably straighten the cuffs and collar. While his body all but dresses itself, his mind sees the roles they are putting on, the masks they will present to the world. He will be Giacomo Reyer, of course, an older academic introducing his younger colleague to Paris, to its art and food and people, and to other pleasures as well. But there is another mask, a deeper one, the suit that Hannibal wears beneath all of his many others, that hides who and what he truly is. And as Will prepares to step out into the world, Hannibal wonders about the state of his man-suit. Is it even needed yet? Will was still in the process of coming into his own, of metamorphosing into the beautiful rough beast that lurked in his core. As Hannibal helps him to realize himself more fully, he shall also have to assist in the construction of his man-suit, stitch by stitch.

Hannibal forgoes the tie, instead leaving the top button of his shirt undone, affecting a mix of formal and casual that is standard in Europe. Will's clothes are quite American, but as that is the role he is playing, Hannibal isn't concerned. Perhaps the more literal "suit" can be eventually tailored as well.

Once dressed, Hannibal goes out into the entryway to retrieve their shoes, scooping up the rest of their clothing while he's at it. He returns to the bedroom and holds out Will's shoes to him.

Will watches in periphery as Hannibal dresses, his movements swift and agile, graceful in this as he is in all things. It's a thing of beauty to watch Hannibal move, everything he does like a ballet, simple tasks a work of art. He can see Hannibal changing outwardly as well, the more clothes he puts on, minute adjustments to his expression, the set of his shoulders, and Will realizes that he's witnessing the reapplication of the mask Hannibal wears. It's not the first time Will's seen it, but as being here with Hannibal is the first time Will's experienced him entirely stripped bare, and observing the transformation from that back to Hannibal's usual, carefully applied facade, is almost jarring.

It also makes Will curious about how much of himself he shows without realizing it. He's not as practiced at disguising his true intentions as Hannibal is, and though he's had practice at it more recently, he's unsure how he'll react when Hannibal finally fully indoctrinates him to his way of life.

But now's not the time for such contemplations. Hannibal leaves the room momentarily and returns with their discarded clothing from earlier, pausing as he reenters the bedroom to hand Will his shoes. Will stoops to put them on, and once he stands again Hannibal is standing patiently, wearing his own shoes and seemingly ready to go out.

"Do you know where we're headed?" Will asks, sure Hannibal probably knows where any and all useful shops and restaurants are in their immediate vicinity, not the type who leaves those sorts of things up to chance even when he's not actively evading capture by law enforcement.

Indeed, Hannibal knows that there is a grocers two blocks to the west, a produce stand three blocks to the south, a tailors another block further south, even a florists to the west. He knows where the cafes and restaurants are, how each is rated, and even what their signature dishes are. He also has mapped out in his mind at least three escape routes, should they become necessary, as well as two modes of entry that would be out of sight, should they need to get to their apartment with, say, certain ingredients in hand.

"There is a chemists nearby. It should suit our needs." He makes a mental note to also visit a nearby hardware store and make a duplicate of the apartment key for Will. He holds the only key, and had not expected to need another, since being the sole key holder was a position of power he thought it important to reserve, if Will (or Dr. DuMaurier) had accompanied him under some measure of manipulation.

Will nods, and he's fallen enough into his role as Giacomo's giddy, clandestine American lover, he offers Hannibal a little smile that's full of promise. Straightening his shoulders, he accompanies Hannibal down the hall to the entry, stepping out in the hall and waiting with his hands in his pockets as Hannibal bolts the door behind them.

"Tell me what you love most about Paris," he says as they take the stairs to the street. It's dark and cool, the sidewalks largely vacant, only a few people out and about, headed home from work or on their way to get a drink. Will makes note of the storefronts and buildings and street names as they go, his eye resembling that of a tourist to disguise the practiced gaze of a criminal profile cum wanted criminal. Peter Beckett wants to know where he and his sexy, European professor can get a good croissant for breakfast, but underneath Will Graham is memorizing the lay of the land, deciding which vendors he'll befriend and which he'll avoid, building on the story of their concealment.

Hannibal is likewise viewing the details of the streets with a casual air that disguises his critical analysis. Giacomo is enjoying the day and the company of his young, sexy colleague, while Hannibal is making note of the things that one cannot learn about a place from afar, primarily the people, curious who to befriend (and manipulate), and who to either avoid or, perhaps when things settle and if circumstances warrant, have over for dinner.

Hannibal gives Will a smile at that question. "There is much to laud about the city of lights. To choose one is an exceedingly difficult task. However, right here, and right now, I would have to say that my favorite thing about Paris is the company." His smile widens at his lover.

Peter smiles more widely than Will would, and blushes sweetly in a way that Will's not sure he ever has in his life, flattered and charmed by his companion. Peter Beckett is more than willing to submit himself to this seduction, aching to be taken back to his professor's flat and shown why he was selected for his position here in Europe.

At the same time Will is aroused by Hannibal's deception, by the easy way Hannibal carries himself in another's skin, bantering in a way he would find banal and insipid if he weren't putting on an act. The heat in Will's body is only stoked by the performance, knowing what Hannibal really is, what their coupling will be like when they return to their flat with the necessary provisions. Peter Beckett is on his way home to go belly down in Giacomo's bed, but Will Graham is the one preparing to be the dominant party tonight. It's poignant in that it proves Hannibal's trust in him, Hannibal's love for him, and the burning of Will's desire has never in his life been so bright.

Hannibal is likewise aroused by the ease with which Will is performing his role. He's not the sort of man to have a smile that wide, that innocent, nor a blush that sweet. The Parisians walking by can see Peter Beckett, but only Hannibal knows the Will Graham beneath, and that secret knowledge, shared on this continent only between the two of them, is what thrums, dark and low, in Hannibal's body. Peter Beckett may be a subservient, naive young man under the thrall of an older and more experienced colleague, but Will Graham is an equal, a partner. Giacomo would not allow Peter to dominate him, penetrate him, and he would not love him.

The pharmacy, like all those in Paris, is marked by a green neon cross. Inside it is immediately obvious that French drug stores are nothing like American drug stores, in that they do not sell food or drinks or anything aside from medical supplies and some beauty products. While it will be useful to stock a complete medical kit for their home, at the moment Hannibal is really only interested in getting what they need for their explorations of each other to continue unimpeded. He leads Will to the section where they have a selection of condoms and lubricants, and stands behind and slightly to the side of him, projecting dominance.

"Preferences?" he murmurs.

Will's life hasn't included relationships that precipitate the need to have things like condoms on hand, and he can't remember the last time he purchased any. The brand names mean nothing to him, and there are so many varieties, the differences between them minute and useless. They'll buy condoms tonight to fit their projected image, but they won't use them; Peter and Giacomo would, their affair clandestine and possibly outside of relationships they've temporarily left behind, but Hannibal and Will have already shared their various fluids, and only seek to do more of the same in the future.

"Hmm," Will hums in a way that would fit Peter's persona, stepping forward to take a box off a peg, turning it over in his hands to read the packaging. It's in French, and he only understands a few of the words, but he says a few out loud as if he's reading and comprehending. "These will do," he tells Giacomo with a small smile and a blush, handing the box to Hannibal. He lets his gaze linger on Hannibal's face for another few seconds before he turns to take a tube of lubricant, one that looks like a good size, branding benign. He hands that to Hannibal as well, still wearing that sly little grin.

"Anything else?" he asks, leaning into Hannibal's space and lowering his voice, acting like he's pretending to get away with something that is overtly, plainly obvious.

Will is playing naive Peter to a T, entirely unused to being discreet, probably because he has never done something like this before and doesn't quite know the proper way to act to not be obvious. Were it to be Peter and Hannibal, Peter would likely not survive very long. He would regrettably vanish, and Hannibal would suggest that he was possibly the victim of muggers, or a fall down a mountain or into a river. He would express sympathies as he dined on the bounty that had just found its way to his refrigerator.

Giacomo leans back slightly, looking to the side to ensure they are alone, before raising a cautionary eyebrow to Peter as he takes the tube of lubricant to go along with the box of condoms. There are cameras, of course, four of them, which Hannibal noted when they walked in, so everything is being recorded at the very least, and Hannibal is satisfied with their performance. That they are illicit lovers is the thing that others might expect to draw attention, when in actuality it will encourage others to look away, to erase the tapes for something more important.

Hannibal takes the items to the counter and purchases them, exchanging polite pleasantries in French with the man behind the counter as he pays from his collected Euros.

The look Giacomo gives him, gives Peter, exhibits a sort of well worn patience, long suffering because, despite his young companion's complete inability to keep what they're doing under wraps, Giacomo is willing to overlook it. He's just as interested in going back to their shared flat for sex as Peter is, and he doesn't entirely mind if people around them get ideas, because his colleague is attractive, and he gets a bit of a thrill out of people knowing that Peter belongs to him.

Or, at least, that's how Hannibal's performance reads to Will. He continues to play his own part admirably, standing close enough to Hannibal as he purchases their items to make it very clear they're about to go use them together, and he even gives the girl behind the counter a nervous little smile. She barely meets his eyes, uncomfortable, and he knows she's going to do her level best to forget him, to forget this moment, as quickly as she can.

Back out on the street, Will shivers and pushes his hands into his pockets, his feet scuffing against the cobblestone, echoing into the night. Peter steals glances at Giacomo as they walk back to their apartment, wanting to say something, to tell his mentor how ready he is to do this, finally, but he bites his tongue. Will thinks about Hannibal's body, his muscles moving under his skin, beneath his clothes, imagines himself stripping all of that away, finding Hannibal's beating heart, taking it for his own.

Hannibal sees the interaction, or lack thereof, between Peter and the girl at the counter, and stifles a smile. Will's move is perfect, just the right impetus for the cashier to forget them and forget them fast. He nods his thanks to her when the transaction is completed, and holds the door open for his young to-be lover as they leave. On the way home Giacomo is aware of Peter's awkward silence as they head toward the moment when they will complete the act that will change their relationship forever, making Peter a sexual conquest, subservient to his older, more experienced and senior colleague. Hannibal, on the other hand, is aware that in those furtive glances Will is contemplating what he is about to do to Hannibal, and what Hannibal is about to give him in return. Will sees below the layers that stand between Hannibal's heart and the world, and Hannibal is looking forward to watching his lover's enjoyment of stripping them back, one by one.

When they make it back to the apartment Hannibal locks the door, then proceeds directly to the bedroom. When they first arrived at the apartment they needed to devour each other right then, right there, but now they need to do this with slow deliberation. He sets the bag with their purchases on the bed and turns to gaze at his Will. Others might be anxious about what is about to happen, but not Hannibal. He watches Will with curiosity and desire, a heady mix that has his pulse slightly raised, his cheeks slightly flushed.

Back in the flat, Will feels calmer has since they began their wild escape from the US, since the day he shot Garret Jacob Hobbs to death in his kitchen in Minnesota. Over the months since that fateful day, Will's been changing, transforming, under his own steam but more so with the careful, precise guidance of the man stood across the room from him now. There was a time when all Will had felt for Hannibal was contempt, anger, and disgust, and the path from that to here hadn't been a long one, but now all he sees when he looks at Hannibal is the other half of himself. Put that way it's not so surprising; all of those things he hated about Hannibal are things that Will has now fully embraced as a part of himself.

In Hannibal's bedroom back in Baltimore their coupling had been an exhibition of Will's submission and Hannibal's dominance, the first action of proof that Will was serious about making a life with Hannibal, about being a part of Hannibal's future. This, here and now in their apartment in Paris, isn't a reversal of that. It's an acceptance, it's Hannibal proving to Will their equality, his trust, and his readiness for their entwined future.

Crossing the space between them, Will reaches out to touch the curve of Hannibal's cheek with his fingertips, following the shape of it down to trail along Hannibal's jaw. There's the slight texture of stubble there, a reminder of how long they've been running, and Will realizes he's never seen Hannibal when he wasn't clean shaven before this moment. It's the first of many things they'll share in their lives together, allowing each other to see imperfections and flaws, letting each other all the way in, no secrets, no places uncovered.

Will draws a finger along Hannibal's lower lip, allowing it to slip off the end of Hannibal's chin as he leans in for a kiss, sweet and slow and shallow, just the first press, the beginning of what Will hopes is a moment neither of them will ever forget.

This is a gift, a demonstration, a deepening of their relationship, of Hannibal's trust and loyalty, a strengthening of their bond, and yet there is more for Hannibal. He has wanted so much for Will, and he is certain that the more obvious of these, wanting to see his friend revel in the beauty of blood and death, will come to fruition in the near future, when they decide together to hunt the streets of Paris for their own peculiar sort of game. But this moment is also one of those things, if not specifically then certainly in kind. Hannibal wants to watch Will own this moment, shape it into his own design. And while Hannibal prefers power and control, he will loosen his grip on those things to watch this part of his experiment come to fruition. He is not intimidated by the prospect of the loss of control, in large part because he knows that if he wished, he could turn the tables on Will with ease and speed. But he is giving Will the reins for the beauty of seeing what masterful things he doe with them.

Hannibal kisses Will back in kind, gentle, slow, shallow, and touches his lover's cheek with one hand while resting the other lightly on his waist. When the kiss ends he meets Will's eyes, his own sparkling with intense curiosity, waiting with bated breath for his next move.

The road that brought Will and Hannibal to this place is as twisted, gnarled, and bloody as the bodies Hannibal had created in what ultimately became his courtship of Will, and it's also as beautiful. Their feelings for each other are deep and complex, ever changing even in this moment, and despite the darkness they share, what they have is still a romance.

The second kiss they share is warmer and wetter and darker than the first one, Will's mouth pressing against Hannibal's with the weight of desire, the desperate need to connect, to merge, to consume. It grows harder and hotter in each second it spins on, their teeth clashing, little bursts of blood on their tongues from battered gingiva, lips rubbing and beards scraping, Will's hands gripping Hannibal's jaw with enough force to make his fingers ache.

But then, in the ebb and flow, it spins down, slowing, easing, and Will is shaking as he kisses Hannibal's lips gently, tasting and feeling, the raucous sound of their breathing the only indication of where they'd been the moment before. This is where Will begins undressing Hannibal, strong, sure hands pushing off his coat, working at the buttons down the front of his shirt, kissing in between the bare moments he needs to pull back enough to see what he's doing. Hannibal's chest bared, Will's mouth finds his throat, kissing and biting, hard enough to maybe leave marks, maybe not, only time will tell. But for now all Will can focus on is the heavy, steady throbbing of Hannibal's carotid under his lips, blood burning through the skin, feeding them both.

When the kiss becomes increasingly violent Hannibal curls his fist into Will's hair and slides his other hand to Will's ass, gripping it tightly as their teeth clash, as they kiss with such force that Hannibal can again taste his own blood and Will's intermingled. It's that taste blooming on his tongue that draws a moan from deep in his chest and causes both of his grips to tighten, to hold Will closer, tighter, fingers crushing into flesh and body tight to body so that Hannibal could feel Will's heartbeat in his own chest.

Then the kiss begins to calm, and Hannibal loosens his grip, sighing quietly in wonder of the feeling of Will trembling in his arms. As Will undresses him, Hannibal moves to make it as simple as possible without directly removing clothing himself, making sure that agency remains with Will. It's beautifully symbolic, Hannibal allowing Will to strip him down, layer by layer, to lay him bare. Hannibal can be powerful even when nude, using even his stark form as a tool of manipulation, but now he's allowing himself to be truly naked, truly vulnerable, by the man who truly sees him. Truly knows him.

When Will's mouth goes to his throat, Hannibal closes his eyes and lifts his chin, tilting his head slightly to lay his throat bare to his lover's lips, tongue, and, oh yes, teeth. His heart is beating hard and fast, and even that is exposed to Will in the throbbing of his carotid.

"Will," he whispers, as he feels with perfect clarity every single bite, knows every single mark being made. Will could tear into Hannibal's throat and drink his lifeblood and Hannibal would be carried off into oblivion by bliss.

Hannibal has always had the talent and skills to use his body and his mind to take what he wants from people, like a musician playing an instrument, coaxing exactly the right sounds with each deft touch of his fingers. Will's been at the mercy of Hannibal's puppet strings himself enough times to know what that tug feels like, to be able to identify when the moves he's making are part of Hannibal's design.

It's how he can be completely certain that here, in this moment, Hannibal's actions aren't calculated or premeditated. The way Hannibal clutched at him was fueled entirely by Hannibal's true and genuine desire for him, as is the tone of his voice now, the deepness of it as it vibrates under Will hungry mouth. Will knows there's a part of Hannibal that thrills at the idea of Will sinking his teeth in, spilling Hannibal's blood, bathing himself in the hot, heavy arterial spray. That thought, as well as the other things Hannibal is desperate for, is what's causing the quick throb of Hannibal's pulse, and it's feeding Will as well, driving him on, their thirst for each other calling out, lifting them up until they reach the pinnacle.

Will doesn't take his mouth away from Hannibal's throat as his hands work their way down, unbuckling Hannibal's belt and opening the button on the front of his trousers. He licks into the hollow between Hannibal's collarbones as he draws the zipper down, dragging his nose and mouth along Hannibal's sternum, nuzzling into the mat of chest hair as he stoops to push Hannibal's pants and underwear down, hooking his thumbs in the waist of both garments and dragging them to Hannibal's knees, and then further to his ankles.

He pauses, resting on one knee and turning his eyes up to Hannibal, his body bared aside from his open shirt and the puddle of clothing caught at his shoes. It's a stunning sight, the beginnings of arousal thickening Hannibal's cock between his thighs, Hannibal's dark eyes on him, so heated and intense that it feels like a physical touch. Again Will feels like a disciple at the feet of his savior, but he realizes, even as he thinks it, that he's Hannibal's redeemer as much as Hannibal is his. They've saved each other, found each other, are making each other whole in a way they've never been before.

To Hannibal, this unfolding moment is like sitting in a hushed opera house watching a world-class soprano transforming the genius of Mozart into something truly sublime. That he has relinquished control makes it all that much sweeter, allowing him to entirely soak in the experience without attention to the machinations of manipulation. He can witness and experience the beauty of the desire that he and Will share in its purest form, unadulterated by deception, by mistrust, by fear.

Hannibal rests his hand on the back of Will's head as his lover's lips and teeth slip downward. He draws a breath as Will's hands go to his belt and the fastenings of his trousers, his fingers so close to Hannibal's cock. As Will sinks to one knee, baring Hannibal's growing arousal, Hannibal gazes down at him, his hand now cupping Will's cheek, and smiles.

"Shouldn't I be the one on my knees?" he murmurs, his eyes sparkling.

"You should know better than anyone, Dr. Lecter," Will replies, his tone intentionally dark, but fond and teasing, "appearing to be submissive doesn't necessarily bespeak submission." He raises to the height of his knees then, pressing his mouth against the flat expanse between Hannibal's cock and the crease of one of Hannibal's thighs, pushing in close and sucking hard. Pulling back he admires his handiwork, a vivid purple-red bloom of blood just beneath the surface of Hannibal's skin, his mark left behind. In reality it will fade, but he knows the memory of it will last until the end of Will's days, and Hannibal's as well.

After this brief detour, Will gets quickly back on track, turning his attention to Hannibal's shoes, unlacing them and helping Hannibal work them off and then step out of his trousers and underwear. As he tends to Hannibal's clothes, Will frequently leans close to Hannibal's groin, breathing heated exhalations against the ruddy length of his cock, now fully erect, watching it twitch and leak, unbidden, inhaling deeply the rugged, masculine scent of Hannibal's desire.

Once Hannibal is naked from the waist down, Will moves to stand, meeting Hannibal's eyes as he pushes his hands beneath Hannibal's shirt, sliding it over Hannibal's shoulders and then tugging the sleeves down and off, leaving Hannibal entirely nude where Will is still completely dressed. Will's gaze remains locked on Hannibal's, and he makes no move to touch or kiss or begin taking his own clothes off. After a lengthy moment of silence, he reaches up with one hand, running his fingertips down the curve of Hannibal's lightly stubbled cheek.

"Will you undress me?" He says, and it's not a question, even though that's how it's posed. It's a gentle command, an entreaty, and Will's eyes don't leave Hannibal's as he awaits Hannibal's reply.

Hannibal sucks in a breath as Will's mouth finds that spot, then tilts back his head, closes his eyes, and sighs the breath out as his lover makes his mark. Hannibal doesn't see it, but he knows knows the shape of it intimately as his skin throbs from Will's attentions. Later that night he would doubtless marvel at the color of the mark, the beautiful bloom of blood beneath the skin, and for long after the bruise fades the shape of it will remain in his mind and soul.

As Will removes the rest of Hannibal's clothing, Hannibal again moves only enough to enable him. He watches his lover's every move, his eyes sparkling, a knowing smile on his face. Everything Will does, every heated breath, every denied touch, is perfect torture, and Hannibal is deeply enjoying every single moment. When Will goes still, eyes locked on Hannibal's, Hannibal's smile widens, his eyes dark, his breath heavy, his pulse fluttering in his carotid. He yearns to reach out, to grab his lover, tear his clothes off, drag him down on the bed and fuck him right there, right then. It would be glorious.

But he stays still, denies himself, because this, what they are doing together, is a million times better.

When Will touches his cheek, breaking the stillness, Hannibal closes his eyes as he takes a single, shivery breath, the simple contact releasing a rush of endorphins. He opens his eyes again, his pupils wide, dark and fathomless, and does not move to return the touch, however much he longs to. He is waiting for some sign from Will, and when Will makes his request, Hannibal's smile deepens. Without breaking his intense gaze, Hannibal lifts his hands to Will's shirt, and slowly undoes them, one by one. Once the shirt is unbuttoned, he draws it open and pulls it off Will's shoulders, down his arms, and lets it fall to the floor. Then, slowly, his eyes always on Will's, he slides to his knees and begins to unbuckle his lover's belt.

Will remembers with perfect clarity every moment he and Hannibal have shared eye contact, from the very first fleeting connections to the long, hard stare downs after Will was released from prison. The shape of their gazes has changed exponentially in the last two days, and now all the darkness that remains is built of desire, both sexual and a undeniable yen to proceed down the inevitable path their lives are taking together.

In Hannibal's eyes Will can see the raw, unmasked version of the man he now knows almost as intimately as he does himself. There's no need for guarding now, no veil between them; the hunger in Hannibal's expression is for what they are becoming, what they can be together, not for what Hannibal can take. Will isn't Hannibal's undertaking anymore, he's Hannibal's equal. They're lovers in every sense of the word, two grotesque creatures who have found beauty in their conjoining, completion in their fusion.

Before now Will had never felt particularly drawn to sex, though it was something he enjoyed when it occurred. But the action of Hannibal dropping to his knees, the expression on his face and the color of his eyes, it all twists Will's guts into tight knots of exquisite, excruciating arousal. He knows Hannibal can smell it, as keen as his senses are and as near as he is to Will's heated, throbbing groin. He hasn't forgotten where this is meant to end, but instinct is compelling Will to find solidity and friction in his lover's touch, his hands aching with the desire to grip Hannibal's hair and hold him, pull him close. He curls his hands into fists and watches, breath rushing out of him as Hannibal's graceful, powerful hands do their work, following Will's command and opening his belt, stripping him bare.

Hannibal can indeed smell Will's arousal, the sharp scent of adrenaline and the musky-sweet scent of the precum staining Will's underwear. He is also aware of the tension in Will's body as he holds himself back from, Hannibal is sure, finding satisfaction in Hannibal's mouth. The way that he clenches his fists is particularly telling, and Hannibal can see very clearly, and even feel, his lover grabbing him by the hair and yanking him forward, holding Hannibal's head in place as Will fucked his mouth mercilessly. It's an animalistic image, and Hannibal's own cock throbs with pleasure at the thought.

His eyes still looking up into Will's, he slows the motions of his hands, unbuckling Will's belt, then unbuttoning his trousers, then dragging down the zipper, all with torturous slowness, as he watches his lover's body react to desire denied. Next the shoes, the socks, then the trousers and underwear pulled down in one smooth, slow motion. Hannibal takes just a moment to sit back and look at his beautiful Will, before he moves forward, his mouth coming as close as possible to Will's cock without actually touching it with any more than heated breath. He lifts his eyes again to Will's, and raises one eyebrow, daring him to give in, either to order Hannibal to fellate him or to use those strong hands and take what he wants.

Will doesn't bother to hide what Hannibal's actions are doing to him, the deliberate way Hannibal's undressing him meant to intentionally delay and deny, to exacerbate the agony of Will's self-imposed restraint. It causes Will's breathing to go ragged, his limbs to tremble, his pulse to pound through his veins, and he knows the scent of his pheromones, his overheated blood and swollen genitals, are further letting Hannibal know the effect he's having in addition to calling out to him, gripping him and pulling him into a similar state of almost dizzying desire.

By the time he's naked Will panting heavily enough that it sounds like he's just run a marathon, and the arch of Hannibal's single brow is like a dare, a tease, one Will is not embarrassed to be inclined to give in to. His hand is shaking when he reaches out to cup Hannibal's cheek, his touch gentle despite the fire coursing through him, the urge to sink his fingertips against Hannibal's jawbone and yank him close, to press the heel of his hand into Hannibal's chin and force his mouth open wide, to grab a handful of Hannibal's hair in his other fist and shove his cock down Hannibal's throat.

Not succumbing to those desires isn't a kindness for either of them. Will knows Hannibal wants it as badly as Will does, that roughness isn't cruelty for them just as gentleness isn't compassion. But this moment is about making them true equals, about Hannibal submitting to Will completely, about Will being entirely dominant. So Will slides his fingers down to the side of Hannibal's neck, his thumb tracing Hannibal's full, pouting lips, smearing them against Hannibal's teeth before pressing past them, applying pressure so he can open Hannibal's mouth, feeling the points of Hannibal's lower incisors against the pad of his thumb. Hannibal's dark eyes are trained upward on him, waiting, daring, and Will exhales hotly as he comes to a decision.

"Suck me," he commands, his voice rough and husky as he slides his thumb from Hannibal's mouth, trailing it along Hannibal's lower lip and dragging it, damp from Hannibal's saliva, over Hannibal's chin.