The Linoleum Twist

Sleep like the Dead

Will had looked magnificent in his plain boxers and wet hair, nervously glancing in his direction as he climbed into bed. Hannibal's own pyjamas were silky dark crimson, matching the bedding quite well. He hadn't planned to sleep with Will, to feel connected with this injured lost soul but after so many weeks of internal debate, he knew one thing for sure; one couldn't help with whom they fell in love with.
The only question left was... did Will feel the same way?

Hannibal hated depending on anyone other than himself, hated feeling this vulnerable. For a while he had wondered to himself whether or not to kill Will Graham in order to free himself of these emotions. But he couldn't make himself do it, the empath's mere existence in Hannibal's life had him more content than ever. All that was left to do, was to seduce Will into loving him back, manipulate empathy to understand Hannibal's twisted desires, to make him appreciate his work. If Graham's moral standards were set too high, then he would have to expose him to a controlled amount of violence in order to provoke the same instinctual reaction Hannibal had. Only then could William truly accept his ways: By becoming a part of his design. 

It was surprising that Will had asked Hannibal to spend the night in the same bed, and adorable that Will was anxious about it, nervously avoiding all eye contact as they lay side by side. Hannibal was sitting up, reading a book on poetry and respectfully keeping his distance. If Will wanted to be intimate, that was his choice to make, and judging by the softening breathing, the empath seemed to be becoming more comfortable with just lying by Hannibal's side. He felt Will shuffle closer, pressing his forehead slightly into Hannibal's side, warm, gentle.
"Could you read one of your poems out loud?" Hannibal turned a page to a poem to suite the occasion, a poem called 'The Sleeper'. 
"At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quite mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave:
Wrapping the fog about it's breast, 
The moulders into rest."
He knew his choice in poetry was wise when Will responded with a drowsy,
"It's beautiful. Edgar Allen Poe? I used to love his poetry... I couldn't always appreciate the written arts as a kid, but something about his work, spoke to me." Hannibal wasn't surprised.
"He used to suffer from depression, took it out on poetry, literature. Would you like me to read out another?" A glance down showed Will with his eyes half open, curls drying and in all directions. 
"Yes..." Will mumbled under his breath, moving closer onto Hannibal. So that's what he did, reading passages from Poe's poems until William had long fell into a deep sleep, Hannibal sinking into the covers to join. With Will's head lying on his chest, he filled with contempt, a warm sensation of joy before drifting off himself.

    *       *       *

Staring. He could feel staring at him. 
It took less than a second for Hannibal to sit right up, a hand under his pillow clutching a hidden knife, looking wildly at the doorway. In the early light of dawn, he could make out a pale figure covered in red, wavering. It was Will, eyes glassy and zoned out, sweat gleaming off his fine body with droplets of blood running down his face. Hannibal blinked. Sleepwalking. William must be sleepwalking.
He knew that Will's mental condition was bad but didn't anticipate sleepwalking. Who's blood was that covering his floor? Gliding towards Will, he looked closer at the wound his hospital had been carefully monitoring the nights before; no tears in the stitching. Good, so William wasn't injured. Careful not to awake the sleepwalker, Hannibal avoided touching Will, only moving passed the stupefied man to follow a trail of bloody footprints down the stairs. Dread isn't exactly an emotion he could feel; anticipation was the right word to describe it. As he walked on down the trail, he realized that his secret basement door was wide open. Now, he was feeling dread. How was this door discovered?