Yearn | Hannigram

carnage

Hannibal was well aware his fascination, or obsession, with Will Graham would be his demise. He had always prided himself on his commitment to self preservation but Will had very quickly stripped him of that. The younger man made Hannibal weak, made him stick his neck where it did not belong, risking his own capture along with many other things. 

He was too far gone now, Will Graham would live in his heart until the day Hannibal died. This was solidified a few nights ago. That beautiful, snowy night. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Randall was no match for Will. Even with a suit made of teeth and bone of the words most ferocious creatures, Will killed him without any weapon needed. Just his hands. That's how he'd kill Hannibal 'with my hands'  that's what Will said. That affirmation made Hannibal's spine chill. His life has filled Hannibal's empty hope with the desire for the mind of his one true match; or rival however it may end. Either way, Will would either fill a void in Hannibal or make the emptiness a thousand times more painful should they be separated, should this all not end in Hannibal's favor. 

     Acknowledging that, Hannibal is slightly horrified at the thought. To save Will he'd do most anything, including giving up everything he's become. But what Hannibal truly yearns for, is Will's true becoming. His pious transformation into that dog-toothed vigilante he sees in mirrors during his dreams. The beast that is hungry for warm, righteous blood. Hannibal spends too much time thinking about it, the way that dark wine looks splattered over his pale skin. The way his ocean eyes go dark when his brain enters another's, where he is the puppeteer of serial murders. Of Hannibal's murders, for the record. 

     Oh and that thought sends shivers down his spine. Will has been so intimate with Hannibal's work, it was evident his intelligence couldn't be deluded by Hannibal's expert manipulation. How beautiful, how unique Will Graham's mind. The overflowing empathy but the aversion to emotional intimacy. He was the opposite to Hannibal entirely, but they were alike in one dangerous way. They had hearts and minds plagued in the same darkness; sickness from seeing rotting bodies, dreaming of the morose, believing themselves to be damned. 

     Hannibal shook his head, pouring a glass of red wine for himself and bringing it out to his balcony to be accompanied with a smoke. His heightened senses rarely allowed him to indulge in cigarettes, but one of his finest cigars was nothing but a delight to his trained nose. It also calmed his nerves about he and Will's session. 

     Hannibal had a horrible fear that the younger man would drop therapy, freak out and run away and that Hannibal would have to go explore much more extreme efforts to dig into the pits of Will's mind. That would be a shame, Hannibal quite liked being given broken pieces and trying to put them back together. Each conversation with will was a bloody, battered puzzle piece. This was the most fun Hannibal has had in years. 

     After finishing off the wine, he took a shower and hoped the hot water would clean his skin of the itch Will left behind on him. The insufferable sweet ache of unknowing.

-

Will was hungry but could not eat. He was dehydrated but water seemed to hold some type of fire within. Mortal need, sleeping, eating, anything, seemed fruitless. His mind took hold of everything, leaving him scrawny and dizzy with thoughts of blood. The impeding force of Hannibal Lecter skewed life itself. Will belonged to him now. No matter how hard he tried to deny it, no matter how many times he tried to think his way out of the psychological playground his own brain had become, Hannibal would never leave him. He was stained with an uncomfortable, carnage filled love affair that could only end in death.

      When he woke, a pounding headache from the horribly predictable hangover had taken over those dark thoughts. He drug that starving corpse to the medicine cabinet, filling his empty stomach with aspirin and coffee. 

      The day was dull, he had a cigarette while tossing toys to his dogs in the lawn, took five showers in some feeble attempt to wash that stain away. 

      The water was hot on his skin and he felt antlers hanging over his head and that black figure stood so close to him in the tub he felt like he would be impaled on the prongs. His hands seemed to creep downward. There was nothing but shame in his heart as he jacked off, looking into those cataract eyes of the demon he knew Hannibal to be. Into the eyes of the Chesapeake ripper. He didn't know why, but he came in seconds as he thought of Hannibal's soft but strong hands on his skin. He heaved an empty stomach onto the linoleum tub, in shame or sickness he was not sure. 

     The nausea followed him throughout the morning and into the halls of the FBI. It kept his eyes lidded and his mind in that dark stream. 

     As Jack and Beverly discussed the mutilations of Randall Tier, and Will remembered the feeling of skin stretching beneath his gloved fingertips, Hannibal's dark eyes watching him, leering over him with dark prongs and hunger. 

      Was his empathy expanding as far as putting himself in the crossfire of the  Chesapeake Ripper? Or more accurately, under his scalpel and dark gaze. His imagination seemed especially vivid since he had seen the black figure of the horned man in place of Randall. Since he beat the beast to death with his hands. 

      Will stumbled into the bathroom, sweaty and disoriented as he let the cold water from the faucet drain over his head. He couldn't stop the burning sensation under his skin, the guilt. He ran to the stalls and heaved up the breakfast he didn't have.

      As his headache spiraled into a migraine, he heard heavy footsteps on the linoleum floors. The steps faded until a deep voice called out his name. "Will?"

     Jack pushed the door open to find Will curled by the toilet, eyes squeezed shut like a child trying to wake up from a nightmare. He knelt down, "Will are you okay?"

     Will forced his eyes open and the fluorescents were so bright his head wouldn't let up, he nodded regardless. "I'm okay just...got sick." Will didn't bother to attempt to sound believable, he just forced himself to his feet and flushed. 

     "You should go home."

     "Is everything alright?" Will's blood froze as another voice joined the choir of ringing in his ears. But this one seemed to deafen all the other sounds.

     "Dr.Lecter, why yes I'm all good here but Graham is feeling under the weather so I think he deserves a day off." Jack smiled.

     "Will, if you're ill he shouldn't be driving." Hannibal played the concerned colleague, empathetic psychiatrist, trusted friend, all too well. "Why don't you let me drive you? I was just on my way out, it would be no trouble at all." 

     Of course it wouldn't.