Archive of Our Own ^beta

They fall, on their way to plunging into the deep water below. And all Will can feel is regret. The cold air flushes past his skin so fast it hurts, tinging the injuries on his face. Hannibal is still locked in his embrace and Hannibal's fingernails dig into his back, Will doesn’t look up. He knows that they will die, in fact he hopes for death more than anything, but there's a small chance they could live. And the thought is sickening. Where would they go? The FBI will be searching like blood-hounds for the bodies when they arrive.

The fall is fast, but it feels like eternity before their entangled bodies hit the ocean. Cold water hitting and soaking their entities. Will almost wants to choke on the water and sink to the seabed, like the Titanic, his iceberg being himself. Hannibal pulls Will as they dip below the water, tugging on Will like a dog, “Will, just a little longer.” Hannibal yells, voice drowned out by the noise of crashing waves around them.

All he can do is go limp, he loves Hannibal. But he also hates him. Together they would cause and wreak havoc, eat fine wine and consume his fellow species. The world would be a better place without William Graham and Hannibal Lecter, and he knows it.

“You got us into this, now try and get out of it.” Hannibal yells again.

Fight or flight kicks in, and Will clings to Hannibal. Grasping his hand and using the years of church swim-lessons to keep them afloat, he holds his breath everytime they are held by the throat and forced under a wave, he sees the forces of Mother Nature and can’t help but respect the exertion she is putting herself through to banish them to Hell. He can see a boat light, itching itself forward. But all goes dark as a wave comes and he puts himself in line of a rock, smacking against it. In his final moments of consciousness, all he can do is pray for death by nature and not by the hands of Hannibal Lecter.

.

“Chiyoh, please get him up.” Hannibal pleads, he isn’t sure if he's ever begged for anything in his life, one arm cradling the limp body of Professor Graham and the other against the metal ladder of the boat. With a grunt, much annoyance on her face, she hoists Will up by the arm and lays him flat on the decking. Then, with much more concern, she lifts up Hannibal. He scrambles up the ladder and holds the railing for support Chiyoh’s arm coils around his waist like a snake and brings him to the entrance of the galley, “I can do the rest, just take care of him,” He heaves, staggering down the steps and into the galley. Hannibal looks around the kitchen, lurching towards the First Aid bag and sitting down on the sofa. Water and blood trails behind him, mixing together like morbid watercolour and, now, staining his sofa. He unzips the bag which is clumsy in his hands and tears off his shirt, stitching and cleaning the wounds. It hurts, but his mind palace is a hospital of memories.

Moments later, Will is carried downstairs, “He is heavy.” Chiyoh murmurs, placing his bloodied body onto the other sofa, when she spots Hannibal cleaning his own wounds. She is enraged, “Let me do that, I don’t care if you were a surgeon,”
Will is discarded on the sofa and Hannibal becomes the newest priority.
Hannibal passes out from the pain and exhaustion.
.

Will awakes the next morning, or at least he thinks it's the next morning, with his head throbbing and fresh clothes and bandages on his body. The water is gone and replaced with a bed. His eyes ache and he wonders how he didn’t lose his vision, or his life. There is an aching for death where his heart is, and a boulder where his brain is. Will sits up, a deep shallow hiss of pain slipping through his teeth, he scans the unfamiliar settings. The wooden floors, the white walls and the bland decor. Will can hear voices, though not completely sure if they are inside of his head or real, they are muffled yet chipper. He flips the thin cotton sheet off his legs and stands up, wobbling. After a minute, he regains balance and walks on towards the voices.

“The FBI are on high radar, Hannibal, we need to be careful,” A woman says, annoyed with the antics of the Cannibal, “Going to Europe would be extremely distasteful as well as dangerous.”

Will feels sick, how the fuck did they survive? He walks closer and slows his pace, not wanting to see this sick and twisted nightmare become reality.

“I know, so perhaps Cuba? It is hot and close to where the boat is,” Hannibal says, Will can hear the coffee being sipped and then put down. This bastard, acting so smug for escaping death.

Will peers around the corner, seeing his worst reality crush him, Hannibal sat on a chair with Chiyoh opposite, as they drink coffee as if catching up about work. He thinks about his appearance and how haggard he must look. Chiyoh spots him first, staying silent and just staring. Catching her stare, Hannibal turns to face Will, “Good morning, Will. We were worried you wouldn’t wake.” Will knows Chiyoh couldn’t care less, she lives to serve and protect Hannibal Lecter. Not to care about the man who tried to kill him.

He tries to speak but the words don’t come out. He just curtly nods and walks back where he came, opening a door he walked past and going inside. He shuts the door and locks it. The bathroom is dimly lit with white towels, a sink with a cabinet mirror above it, a toilet and a shower, it's so clean it doesn’t even feel real. Will stares at his appearance in the mirror, the cut on his face is bandaged and his curls are unruly. The eyebags under his eyes are still ripe with exhaustion, he plays with the stitches on the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Wanting to rip them out and just let the pain bleed through. Hollowness reeks his body, feeling like a shell of who he is. Life with Hannibal Lecter and his puppet sounds like torture with only few scenarios of bliss being pictured in his mind.

What feels like weeks past, Will isn’t really sure of how long time has passed on this little boat. He doesn’t speak and rarely eats: it feels wrong to eat with them. Days are usually filled with waking up, getting his bandages removed and replaced, then falling asleep again. On the days he doesn’t sleep, he sits on the decking and watches the horizon - listening to Hannibal and Chiyoh, ignoring them everytime Hannibal tries to involve him in the conversation. It's a sad existence, but it's one he is comfortable living.
“We will arrive in Cuba tomorrow Will,” Hannibal says, his bed being next to his and the only barrier being a nightstand, Will has gotten used to this - Hannibal talking to him like a silent beg for a response, “I only hope for you to speak when we arrive at our new home.” The light clicks off and everything goes quiet. For some reason that sentence doesn’t stir right, it penetrates the new fortress built in Wills mind and settles into the throne.

“Goodnight, Hannibal.” Will whispers, it's the first word he's spoken since waking up and his voice is gruff and hoarse. It doesn’t sound like he remembers at all.

“Goodnight, dear Will.”

.

Chiyoh opens the front door of Will and Hannibals new home, the ride here was hellish. With Hannibal and Chiyoh bickering like siblings over navigation and Will unable to sleep in the back seat. The house had big, high ceilings and the decorum of Hannibal Lecter. It’s the embodiment of wealth and upper-class taste, with views of the sea and inside a gated community of other smug, rich people.

“Go find a bedroom, Will.” Hannibal smiles, god how Will wants to smash that smile into the floor but he cannot. He nods, grabs the belongings Chiyoh collected from his house before saving them and heads upstairs. The mahogany bannister is smooth beneath his fingers, and the tiled stairs are weirdly comforting. He reaches the top and looks around the hallway, paintings line the wall and a long rug connects each door to the outside. He needs a small space, but there's a slim chance he’ll find one here. Will opens one of the doors and looks inside, it is a massive bedroom with a four-poster bed and a chest of drawers and a desk under the window. He shakes his head, despite being unclaimed by him, that's Hannibal’s room. Will shuts the door and stands in the hallway, opening another door. It's the bathroom; there's a big tub and shower, even the toilet and sink look out of his tax bracket. He shuts the door and heads for the room at the end of the hallway, ignoring the other two doors. This one calls to him, and a door at the end of the hall means being further from sleeping near a cannibal.

Will opens the door and is actually happy with what he sees, a four-poster bed, a wardrobe and a desk is all that fits in the room. It's small but big enough to think without becoming overwhelmed. Will plants his luggage on the bed and sits down, thinking over this new chapter in his life. It would’ve been easier if they had died. That's the looming thought in his mind, other thoughts consist of Molly and Walter. Winston and the others. How he betrayed them, how his lifelines are now dead and desolate in his future.

To take his mind off them, he begins to unpack his clothes and things. Chiyoh managed to get his underwear, socks, sleep-wear and fishing things. But everything else, other than a pair of cargo shorts and shoes, look brand new. More suitable and acclimated to the weather conditions, he also finds a journal. Leather with his initials on the spine, there’s a pen gripped to the strap binding the book together, he opens the journal and sees its already been written in:

‘Dear Will,
Write in here what you wish to say to others but keep to yourself. Life is hard, but life without speaking is harder.

Chiyoh’