Black turns to red.
Will remembers the first time he truly saw — how cold, dark blood gleams under the moonlight, and how it now trickles with obscene amounts of heat onto the freshly fallen snow.
There's no electronics or source of lighting within this room. Nothing he's identified in this abandoned, bleak shamble of a cabin since they entered. Hannibal sets down a flickering tea-candle beside the nightstand, pulling off his duffle coat and glancing out the heavily frosted window nearby.
"I don't believe we will be leaving in this storm," he announces, to the nothingness or to Will. (Does it matter anymore? Aren't they both one and the same at this point?)
Will's fingertips rub together, his flesh pressing down sticky and crimson-red.
"There's nowhere to leave to anyway," Will murmurs. He hovers the same fingertips to the little glow-flame of the candle, wishing for the deeper, uglier pain than the burn.
His victim's blood peels and flakes away, revealing Will's visibly flushed, raw skin.
They've been running a while. (A couple of months? He's unsure.) Time gets decayed in the adrenaline and in lust for becoming. Will thinks of his dogs, of Molly and Walter, and is reassured by his lack of grief towards their absence in his life. They are all better off without him, if he's completely honest about it.
Death has visited below the mountains, within the lakeside village of Hallstatt, Austria. They cry and shudder, bolting their windows shut and clutching onto their loved ones.
The moonlight frames Hannibal's severe, stern profile, before he kneels to Will, examining and lifting Will's fingers. Hannibal's lips feel warm and spit-sticky, unlike the drying, old blood. His mouth sucks lightly around Will's forefinger, the ridge of his teeth scraping to Will's bruised knuckle.
"Is it tasty?" Will asks, in a low, throaty voice. He smirks halfhearted at his companion's following laugh, as it rumbles out of Hannibal's chest, and as it echoes briefly against the surface of Will's mouth.
He's never kissed Will, but sometimes… sometimes would a nice thought.
"Rest assured, I have no interest in consuming your fingers, Will." Hannibal looks up fondly, stroking his thumb over the pinkened, scarred line over Will's forehead. "Or any part of you."
For now drifts like snowfall and transforms, blackened and clumped into a layer of volcanic ashes.
They'll destroy each other by the end of it.
He can see that now.
NBC Hannibal is not mine. So glove23 (on Tumblr) and I decided to lay the "challenge each other to write" game! We decided on Hannigram for the pairing and she gave me the option of using "we got snowed into our cabin with no cell or internet service" prompt AND/or "bedsharing" trope. I went with the first one! I was gonna combine both, but it didn't end up working out. Hope any Hannigram fans stumble on this and enjoy! Thoughts/comments appreciated!