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the-rad-pineapple · 4 months

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a love to die for (hannigram fic)

Hannibal contracts Hanahaki Disease in season one due to his feelings for Will. Believing no one can love a monster like himself, he tries to hide it. He’s resigned himself to death since he can see no other outcome. But Will can.

Or: Hannibal gets Hanahaki Disease and freaks out (he doesn’t think he’s freaking out).

ao3

words: 7.6k

Of course it's roses, Hannibal thinks to himself. They're regal and timeless. Beautiful, yet they can draw blood if one isn't careful enough. They're ironic and showy. They're a lot like him in many ways.

No other flower is so universally known as a symbol for romantic affection than the red rose. This is the flower people think of when they think of romance. When they want it to be obvious it's romance. If Hannibal was anyone else, he might think it fitting. Amusing, even. But Hannibal isn't anyone else. He isn't anything normal or commonplace—his first real inconsistency with the rose. And, since Hannibal is anything but regular, he never thought this would happen to him. He never thought it was possible that this could happen to him. The irony.

There's blood in his immaculate bathroom sink that perfectly matches the shade of the wet rose petals beside it. His doctor's mind took over the second he saw the red liquid dotting his sink, and his only thought was: It's far too soon for blood. And then he saw the rose with its small stem and knew it had to be the sizable thorns on the plant causing all the blood. His doctor's mind continues to work, despite the impossibility of this disease existing within Hannibal, and it reminds him that roses are one of the deadlier strains of the disease due to their thorns.

The disease. Hanahaki Disease.

It's an extremely rare condition. Hannibal had only seen it twice in his time as a surgeon. Since he primarily worked in the ER, Hannibal never operated on a patient with Hanahaki Disease himself, but he sat in on a couple operations. It's an extremely delicate and unpredictable surgery. Only one of the two patients Hannibal had seen survived. Survival rates decrease as age increases, and Hannibal wouldn't call himself young. His survival rate is well below thirty percent if he were to have the surgery to remove the roses in his lungs now. But he's getting ahead of himself. The disease is hardly anything alarming now. He can overcome this. This is simply another obstacle he'll surpass.

Hannibal pointedly does not give more thought on the topic. He does not bother asking how or when or who; it will be over soon enough. It's the lie he gets away with for a little over a week before he wakes up choking on petals.

Hannibal wakes up and finds his body in complete panic. He's covered in sweat so thick his hair is sticking to his forehead. He can hear himself desperately trying to suck in more air in loud, useless gulps. His adrenaline roars in his ears and sends unnecessary strength to the fingers he has fisted in his silk sheets. He breathes in another ragged breath, but his throat clogs completely. He's racing towards the bathroom before he's made the decision to move. He is not in control of himself. The panic worsens and turns his blood to ice. He is afraid. He is out of control and afraid. Two things he swore he'd never be again.

Hannibal forces himself to vomit into the toilet. It takes him three tries before the petals fall and he can breathe again. All he does for a few minutes is breathe and slowly regain control of himself. Once his mind has left its panicked state, he notices the blood and red petals that fill the toilet. They swirl together in the water, their matching colors oddly picturesque. Hannibal immediately flushes them away with a shaking hand before he can find them beautiful. He fears it might be too late.

Hannibal catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and is struck paralyzed. He almost doesn't recognize himself. His hair is in utter disarray, dried tears he hadn't felt cling to his cheeks, and his face is flushed nearly the same color as the roses. Blood lines his lips.

Afraid and out of control.

He's denied it, until now. The cause of his disease. But Hannibal knows. The answer isn't as far away as he thought he put it, but he knows who's at fault. It's a shame, really. Hannibal had had plans for Will. He'd had plans for himself involving Will, such as Will becoming the scapegoat for his crimes. But he'll be able to find a replacement soon enough. For now, he must deal with Will Graham.

~~~~

Their lives are intertwined enough that Hannibal knows Will's schedule. Or, rather, since Will's schedule is so unpredictable, Hannibal knows the rare moments when Will is at home. Like he is now. Sleeping innocently in the bed he thought putting in the main living room of his house was a sensible place for. Will's dogs know Hannibal, so all he received upon his entrance was a few curious looks. He can feel a few of the dogs still staring at him, but they've become accustomed to his presence at Will's bedside enough that they don't react.

Hannibal looms over Will in front of the window, so the moonlight illuminates Will's sleeping form. He looks young and at ease in a way he never is when he's awake. Dark curls are splayed against his white pillow, and his lips are slightly parted. His face is relaxed and soft. Youthful. Will's somehow tangled himself in his various sheets and blankets, and they're woven around his body. They hardly cover him, and his shirt has ridden up to show off a delicious stripe of skin all along the side nearest Hannibal. Will's skin looks porcelain white and fragile in the pale moonlight. Hannibal is close enough he can touch. So he does.

Hannibal places the fingertips of his right hand delicately on Will's bare side. His skin is hot but soft. Hannibal needs more, but he withdraws despite his desires. A quiet, helpless sound—nearly a whimper—escapes Will's lips, and he tosses his head to face Hannibal. Hannibal holds his breath and remains completely still.

Will continues to sleep, now with his angelic face pointed towards Hannibal. And, oh, what he'd do to kiss that face. Hannibal is certain Will's never been kissed gently. How he yearns to be the first one to give him that gentleness. He'd ruin the boy for anyone else. He'd claim him through softness, reliability, and loyalty. Will would never willingly be with anyone else after the way Hannibal would take care of him.

Hannibal's lungs suddenly catch, and he has to fight off a coughing fit by holding his breath for a moment and breathing shallowly afterwards. He swallows and blinks back reactionary tears once he's regained control. It's a brutal reminder of what he's come here to do.

Hannibal had considered one of his kitchen knives or his favorite scalpel for this, but in the end, he decided to use his hands. The nature of his disease requires him to kill Will as intimately as possible.

With the practiced, smooth movements akin to a big cat, Hannibal gets onto the bed, his knees resting on either side of Will's torso. He doesn't touch Will, not yet. For now he hovers, just above the sleeping man, and watches.

Hannibal can feel Will's body heat between his legs. His right leg nearly touches Will's bare side, and Hannibal can't help himself as he ghosts his fingers down Will's skin once more. His touch is reverent. Worshipful. He wants to sink his claws into the flawless skin and claim. But his immaculate self-control wins again, and he pulls his hand away. Will makes another one of those almost-whimpers. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, and a worried crinkle forms between his brow.

"Shhh, Will," Hannibal finds himself whispering, and, as if by magic, Will's face clears again into soft tranquility.

There is nothing and there will be nothing as beautiful as this creature beneath Hannibal right now.

Hannibal delicately brushes an unruly curl off Will's forehead. He's so beautiful it hurts. The tip of Hannibal's finger softly runs down Will's forehead, down his cheek, over his chewed lip, and down to his neck. He's so vulnerable. So open like this. So unaware. Nearly innocent. His right hand covers Will's throat—barely any pressure is applied—but it's enough for Hannibal to feel Will's soft, warm skin. His steady pulse. It beats in time to the peaceful rise and fall of his chest between Hannibal's legs.

It's the most intimate moment in the entirety of Hannibal's life.

~~~~

It is a bit jarring, finding himself unable to kill Will. Even more so that he couldn't do it to save his own life. It's against everything he is. What's even worse is he wouldn't even know why he's acting this way if he wasn't suffocating on rose petals. He had no idea he could even feel like this. It should be exciting and novel. Instead, it's stupidly terrifying.

But Hannibal refuses to be governed by fear and failure, so he presses on. Besides, how long can this truly last? His feelings for Will can't be anything but a temporary fascination. He's even willing to admit he's obsessed. Infatuated. He won't lie and say he hasn't thought about Will in his bed. Perhaps he simply needs to be fulfilled sexually, and his obsession with Will Graham will fade back into morbid curiosity.

But…even after nearly a week of flirtation and a night in bed with Alana Bloom, his feelings for Will haven't faded. It almost seems like the opposite has occurred. Guilt and shame are two emotions Hannibal hardly ever feels now; they're something he left in his youth. Or so he thought. After his night with Alana, Hannibal feels dirty and wrong. Unbalanced. Guilty. His edges are rough and uneven, and he struggles to stretch his person-suit around his new ill-fitting shape. It's absolutely horrible.

It also doesn't help that the disease has progressed. He nearly had to stop during intercourse with Alana to catch his breath. It's utterly embarrassing. Embarrassment is another emotion he thought he'd left behind.

He tries to purge Will from his mind and thoughts, but it only seems to cause him to think of Will even more. He tries locking Will away in the depths of his mind palace like he does with all unpleasant and unwanted thoughts and desires. It doesn't work. Will always manages to escape, and Hannibal has no idea how. His mind often conjures up the image of Will asleep and beautiful and completely at peace on the night Hannibal had intended to kill him. He can't help but marvel at such beauty, even just the memory of it. It's torture, but Hannnibal can't seem to help himself, and his thoughts always drift back to Will. He's struggling, and for the first time in his life, Hannibal isn't quite sure what to do about it.

He's with Will now in one of their not-quite-therapy-but-just-conversation sessions. Hannibal used to derive such joy from these sessions, but now it's become a constant battle to reign in his feelings and keep himself from coughing. The last person Hannibal ever wants to know about his predicament is Will.

"So," Will says from his seat across from Hannibal, "you and Alana."

Neither of them had told anyone. Of course his clever boy had figured it out. …Hannibal really needs to stop internally calling Will his. Things like that are why he's choking on roses.

With a practiced nonchalance, Hannibal replies, "Does it surprise you?"

"No," is the immediate response, then a beat later, "Yes."

"Why? Alana and I have known each other for years. We enjoy similar hobbies and topics of conversation. It only makes sense we are compatible on a physical level as well."

"I know, I just…" Will trails off. He shrugs his shoulders in a jerky movement. "I don't know. It's none of my business anyway."

Will clearly has thoughts on the matter, but he's shutting himself away. Hannibal won't have it. In a softer tone, Hannibal says, "It's alright, Will. We are friends, are we not? Surely, we can speak about our personal lives together."

"Yeah, I guess. I…" He hesitates again. He shifts and refuses to meet Hannibal's eyes. "It feels…sudden to me. Out of the blue."

"Out of the blue," Hannibal echoes.

"Yeah. Random."

It was. It was nothing more than a response to how he feels about Will. There's no point in denying it. "And that bothers you?" Hannibal questions.

Will doesn't answer. His eyes wander the room, snagging on different pieces of decor. Hannibal thinks he won't answer, but then his eyes suddenly catch Hannibal's, and Hannibal knows no detail will go unnoticed. What is his boy planning? Hannibal is helpless as a dangerous thrill runs up his spine. One of the many, many things Hannibal enjoys about Will is his unpredictability.

Gazes locked, Will asks, "Did you enjoy it?"

Hannibal contains his pleasant surprise under his mask of neutrality. He wants to see if he can push Will further. He wants to see if he can get Will to ask him outright.

"Enjoy what?" asks Hannibal.

"Sex with Alana."

Hannibal is thrown back into the sensation of being buried deep within her, suffocatingly close to her, as he struggles to breathe past blood-red rose petals climbing up his throat. The thorns scratch and tear at his throat as he tries to keep a steady rhythm. It all tasted like blood, which should have made things more erotic for him since he's always secretly enjoyed a bit of roughness in sex, but all it did was remind him of his inadequacies. He remembers being grateful for how well he can craft a mask and keep wearing it. He remembers struggling to bring her pleasure, something he's never had trouble doing before, because he couldn't catch his breath like some sort of inattentive, lazy lover. He never reached completion himself. He had to fake it, which was another first for him.

Oh, how far he's fallen for Will.

"Damn," Will says quietly, jolting Hannibal back to the present, "that bad?"

Hannibal didn't think he'd given anything away, but of course Will noticed. His brilliant boy.

Hannibal replies, "Mediocracy isn't bad."

Will raises his eyebrows in disbelief, but there's a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "Did you just call Alana mediocre in bed?"

"You seem to be enjoying this quite a bit."

Will immediately blushes a pretty pink and looks down. "You're just so…I don't know. Untouchable. It almost doesn't seem real that you'd sleep with someone."

"I am human, Will."

Will looks up again at that. He smiles something soft and lovely. A smile that Hannibal has only seen directed at himself. He cherishes it every time he sees it.

But that smile is deadly, and Hannibal is reminded of it when a familiar twinge tickles his throat. His chest feels heavy. Full. Like it's a tangled mess. Hannibal logically knows it can't be that bad yet, but he feels as if his lungs are weighed down. He easily slips on a mask of neutrality to hide his discomfort, but he thinks Will notices because he stops smiling and begins talking about the case Jack's thrown him into.

~~~~

Will has a fever. Hannibal can smell its sickly sweetness on him. He can feel the heat of it when he's near him. Will speaks of vivid nightmares and constant headaches. It's encephalitis. It must be. It's early in its stages. If Hannibal thought he'd see the result of it, he'd let it fester within Will for longer. See what it would do to a mind so reluctant to accept its own darkness. But Hannibal doesn't think he has the time.

The Hanahaki Disease has worsened. He coughs often and has been able to play it off as a cold, but it's coming up on two weeks of his so-called cold, and patients and colleagues alike have asked if he should see a doctor since his cold is hanging on for so long. All of his handkerchiefs come away bloody. The rose thorns have all but shredded his throat, and it's becoming too painful to eat sometimes. He'll begin losing weight if he hasn't already.

He can deny it no further. He cannot fight it any longer.

Hannibal is completely, unconditionally, and eternally in love with Will.

The irony of his demise makes him want to howl and bite and claw in frustration. He has become undone from something as cruel and simple as love. It is pathetic. But it is also inevitable. His time left is exponentially decreasing. Anything he's ever wanted to do, he'll have to do within the upcoming months. He wants to visit Florence one more time, and his heart aches because he doesn't know if he will be healthy enough to make the trip once he's tied up his affairs in Baltimore. Hannibal has no doubts that he won't see the next year. It is all ending for him. He only has a few hunts left in him, but he's only planning on one more. A tribute to Will.

His love.

His undoing.

His impossibility.

It's probably wise this hunt is his last. Hannibal struggles up the stairs of his own home and has been attacked by unexpected coughing fits more and more recently. It was completely humiliating when he could hardly get back in control of himself after a coughing fit during one of Franklyn's sessions that Franklyn decided to end it early for the sake of Hannibal's own health. Franklyn may be desperate and a bit obtuse, but Hannibal won't forget this politeness.

Hannibal wants to make a bouquet of his roses and place them in his design for Will, but they're covered in his blood and saliva, and Hannibal would prefer his last months to be as a free man. He'll just have to make do with the ones he bought to mirror his own.

It's night now. Dark. Hushed and sleepy. It's the world he belongs in. His hunt is tonight. Hannibal had sent Will off to the hospital with Alana that morning to Dr. Sutcliff. Hannibal had told Sutcliff to search for encephalitis, and Sutcliff promised he would. Alana had been texting him updates. Will's receiving the treatment he needs. However, getting Will to a hospital today was not a completely selfless decision. Will is likely to be in the hospital for a few days, allowing Hannibal to leave his design behind for lesser minds to sift through. Hannibal is afraid Will would deconstruct his design too quickly. That he'll see Hannibal in the design too soon. Ideally, Will is going to put it together once Hannibal is on his deathbed. By then, he will look ill and helpless, and he's counting on that to be the reason Will is kind to him in the little time he has left before he dies. He hopes Will is going to refuse to lock him up for his remaining days. He believes he can pull it off, but Will is unpredictable—his actions entirely his own—despite Hannibal's manipulations. Hannibal loves him for it.

It was difficult to find a pig that resembles Will for many reasons. The first and most obvious being Will is unique. There is no one like him. He is a star amongst the inky blackness of space while all other people are moons. It's impossible to copy perfection, so Hannibal doesn't try. He merely finds someone who has similar physical traits as Will. A head full of dark curls (this one's is a lighter brown than Will's) with a beard, blue eyes (the shade is all wrong on the one Hannibal found), and a slender yet strong build (it's not quite the same, too much meat in certain areas, but it's close). Hardly perfect. A poor substitute. But it will be clear to Will who it's supposed to be, and that's all that matters.

Hannibal found the man in West Virginia. He's a factory worker with no family and even less friends. Hannibal comes for him on Friday, knowing he won't be missed until Monday. Hannibal waits until the man is home and a few drinks in before slipping in through the door of his apartment, the lock easily picked. Hannibal is quick and quiet, and the man hardly knew what was happening by the time Hannibal had reached him and had his hands around his neck. He'd come from behind and snapped his neck while he was still in his recliner, a trashy reality tv show continuing to play.

Apparently, a simple snap of the neck is too much exertion now, and Hannibal's lungs catch, sending him into a coughing fit while he still stands behind the recliner housing the corpse. He had the mind to bring disposable face masks like the ones he used to wear as a surgeon in case a coughing fit occurred, and he'd have to prevent himself from spewing his DNA all over a crime scene. He's thankful for his foresight now as he tucks away the bloody mask and pulls on a fresh one. Hannibal refuses to get sloppy now, even if it's his last kill. They will not find any trace of his DNA here.

Transporting the body is another matter entirely. Hannibal should be able to wrap it in something and simply carry it out the door, down the stairs, and into his car, but he doesn't have the stamina now with the disease running rampant in his lungs. He'd debated and thought and remade his design a dozen times or more, but he'd come to the realistic conclusion that it won't be to his liking. What he wants and what he's physically able to do are two separate realities.

Hannibal shoves the body by the shoulders, and it falls to the floor. The thump isn't as loud as he thought it'd be, and his fear of nosy neighbors decreases somewhat. The action nearly sends him into another coughing fit, but he holds his breath for a few moments before breathing shallowly again. If only part of his lungs get air, they catch on the roses less, preventing him from feeling like he has to cough as badly. He's nearly mastered shallow breathing.

Once he can breathe smoothly and his adrenaline has somewhat faded, Hannibal rounds the recliner, bends down and grasps the corpse by the ankles, and drags it across the floor into the hallway. He'd looked up the floor plans for this apartment complex before his hunt, and drags the body towards the bedroom. His lungs catch. They catch again, and his breath hitches. He slowly stands and breathes shallowly for another few moments before bending down and dragging the corpse into the bedroom.

Hannibal has to take a second break to regulate his breathing before he lifts the corpse onto the bed, but the action is enough to cause him to begin coughing again. Thorns catch and tear his throat. His eyes fill with reactionary tears. He wonders about the state of his lungs. His throat and mouth are raw and bleeding. The taste of blood never leaves his mouth.

Once he finally ceases coughing, he wraps the blood and spit and plant residue in his mask and tucks it away next to the other one. He pulls out another fresh mask along with his scalpel. It's time for the next part in his design.

It's a surgery he's performed more times post-mortem than when he was an actual surgeon. It takes time, but it isn't too physically taxing, so he removes the lungs almost like he normally does. He only has one coughing fit during the surgery.

Hannibal brings the removed lungs to the ice chest he brought and left on the kitchen counter. He then returns to the bedroom to arrange the corpse and double-check he's left no evidence. It goes as expected, and Hannibal leaves the apartment as smoothly and quietly as a ghost.

Hannibal's energy is fading him, so he has to store the lungs and get some sleep before he can finish his design. After his nap and a small meal (it's become too painful to eat full meals), Hannibal takes his purchased bouquet of red roses and brings them to where he'd stored the lungs in his hidden basement. It takes him over two hours to weave the flowers into the lungs, but when he's finished, he's satisfied with the outcome. He wishes he had the strength to display this within the body, but he doesn't, and he won't allow himself to dwell on things he cannot achieve anymore.

It's nearly morning now, so Hannibal stores his flowered lungs and goes about his day as usual. He returns Franklyn's favor of politeness from earlier by referring him to another psychiatrist he believes will actually help him, ensuring Franklyn will have at least one stable aspect in his life once Hannibal is gone. Will is still in the hospital, and Hannibal is not risking stepping foot in any medical facility in case someone happens to correctly diagnose him. There is less light in his life without seeing Will, but it's a sacrifice he has to make.

It's odd living his life with an air of finality when no one else is.

Long after night falls, he drives down to a small state park near Wolf Trap and lays the lungs on an elevated group of rocks off the side of a busy trail. Hannibal takes a moment to relish in his design as he always does. The lungs rest unassumingly on the dark rocks. The roses are much darker than the light pink meat. Their thorny vines are woven in the soft flesh, and the plant really does look mightier than the lungs. It's no surprise Hannibal feels as horribly as he does. The moonlight illuminates his work beautifully, but Hannibal knows it will look better in the light of day. He closes his eyes and indulges in the small fantasy of Will seeing his creation and grinning in that rare but stunning way Hannibal has only seen him do three times. He allows the image to hang in his mind for a moment more before he makes his escape.

Hannibal has a spare car and many counterfeit license plates he switches on his spare car often. He typically uses this car for his….extracurricular activities. It's not one he'd like to drive. It's used, and the vents always rattle whenever the AC is on, but it serves its purpose, and for that Hannibal appreciates it. He parked the car at the nearest gas station to the trail. The place is rundown and rotting. Hannibal wouldn't even attempt to buy gas from this place, but there isn't a security camera in sight, and the clerk attending the store looks like he's seen enough to know not to ask questions and play dumb if questioned.

Hannibal gets into his spare car and begins his drive back to the property he stores it at. The night still feels young, and the dark sky feels like a protective blanket. His soul feels as if it's singing as he enjoys the serenity of the night and the satisfaction of a completed hunt. There is no doubt in his mind that this is his purpose.

Hannibal is only about ten minutes into his peaceful drive when his phone rings. He intends to let it ring and go to voicemail as an alibi to prove he was asleep, but when he glances at it and sees Will's name flashing on the screen, he doesn't hesitate to answer it. He won't deny the sense of worry that zips through him at wondering what Will could be calling about at this hour.

"Hello, Will."

"You sound awfully awake for," there's a slight pause, "3:43am."

It's been far too long since Hannibal has heard Will's voice, and he suddenly misses him even more. He hasn't seen Will since before he was admitted to the hospital for his encephalitis. Hannibal's heart feels like an aching hole in his chest.

Hannibal replies, "As do you." He hates how audible the smile in his voice is. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I am, actually. I've been asleep most of the time, but I woke up around midnight and couldn't go back to sleep. I, uh…I didn't think you'd pick up."

"I'll always answer for you, Will."

There's a ghost of an embarrassed chuckle on the other line. "And, uh, same for you too. I'll always pick up if you need me."

It shouldn't make Hannibal as elated as he feels. "Thank you." It's far too sincere for what Will told him.

"Are you…" Will falls silent.

"Am I what?"

"Are you okay?"

The question surprises him so thoroughly he blinks blankly at the road for a couple seconds. "Yes, of course I am. Why do you ask?"

"You just seem…off lately."

No one else has even noticed a thing outside his "cold". He isn't sure how to feel about Will knowing he isn't completely alright and then asking him about it out of a place of concern. It's a strange and unfamiliar sensation—being cared for and noticed like this—but it's utterly addicting. His heart flutters in his chest. He must know what Will sees, so he asks,

"How so?"

"Well…you know I feel like the thing with Alana was totally random." Will hesitates but eventually continues, "And you haven't come to see me." He says it quietly. Almost shyly. As if he thinks Hannibal might suddenly dislike him. "And I heard you referred a patient."

Hannibal can't explain to Will the reason for sleeping with Alana and avoiding him without revealing everything, so he deflects by smoothly answering, "Franklyn was far too invested in his relationship with me that it took away from his therapy."

Will doesn't speak for a few moments. "Do you still have that cold?"

Hannibal isn't sure what conclusions Will is making. He isn't sure if he's giving away anything when he speaks. Hannibal has no idea what Will could possibly be thinking. He never has to worry about this with anyone else. It's equally exciting and nerve-wracking. It's self-destructive to want Will's attention like this, but Hannibal doesn't have a lot left to lose. So he answers,

"Yes."

"Have you had a doctor check you out?"

"I am a doctor."

Will laughs something soft and quiet. "Yeah, smartass, I know you're a doctor, but maybe you should have a second opinion. Get whatever diagnosis you've given yourself a peer review. And don't deny that you haven't diagnosed yourself, because I know you."

Hannibal chuckles, feeling a bit like a chided spouse, and thinks it's nice to have someone truly wish for him to be alright. His heart completely belongs to Will. "Very well. Shall I come see you after my doctor's appointment then?" It's a lie. He won't see another doctor. He shouldn't visit Will either, but he's afraid if Will pleads for him to come, then he will.

Softly, "Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

"Then it's set. I will see you soon."

There's a pause, and Hannibal thinks Will hangs up, but then Will says, "I miss you."

Hannibal isn't quite sure how to reply. He isn't sure how to say he misses Will too, but he also misses Will every second they're not together, so he feels a bit off-put. It feels as if his heart is in his hand, and Will might notice Hannibal is offering it to him if he says the wrong thing.

Will hangs up as he hesitates.

~~~~

Hannibal's health takes a turn for the worse. Even if he wanted to visit Will, it's impossible now. Hannibal has a terrible fever and feels as if his lungs rattle with each inhale and exhale. It's as if he can feel the thorny vines squeezing his lungs. He can no longer sleep through the night. Breathing has become a laborious and painful process. He hardly leaves his room, and leaving the house is out of the question. Hannibal caught a look of himself in the bathroom mirror earlier that day, and he looks like the dead. Pale with sunken, dull eyes. The only difference between Hannibal and a corpse is the sweat on his brow from his fever and the heaving breaths he takes that move his entire chest.

His lips are chapped and bloody. The thorns have torn up the inside of his mouth and throat, and when he forces himself to eat, he can only manage a few bites. He supposes he's alright with dying when he can't even enjoy the last meals he's taking the time to prepare for himself.

Hannibal begins to finalize any loose ends he has, generally through letters to colleagues and referrals for his favorite patients. He surprises himself when he writes a letter to Chiyoh.

He can't realistically see everything off that he needs to, and that's just as well. He will continue to live as peacefully and routinely as he can. He tries to get dressed into something more casual than anything he's worn in public in a very long time to see Will, but he has a horrible coughing fit as he's trying to change shirts and lays down to soothe his body and ends up falling asleep for a couple hours instead. Three days pass in this terrible agony, and Hannibal hates himself for wishing for death sooner. It feels like giving up, and he's never been one to lie down and take it.

Both Hannibal's cell phone and home phone have been ringing nearly incessantly. People have noticed his absence, and he's managed to play it off as his "cold" turning out to be bronchitis. It's something he needs to stay home for, and it's something respiratory-related, so the coughing and bedrest are explained. He tells everyone he'll be back soon, but it's a lie. He's gotten a few visitors at his door that he's turned away by ignoring them and saying he was at the doctor or asleep when they came by.

He has a visitor now. The doorbell rings, but Hannibal doesn't move from his lounged position on his couch in front of the fireplace. He's unshaven, and his hair falls over his forehead and tickles his eyelids. He's wearing a button-down with most of the buttons undone and his most comfortable slacks. His body can't choose between feeling ice cold or melting hot. He's attempting to enjoy one of his few remaining favorite wine bottles, but it's difficult when each swallow is painful and tainted with the taste of his own blood.

The doorbell rings again, and Hannibal ignores it. He's done this a few times now and learned people don't continue ringing the doorbell or knocking on the door after about ten minutes. He easily waits out every person who wants to visit.

This visitor is persistent, however, and the doorbell rings again and not even half a minute later there's knocking. Hannibal sighs in annoyance, but his lungs seize, and he coughs something raw and wheezing. His abdomen is sore from all of his coughing, and his body has begun to become too exhausted to keep up longer bouts of coughing. His horrid, wheezing hacks die off quickly—not due to any improvement—but due to his body's inability to continue coughing. The knocking stops. And then,

"Hannibal! It's me! Open up. I know you're in there."

Will.

Like one of Will's well-trained strays, Hannibal is unquestioningly pushing himself out of his chair and walking towards the door. He pauses as he enters the foyer directly in front of the hallway leading to the door. He looks awful. Will is going to be repulsed. He can't be seen like this. Especially not by Will.

This is the last time you'll ever see him.

Will bangs on the door. "Hannibal! Open the door, or I'm coming in!"

That doesn't leave him with much of a choice, so Hannibal braces himself for Will's reaction to his appearance before unsteadily making his way to the door and opening it just enough, so he can peek out and see the object of his suffering.

The daylight is brighter than Hannibal is anticipating, so he blindly blinks into the sunlight, unable to see much of Will. Will is immediately pushing against the door, and Hannibal is about to shove it closed when one of Will's hands lands on his chest and pushes him backwards along with the door. Hannibal stumbles a few steps back, Will's hand still pressed against him, and he hears the door close shut as he's still blinking to adjust his vision. Will's hand is pressed firmly in the center of his chest, and Hannibal's shirt is unbuttoned enough that the majority of Will's palm touches his skin.

Will is frozen in place with his hand remaining on Hannibal, and he is a vision to behold. He's breathing a bit heavily, and his cheeks are tainted a light pink. His curls are wild and untamed just as he is. He is handsome and rugged, yet he possesses a beauty Hannibal is never quite prepared for. Will's eyes are glued to Hannibal's face, and obvious surprise and concern splash across his features. Their gazes are locked like this for several moments. Hannibal finds himself stuck in place, unwilling to break this moment, yet unsure whether he should. The only sound is Hannibal's ragged breathing. It somehow sounds worse like this, louder in the absence of everything else.

Will blinks. He stares at his hand on Hannibal's chest, and Hannibal feels Will's fingers twitch before he's pulling his hand back and shoving them both in the front pockets of his jeans. Will flicks his eyes to something behind Hannibal.

He says, "You look terrible." Will's gaze continues to flitter about, and his shoulders are tense. Hannibal is definitely feeling ill, because Will almost seems…guilty. And that makes no sense. How is Hannibal reading him all wrong?

"Your kind words are always touching," Hannibal retorts.

Will grabs the front of Hannibal's shirt with both hands, impossibly quick, and shoves him against the wall. Hannibal's lungs protest, and he has to take a few deep, steady breaths to prevent coughing all over Will. They're close enough Hannibal feels Will's warm breath fan across his face. A few centimeters closer, and Hannibal could kiss him. One of Will's hands comes to cup his face, and Hannibal's brain completely shuts off. All Hannibal knows in this moment is the steady puff of Will's breath, the warmth of his palm on his cheek, and the intensity of his gaze. Will's eyes are tumultuous—an ocean in a storm—unsure, yet swelling with anger. Will's thumb moves to Hannibal's lower lip and gently pulls it down. Hannibal's heart skips, and his breath hitches. Will's eyes flick down to his lip. Something angry and hurt lights Will's eyes and then he's moving away. The air is cold in Will's sudden vacancy of Hannibal's space.

"Will?" His voice sounds rough and shaken. Weak.

Will's back is facing him, and he slowly turns as he shakes his head. When he's finally facing Hannibal, it's with the startling realization that he's blinking back tears.

"I trusted you, Hannibal." He scoffs then runs his hands through his hair and fists his fingers in his curls and tugs.

"Will," Hannibal says gently and reaches out to soothe him. His brain feels as if it's spinning. He can't catch up with what's going on inside Will's beautiful mind.

"Don't," Will spits. Commands. The glare Will gives him makes Hannibal's heart stop.

Hannibal blinks. "Will, I'm not certain as to what's going on."

Will runs a hand over his face. Swallows. He refuses to meet Hannibal's eyes. "Your lip." Blue eyes lock with Hannibal's for a split second. "It's torn from the thorns."

It takes Hannibal far too long to process Will's words. And then it hits him like a bucket of ice water.

Will knows.

Will continues, "Jack got them to let me out of the hospital early to see the lungs." He fixes Hannibal with a steely, firm look as he adds, "And to see the body."

"I see," Hannibal replies. "Have you come to arrest me? Kill me?"

Will flicks a quick, cold look over Hannibal. "What would be the point?"

A delicious thrill strikes through Hannibal at Will's apathy. His darkness. "Will—"

Will puts a hand up and interrupts, "I just came here to see if I was right." He sounds disappointed and betrayed when he quietly adds, "Guess I was." He holds Hannibal's gaze for a moment more before rushing out the door. It slams behind him, and the sound reverberates through Hannibal's house like a church bell during a funeral.

~~~~

It's as if Will's straightforward rejection is the final nail in the coffin. Hannibal had taken a shower after Will left. He found himself failing to stifle back sobs. It only exasperated his lungs, so he ended up crying and choking in the shower like some weak little thing left outside to die. It's exactly how he felt. But crying was cathartic, and a strange tranquility fell over him after his shower.

He falls into a restless sleep, and when he wakes up, he knows he barely has any time left. His mind feels hazy and sluggish, as if he's high or drunk or some strange combination of both. His hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, and he can't be bothered to wipe it off. Everything outside of the immediate feel of his silk sheets on his naked skin feels far away and dull. It feels as if the world is shrinking since his perception of it becomes smaller and smaller with each passing minute. All his existence becomes is feverishly tossing and turning in bed, each breath he takes rattling his entire body. He's dehydrated, and his dry mouth is filled with the metallic tang of his own blood.

His only solace is the final indulgence he's allowed himself. One of Will's shirts. It's a plain white t-shirt he'd stolen the night he went to kill Will and failed. It still smells of him, and Hannibal buries his face into it now, painfully taking in deep breaths to fill himself with Will's scent. It's pathetic, but the last thing he wants to know of this world is Will, even if he only gets one small, stolen piece of him.

Hannibal is drifting in that odd space between dreaming and waking, and he can't trust his senses to tell him what's truly happening. He thinks he hears a distant banging, and another sound that reminds him of Will's voice. He knows it must be because of the way he's pressing his face into Will's shirt. Everything is tainted with Will now. Then he hears something rhythmic. It becomes louder. It sounds quite a lot like someone is running up his stairs. Hannibal doesn't have the energy to move nor care. His eyes remain closed, and his face remains buried in Will's shirt.

"Hannibal! Hannibal!"

Well, now he certainly must be dreaming if he hears Will calling his name.

"Hanni–"

The world stills momentarily.

A breathless, desperate, "Oh my god. No. No, no, no. Hannibal."

It feels as if the Earth is shifting. It might also simply be the mattress dipping beside him.

"Hannibal. Hannibal! Oh, god."

Something warm and solid pulls his face away from Will's shirt. A low whine of protest escapes Hannibal, but it's all he can muster.

A soft, euphoric sound, then, "You're alive!" A breathless laugh. "You're alive."

Hannibal can distinctively feel two warm, firm hands tilt his face upwards. The movement is a tad too sudden, and his breath is tangled with the thorny flowers lining his throat, and he chokes. Then he's being moved. Laid down on his back. Head tilted to be completely straight. The air flows through him easier. He wants Will's shirt back.

"Hannibal. Hannibal, look at me. Please." The hands are on his face again, delicately caressing his cheeks. "Please," the voice that sounds too much like Will's begs.

The only warning Hannibal receives is a puff of warm air against his face before soft, plush lips press gently against his. They don't stop. They kiss him desperately, incessantly, but they remain gentle. Always so, so gentle. It's a shame Hannibal doesn't have the energy to kiss back.

"H-Hannibal, please. I…fuck." More kisses. "Please, please. I…I love you too, okay? Do you hear me? I love you too. I love you too."

The kisses are everywhere now. They ghost across his nose, his cheekbones, his eyebrows. Those gentle lips kiss every inch of his face. The warm hands brush his hair from his forehead and more kisses are placed there. He's held so reverently. So cherished. When he feels warm salty tears drip onto his face, he can only compare it to a baptism, because something powerful has shifted. Something miraculous has occurred. The tears he is being gifted with are transforming him; he is reborn. Hannibal's chest still rattles when he intakes a deeper breath, and his eyes reluctantly flutter open.

Will is above him. Tears run down his face, and fear and desperation are uncontrollable fires in his eyes. Hannibal has never been looked at like this before. So deeply. So cared for.

So loved.

Something in his airway shifts. Perhaps nothing but a petal falling, or perhaps something else he's unwilling to name because he thinks a little hope will truly be the end of him, but he can breathe a little better now. It's the slightest bit less painful when he inhales to murmur,

"Will."

#hannibal #hannibal fanfic #hannibal fic #hannigram #hannigram fic #will graham #hannibal lecter #fanfiction #fanfic #angst #pining #hannibal oneshot #hannigram oneshot #hanahaki disease

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incorrect-ikevamp-quotes · 1 year

Note

Can you write a fanfiction/bullet points or whatever makes you comfortable of Comte comforting a crying female MC? Thank you for your time. 💙☔️

This one is a bit (a lot 🤡) late, but hopefully it still brings some belated comfort to a wounded heart. Take care!! 💜

For whatever reason anything I write for Ikevamp always becomes half found family trope hours, so please pardon the wayward premise--

Below a cut because it's long!

When I hadn't emerged from my room before noon, Sebastian knocked--three quick raps--against my door.

I sat up in bed, setting my book aside. I'd done the bare minimum by then, thankfully: washed my face, made my bed, dressed in a nightgown with an appropriate robe for company. It was about all I could manage before deflating into a lethargic heap.

“Meli?” Curious slate eyes searched for me.

“Present,” I raised my hand, grinning sheepishly.

“Are you all right?”

Did I look pale? My head was killing me. And it was nothing compared to the ache from the waist down.

“In a manner of speaking,” I grimaced, “I’m sorry I was MIA all morning, I’m really not feeling well.”

He marched out and returned with a First Aid kit, and I gestured with flustered hands to stop him. “Whoa whoa, not quite like that. You don’t need to bring that weapon in here.”

One sharp eyebrow arched, side eyeing me dubiously. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

“Phrasing,” I scrunched my features, before sighing. “It’s uh…a particularly female problem, if you catch my drift.”

He looked like he was about to say something smart again, until understanding dawned on his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah…I’ll keep the gruesome details to myself. Could I trouble you for some soup, though? I don't think I can keep much else down.”

He smiled, closing the First Aid kit with a crisp flip of the latch. “You’ll owe me one.”

“You can lord it over me as much as you want when I don’t feel like I’m about to snap in two.”

He frowned, skeptical again. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

“Oh don’t worry, every so often this stupid thing clocks me out mercilessly. It never lasts, it just sucks for the first few days.” I waved him away.

He nodded then, and I hoped the passé inflection would be enough to ease his mind.

What I didn’t expect was the entire rest of the afternoon.

“Meli?” A muffled voice came from the other side of my door about an hour later.

Was that? “Vincent?”

“May I come in?”

“Of course,” I laughed a little at how cautious he sounded, as if Vincent could be a bother to anyone.

White blonde hair poked past the threshold, wide eyes taking me in. I laughed again, unable to help myself. “Don’t worry, I promise I’m not contagious.”

His smile waned, but he stepped inside and approached the foot of the bed. “That’s not what I’m worried about. How are you feeling?”

I couldn’t help the way my features softened. There were so few people I had ever met with such a pure heart, but sometimes it worried me. He should look after himself more. “Just fine,” I smiled easily, patting the bed to let him know he could sit if he wanted. “Is something on your mind?”

A little color found his cheeks and he shook his head, “Mm-mm, I’m glad to see you’re doing okay. I’m heading out to town today with Theo to explore some prospective venues for art displays. Would you like us to bring anything back for you?”

I was…frankly a little shocked that he thought of me. “Sure,” I grinned, “An invitation, when you’ve finalized the time and place.”

He gazed at me intently, before resolve made that baby face solidify with determination. “I promise.” He nodded once, firm.

“Even when you’re sick, you’re the only person in this house who knows how to appreciate real talent.” Theo swaggered in as if we’d conjured him by the mere mention of the display. “This is all it takes to keep you down and out, hondje?”

“Remind me to sucker punch you when I’m better.”

“I’m busy enlightening the world about the greatest artist who ever lived, remember it yourself.”

“Dat is genoeg, Theo,” Vincent glanced at him, and it made Theo sulk and look away.

I giggled, unable to help it. “Don’t worry, Vincent, I’m happy you both stopped by. Don’t let me keep you from your errands today.”

Vincent seemed to hesitate, and it was at that moment when Dazai walked right through the open door with an apologetic Napoleon behind him.

“I tried to stop him, but he was surprisingly adamant about bringing it over himself. Sebastian gave him an earful,” Napoleon snickered, “How are you holding up, noyer?”

“Like I’m going to throw up all over him,” I couldn’t help myself as they all looked at me with wide eyes, but the exaggeration didn’t fool Dazai. He continued on, unperturbed as always when he was marching to his own drum.

Everybody chuckled when they realized I was just trying to deter his enthusiasm.

“Open wide, Toshiko-chan,” Dazai crooned, trying to guide a spoonful of soup to my lips. “Say ahh--”

Theo had him in a headlock in the next few seconds, scowling fiercely. “Give it a rest, dwaas, she’s not an invalid.”

Theo hoisted him away and waved, and Dazai surprisingly left without a fuss as Vincent scolded his brother for resorting to physicalities.

“He wasn’t the only one worried, you know,” Napoleon remarked, voice much quieter than usual--and I sensed it was because he was revealing some poorly guarded secrets.

“Ah, I’d visit them both if I could, but I’m afraid I’m a bit compromised at the minute.”

Napoleon seemed shocked to hear this bit of news, alarm clear as he approached me and looked for the signs of harm. I suppose Sebastian didn’t go into the gory details, for once. “What…?”

I smiled broadly, “Don’t worry, I’ll be right as rain soon--enough to spar with you without a problem.”

The confidence in my expression seemed to put him at ease somewhat, retreating back an appropriate distance. “Shall I extend the good tidings, then?”

“Of course, and tell Jeanne I expect to see entries in his diary regardless of whether or not I can teach him right now.”

Napoleon shook his head, and when I shot him a curious look he just shrugged, throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Worry about yourself for the moment, noyer.”

I nodded solemnly, mock saluting, “Yes, monsieur, your will be done.”

“Well it’s good to see you have enough energy to joke, at least,” He crossed his arms, gesturing with his chin to the soup that was now at a proper temperature to consume. “Now eat before it gets cold.”

“The general,” I moaned with exaggerated woe as I reached for the bowl, “He’s relentless these days. Do you have any idea the last time I got to--”

“It’s a shame Shakespeare doesn’t have you perform for his little shows,” Napoleon was equal parts amused and exasperated as he moved to the door, “I never thought I’d meet somebody with more latent drama in their heart.”

“You really mean it?” I blinked rapidly and made doe eyes at him, and he rolled his in return.

“Get some rest, nunuche.”

When the door finally shut again I closed my eyes, willing the dull throb in my head to ease off. I tried to focus on the soup, hoping it would help me relax. It was only then that I noticed Sebastian had served it with a cold glass of oolong, and I sighed, suddenly grateful for his powers of observation. Hopefully it would help keep the food down--I didn’t want to throw up for real.

I took my time, eating slowly to thwart the nausea and stared at the ceiling. I wasn’t really expecting everyone to trickle in like that, but it was…a nice change. Back home, nobody ever knew I was sick because I didn’t tell them. I needed to work; there had been no time for rest and no safe haven to heal. I considered that for a moment, that for once I didn’t feel I had to push myself to my limits to deserve some respite.

The empty bowl stared back at me as I finished the last spoonful, the gold flowers inlaid in the china a reminder; it seemed I had yet more to thank him for.

I was braiding my hair absently--marveling that it was long enough for that now--when a single knock sounded, more wooden even than the door.

I found myself grinning before I could help it, “Come on in, Jeanne.” Wiry and lean, he marched inside and crossed over to my bedside, Mozart on his heels--though he looked cautious. I smiled wryly, “And welcome, Mozart. Don’t worry, I won’t get you sick--I promise.”

“As if anybody cares about that,” he sniffed, though I could see his shoulders visibly lower and I withheld laughter.

Jeanne got up close, examining me with eyes that missed nothing. “You look pale, mademoiselle.”

“At ease, soldat. It’s an old fight, I’ll be just fine.”

I was glad for the bravado, since it felt like my uterus was ready to pop right out of my abdomen, my entire lower half swollen.

“I still expect you to study while I’m recuperating,” I tapped his nose with the tip of my finger, and he leaned back as if he only just noticed how close he was.

Mozart sighed, “See? I told you she’d be fine. She even has enough energy to play school mistress.”

“I could play it with you too, Mozart.” I raised my brows, glancing at him.

He threw me a disgusted look, “Don’t be ridiculous. Only you two would do something so outlandish.”

Jeanne looked unable to follow, “But Arthur said that a woman who teaches you your letters is your mistress.”

Mozart and I grimaced, in agreement here.

“Don’t listen to Arthur.”

“Forget everything he says, in one ear out the other.”

“But…”

“Don’t forget about the shop, Jeanne, we were just stopping by.”

Jeanne’s violet eye widened, “Ah, that’s right. Be strong, mademoiselle.”

“You won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”

Mozart smirked, “Don’t we know it.”

“I’m perfectly well enough to get feathers in your hair, you silly little composer.” I lifted the pillow beside me and mimed chucking it at him.

I was stunned to see Mozart stick his pink tongue out at me, smiling as he followed Jeanne out the door.

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, Mozart.” I could hear Jeanne’s muffled disapproval.

“She knows better than to believe something like that anyway.”

Warmth overflowed in my heart, and when I glanced over at my bedside table I was shocked to see that it was nearly evening; I likely had all the visits to thank for time passing so quickly.

“You still alive in here, cara mia?” The giant Italian entered without preamble, a stark and frankly hilarious contrast to the nervous Isaac behind him.

“For you? No.”

“You always knew how to break a man’s heart.” I closed my eyes as the smell of cigarillos reached me, the rich and smoky scent oddly comforting. If it wasn’t for the fact that it would be misconstrued, I resisted the urge to ask for a hug. He could make for a decent heat pad at his size. He sat mere inches from me unceremoniously--Leonardo was never one for personal space--leaning in and evaluating me with those amber eyes. The color always made me squirm a little, conjuring their parallel image in the house every time.

“We thought we’d bring you some cake,” it was only then that I noticed Isaac was carrying a tray, chocolate cheesecake drizzled with raspberry and coated in dark chocolate adornments. “We can’t take all the credit though, Vincent and Theo brought some for everyone.”

Trust Vincent to insist on a gesture like this. So that's what his determination had been about, finding a way to offer me something without fanfare. And, well, it was no secret I loved chocolate.

I kept my eyes on my lap, willing the slight film over my vision to dry and disappear. I knew Leonardo would never let me live it down if he noticed. That's probably why he came with Isaac in the first place.

I cleared my throat a little, "Thanks for bringing it all the way here, Isaac."

Isaac fiddled with his hair, tugging on the strands shyly. "D-don't worry about it. It's the least we could do, considering all you've done for us."

I accepted the tray and settled it in my lap, taking up the fork. "I can't eat it while you stare at me, Leo."

"Oh well."

"Correction, I won't eat it if you keep staring at me."

"I'm just enjoying the rare sight. House feels strange without you stomping and bustling around. The floorboards must be awfully lonely."

"You make me sound like an elephant."

"Well--"

"All right, come here so I can cough all over you--"

"But Sebastian already told us it wasn't contagious..." Isaac interjected.

"He lied," and I was about to continue when Isaac sighed.

It suddenly occurred to me that Sebastian probably sent Isaac along to make sure we didn't argue for the rest of the night.

"You two never change," his smile was conflicted, but fond.

"Ah, sorry," I leaned back, trying to relax.

"Bickering is healthy where we come from," Leonardo guffawed.

"Oh dear, an oncoming sneeze--" I mimed reaching over to sully his sleeve.

They both lingered a little as I finished my slice, making small talk until they seemed to silently agree to let me rest and take back both trays to the kitchen. I figured I'd be turning in for the night shortly after when I heard rapid footsteps crossing the hall about an hour later. It was nearly nine o'clock, who…?

"Meli?"

I knew that baritone anywhere, though there was an atypical urgency to his murmur.

"Come in, Comte."

There was a gust of air as the door twisted open, gold eyes zeroing in on the source of my voice. When they landed on me there was alarm clear in every line of his body, and he seemed to take a deep breath. He smiled, but something about it was wan--it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Bad day?" I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen him so wrung out as he made his way over to me.

He averted his gaze to my bedside table, "Something like that." He shook his head before reaching a hand up to my forehead.

I bit the inside of my lip to keep from leaning in, the heady scent of him distracting. All of a sudden I felt like a little kid with my favorite stuffed animal again; I just wanted to curl up against him and close my eyes.

I laughed awkwardly, "Did, um, Sebastian not tell you?"

He seemed genuinely confused. "Tell me?"

"It's ah, not exactly an 'illness', per say…"

"Then what…?"

I glanced at my lap, then looked away.

"Oh. Oh, I see," he hefted the chair against the wall and placed it next to the bed, unhooking his tie and rubbing a thumb under his jaw. "Well that's a relief."

"That makes one of us," I grinned, unable to help myself.

I wondered if I looked as sparkly as I felt when he finally managed a small smile.

"Did you just get home?"

"I'm afraid so, I was a bit buried in meetings and errands today."

Not surprising, he had been rather busy of late. "And you raced over here? Don't be silly, you should go to your own room and rest. I've been well tended to, I promise."

There was something akin to a dry smirk on his face, and it was puzzling enough to give me pause. What did that look mean?

"Everyone’s so demoralized it nearly frightened a century of life out of me," he admitted and laughed in earnest, taking one of my hands in his own gently. Color stained my cheeks, and I cursed how it gave me away. “I had to come see for myself.”

"Drama queens," I muttered, mortified. I willed my palms not to sweat and embarrass me even further.

"It just goes to show how much they care about you," Comte offered me a pearly grin, and I couldn't manage to meet his eyes. So much for the headache going away, I could practically hear a pulse in my head just trying to make eye contact with him. "The house doesn't feel quite right without you."

Throughout the day I'd been wracking my brain to figure out what their little visits reminded me of, and in that split second it hit me like a train. Oh my god…they were like a bunch of children worried about their sick mother. Bringing trinkets and food, looking for any opportunity to help. Even Vincent perfectly fit the role of the oldest independent son, all insistence on being the adult for the day.

I squeezed his fingers just enough to convey my meaning. "They're very sweet," I bit my tongue against the rest. Wonder where they could have gotten that from. “But really, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Comte was unmoved. Did I really look that bad? His eyes sought out mine, gazing for a long moment. Instinctively I knew he was looking for something there, and if I looked away it would only make him more anxious--but it also made me so self-conscious.

“What can I do?”

His quiet voice, imploring all of a sudden, startled me. “Huh?”

“Everybody seems to have beaten me to the punch today,” there was a rueful touch to his smile that I didn’t quite understand. Almost…bitter? “Anything that would make you feel better, it’s yours.”

“You don’t have to--” I hedged, embarrassed.

“I insist.” He was smiling, but I knew that tone. There was no brooking argument when he got like this.

“Can I have a moment to think? Nothing really comes to mind immediately.”

This seemed to pacify him, and he leaned back to grab his long coat, folding it over and placing it on my lap over the blankets. I smoothed the fabric over with my hands, thumbing the collar absently. What was it about everything he did that conveyed so much warmth? Like my very heart was being enfolded in care and affection. I stared at it as he poked around the book on my bedside table, content to be awash in his colors. Despite feeling terrible and exhausted beyond belief, something inside me started to unravel and relax.

When I noticed him out of my peripheral vision, I suddenly knew what I wanted to ask.

My fingers curled around the bed spread, not wanting to wrinkle his nice coat. “I think I know what I want to ask now.”

“Oh?” he looked over, setting the book aside. He gave me his full attention, and I hoped he would attribute the blush that crept into my face from the scrutiny to illness. “Let’s hear it.”

“Would you read to me? Just for a little while. And only if you want to.” The words came out haltingly, and I already regretted that I’d spoken them aloud. Christ I felt so childish, surely he would think I was ridiculous.

There was a moment of silence, as I contemplated crawling into a hole to waste away in peace. This is exactly why periods were evil. They made me reveal things that I wouldn’t have said at gunpoint.

“...What would you like me to read?”

He was serious, expression inquisitive. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

I hugged the pillow next to me for courage, refusing to meet his eyes. “...Would it be too childish to ask for a fairy tale?”

“Any particular one in mind?”

“...Rapunzel, if we have it.”

He nodded, “Rapunzel it is. I’ll be back shortly.”

When he was out the door on the hunt for a book of fairy tales, I shoved my face in the pillow and groaned. Well, so much for living that one down. I’d be the gossip of the mansion for the next five years let alone weeks.

I fidgeted and tried to read what I already had with me, but the pages might as well have been in another language for all that I managed to retain. I’d been interested in learning about recovered knowledge and expertise that had been lost to the ages, scouring old texts for tidbits of information and wisdom. The notepad on my bedside attested to all the curiosities I’d gathered up to that point, but the thought that I was troubling Comte was enough to leave me unable to work anything out.

Mercifully, he had returned as promised without much delay, a book on fairy tales in tow as he closed the door gingerly. When I spied the name Grimm on the spine, I laughed a little. “Good to know it’ll be a version I recognize.”

He indulged me. “I’m just glad it wasn’t buried somewhere in that mess Leonardo calls a room.”

I snickered at the jab as he removed the jacket of his suit, leaving him in his waistcoat and dress shirt. I pretended I hadn’t noticed, waiting patiently for him to start. I forgot that Sebastian had left a pitcher of water behind after he shooed Leonardo and Isaac out of the room, and I gestured to the desk across from him.

“Seb left me some water, but please help yourself.”

He poured a glass before settling in earnest, rolling his shoulders. I glanced here and there to gauge his disposition, a little perplexed. He didn’t look like he was waiting for the moment he could slip away, he looked prepared to spend the better part of the night. Surely he wouldn’t, he had more important things to attend to than me and he’d barely gotten any rest.

“Ready?” He looked to me, waiting.

I sat up straighter, “Go for it,” I prompted.

Though we started there, he ended up reading several since they were pretty short--expectation in his eyes when he looked up from the book to flip to the next one. I got caught up in his momentum all too easily, his even voice more soothing than I cared to admit. Or maybe it was the fact that I could tell he didn’t begrudge me this, or seemed to think it was silly. I was lulled and warm and comforted, which was more than I could say in nearly three decades of life. I tried to remember every little detail of the moment; the soft light of the lamps, the warmth of his coat, the gentle scent of him, the balm of his voice. Something to keep close to my heart when I’d be forced to leave his side someday and return to my own time like the stranger I was.

Tears burned in my eyes, baffling me. I swallowed thickly, and took a deep breath as surreptitiously as possible. I didn’t want to ruin this balance between us, this closely guarded secret of mine wasn’t worth making him dread coming home every day.

When we’d gone through all the ones I liked, he closed the book and set it on the bedside table. He was pensive, rubbing his palms together absently. I knew that look, so I spoke first.

“You can ask whatever it is you’re wondering,” I laughed, “I don’t mind.”

He seemed a little surprised that I’d noticed, before leaning back in his chair. “I guess I was wondering why you chose fairy tales, of all things. I did say anything you wanted.”

I covered my face with my hands, “Yeah, I know it was childish. Sorry.”

Patient hands drew mine away from my face, “That’s not what I meant.”

I shot him a dour look. "Jewelry is expensive. So are dresses."

"That's not what I meant either. Although that's an idea…"

I ignored his expectant look. “Oh,” I blinked, “Then what did you mean?"

“Why fairy tales?” His head tilted just so, trying to find answers in my impassive face as he gestured to the book on my bedside table.

“Well,” My eyes darted away, nervous. “It’s not really a short answer, and you’ve probably heard it before. I don’t want to bore you.”

“Would you tell me, all the same?”

Usually he’d be the type to change the subject and take the discordant note in stride, content to play smooth conversationalist. I wondered briefly what brought this on, but I didn’t have much time since he was looking for an answer. I tried to gather my thoughts.

“Fairy tales are the written--and in many cases--oral manifestations of human feeling and imagination.” I sat up a little, “They were told by the fireside, in sewing circles, to children who asked too many questions, whether appropriate or inopportune.” I gazed at the back of my hands, the faded burn that marred my left one. There was more grief in my smile than I would have liked, but I was too tired to entirely disguise what I was feeling. “Happy endings are afforded in situations where they seem unlikely and impossible. Justice exists and culls the selfishness of others. In some ways, they are time capsules of hope; buried, only to be found again by the weary in similar situations of entrapment or despair.”

“Sometimes they feel like a hand reached out across the ages, promising that we aren’t alone, not really. I guess it’s a nice feeling, to know that I’m not the only one who likes to dream.”

It was only when I realized that the outline of his coat in my lap was indistinguishable, voice wobbly, that I scrubbed at my eyes with my sleeve. Stupid, I always spoke too much around him. He was quiet and still for a long time.

“But then, I have a bad habit of wanting things to make sense more than I probably should.” I shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. “They’re just stories, at the end of the day. Just a way to keep the mind occupied.”

He took the book back into his hands, gazing at it with different eyes. “I think that’s a beautiful way to think about it,” His fingers traced the embellished cover, still shining nearly a hundred years since it was published. "And very like you.”

“W-well, it’s just one way to think about it. Most people would probably say it’s a stretch.”

“I don’t think it is.” Even though I couldn’t meet his gaze, somehow I could tell his eyes were tender as they lingered on me. I was just relieved for the lack of disgust.

After that he stood up, gathering his suit jacket over his arm. “I suppose it’s time we allowed you to get some proper rest,” he leaned over to brush a kiss against my forehead. “I’ll make sure everyone keeps out until you’re feeling well, other than Sebastian. They don’t seem to be able to help themselves.”

I was entirely distracted by that split second of warmth against my forehead, lamenting how quickly it faded. Joy bubbled up in an endless cascade, and I tried to conceal how sated and giddy I felt on the inside. He was halfway across the room before I could manage to speak again.

“I was pretty surprised, I was so sure the sound of plague would send Mozart running for the hills.”

“I can think of very little that would keep us away, plague or not.” He chuckled, and shook his head as he reached for the door handle. “Rest well, Meli.”

“Good night, Comte.”

I was so lovestruck I didn’t notice he’d left his long coat behind, with me. I brushed my teeth and turned out the lights, pretending to get ready for bed--but really, I wanted enough time to pass to know for certain that he wasn’t coming back for it. Content to know it was mine for the night, I hugged the folded parcel close to my chest, sighing. If being by his side was out of my reach, then it was enough to know he cared.

#ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevamp comte #ikevamp saint germain #ikevamp mc #the way i can't write anything without agonizing unresolved pining #in a relationship already? no they have to Stare At Each Other Longingly From Across The Room #for five years until they get to kiss #im diseased yes i know #i was also yelling because I was writing most of that with the mental image of comte just like #screaming internally and trying to play it cool #if you squint you can hear him rattling the bars of his cage #i hope this sparks joy? no matter how hard i try to plan writing almost always takes on a life of its own #asks #fanfiction #minnie rambles #fangdad propaganda #(i love him your honor it's not a phase)

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