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Title: Blurred Reality
Pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the lovely Hannibal Lecter or Will Graham, unfortunately, just borrowing them for a while. Please do not sue.
***Will woke with a start, his eyes flying open .Why did his bed suddenly feel so narrow? And why was he still wearing all of his clothes -- even his shoes?
It took him a moment to get his bearings -- and realize that he was lying on the comfortable couch in Hannibal's office, with a blanket tucked around him and a soft pillow beneath his head. He was sure that pillow hadn't been there when he'd lay down last night ....
Last night. He'd spent the night here.
That was obvious, given that sunlight was pouring through the windows. He looked at the clock on the wall behind Hannibal's desk, and was shocked to see that it was a little after eight in the morning. Usually, he was up and about by this time.
It was a good thing that he didn't classes today, he thought as he sat up, wincing and running a hand through his hair. But he would probably be called into the FBI office -- he and Jack were working on a case, and he was sure that there would be another murder soon.
That was something he'd intended to talk to Hannibal about -- the strange feelings that he'd been having about this particular killer, as if he was sinking deeper into the murderer's mind.
That wasn't unusual for him, given his empathic abilities. But this time, it felt as though he was going further than he usually did, and he was having a harder time than usual pulling himself back from the edge of a killer's mind and into his own.
The line between reality and his inner thoughts was starting to blur.
Hannibal was the only person who really seemed to understand that, and even he didn't know what it was like. No one could know what it was like to slip into the mind of a murderer, to feel that rage and pain and whatever else might go along with it.
Will ran a hand through his hair as he stood up, clearing his throat and looking around. Hannibal wasn't here, that was obvious; he was probably either still asleep, or in the kitchen making breakfast. He should probably go to the kitchen and make his apologies for falling asleep.
The thought hit him before he could take a step towards the door, making his eyes widen in shock and bringing a startled gasp to his lips. He'd slept all night. Here, on the couch in Hannibal's office. It was the first time in what felt like forever that he'd gotten a full night's sleep.
That in itself was incredible. The other amazing thing was that he'd been able to do it here, in the office, in a place where he shouldn't really feel safe.
He shouldn't have been able to sleep so deeply in a place where he didn't feel entirely comfortable. It was a strange feeling to know that he had, and it made him look around the office, wondering what it was about this place that could make those walls come down.
He frowned when he saw the easel, standing near Hannibal's desk, facing away from him.
An easel? Had Hannibal been painting something last night, while he lay here and slept? A thought occurred to Will, making him swallow hard, his eyes widening again. Could Hannibal have painted .... him? Had the doctor captured his sleeping form on canvas?
That would really be weird, Will told himself as he took a step towards the easel. Why would Hannibal want to paint him? He was nothing special.
But maybe Hannibal thought he was.
The idea stopped him in his tracks, making his breath catch in his throat. Could Hannibal possibly think that way about him? Was there more to the other man's feelings that plain and simple lust? Could there be more underneath the surface that Will hadn't seen yet?
He wasn't going to indulge in thoughts like that, not until he could find out for sure if he had any reason to hope that they were true. But it was hard to tamp down on that little spark of hope that flared to life within him, hard to hold it back and tell it not to flare into life too soon.
Will's steps slowed as he approached the easel; suddenly, he wasn't so sure that he wanted to see what Hannibal had painted. What if it wasn't a flattering representation? What if he had seen something in Will that wasn't something anyone should gaze upon?
Whatever it was, he was going to look at it, Will told himself firmly. Hannibal might not even have painted him. He was jumping to conclusions here.
He turned the easel towards him -- and his mouth fell open in shock.
Hannibal had indeed painted him -- but in a way that he never would have expected. He found himself looking at a portrait of himself, naked and vulnerable, his eyes closed, his head thrown back against the pillows, lips parted, cheeks flushed, his hand on his cock.
Hannibal had painted him ..... masturbating.
It was a beautiful painting. He had to admit that. Hannibal had caught a sense of his vulnerability, even as he seemed to celebrate a raw masculine power.
The man in the painting was obviously at ease with his body, in a way that Will had never felt when he was awake. Was that what Hannibal saw when he looked at him?
For a few moments, Will was filled with a sense of panic. Had he actually done this, while Hannibal watched and painted what he saw? Had he fallen so deeply asleep that he couldn't control his own actions? Was that what this depicted -- himself losing all of his inhibitions?
No, he couldn't have jerked off in his sleep. Will took one deep breath, then another, closing his eyes and trying to calm his racing heart. If he closed his eyes, then opened them and looked again, he'd probably realize that he hadn't seen what he thought he had.
But when he opened his eyes, the painting was still there, just as lifelike as before. He could see nothing in the painting that he should be ashamed of -- other than the fact that he didn't want anyone to think Hannibal could see him like this.
He looked so .... so uninhibited. So .... well, sensual.
Did Hannibal really see him like this? Was he this appealing in the other man's eyes? Will felt his cheeks grow warm with a blush that he couldn't hold back. The truth was, he wanted Hannibal to think of him this way. He wanted to be seen as sensual and desirable.
Though not by just anybody, he told himself. Only by this man. What others thought of him didn't matter. Only how Hannibal saw him meant anything to him.
This painting only seemed to make the lines between the dream world he spent so much time in and the reality that he had to live in blur even more. He felt sunned, shocked, as though he was moving through syrup. Nothing seemed quite real, quite connected.
If he wasn't careful, then he was going to sink into that dream world, and the blurred reality would disappear forever. He wouldn't be able to come back from his dreams.
Would that be so horrible? a little voice in the back of his mind whispered. If he lived in that dream world, then he could have anything he wanted. He could become anything he wanted. He could have Hannibal, without having to observe any proprieties.
No, he told himself firmly. He had to live in the real world. He had no choice.
"Do you like it?" Hannibal's voice brought him back to his senses, made him look at the painting again as a burning blush seemed to suffuse his face.
"I ...." He didn't know what to say. All he could do was stare at Hannibal as the other man approached him, a smile on his face. He stopped in front of Will, studying him; then, reaching out to grasp Will's shoulders, Hannibal yanked him forward and fastened that demanding mouth on his.
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