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Will doesn't speak Spanish.
He took French in high school despite knowing it would not be as useful in the long run, but they were living in Louisiana at the time so that was the choice he made.
He never actively regretted that choice until he started sleeping with Frederick.
To tell the truth, he had never really considered that Frederick might be Hispanic - half-Cuban, as faith would have it. And he didn't find out because Frederick told him so.
No, he found out because the first time he shoved Frederick back onto his mattress and followed, covering Frederick’s body with his own and tearing half the buttons off his shirt in a single pull, Frederick mumbled “Oh dios sí,” throwing his head back and bearing his throat, his hands surging to Will’s shoulders.
That was only the beginning.
Frederick is loud. Very loud. Surprisingly loud. From the first kiss (splayed out on Will’s tattered couch, moaning as soon as their lips touched) to the first fuck (on the same couch, desperate, awkward, with Will having to shoo off the dogs), and he has only grown louder with time.
Words spill freely from his lips, an endless stream of smooth, breathy syllables. Sometimes he starts in English and then switches. It’s always in Spanish when things get truly heated.
Will still doesn’t speak Spanish. He understands the basics by now – más, más rapido, más duro, dame más, whimpered, moaned and screamed while nails bite into his back and Frederick arches into his touch – and as far as the rest goes... The words are unimportant, as long as he can hear the tone of Frederick’s voice, the breathless, desperate way his words fill the air, his lips trembling, his eyes bright.
He has a sneaking suspicion that Frederick speaks Spanish in bed because he knows Will doesn't understand it.
Querido. Cariño. Mi amor.
Everyone knows what amor means. Will pretends not to. Frederick will switch to English once he is ready.
He is being even louder than usual tonight, which is probably due to the fact that they have consumed two bottles of champagne (Will had one glass, Frederick drank the rest) and because tonight is special. Not necessarily in a good way. Less than six hours ago Hannibal Lecter was finally convicted. It’s over, all of it.
Their mutual euphoria is mixed with equal parts relief and exhaustion. Months of tension have bled away and with it one could have assumed that the sense of desperation that has always clung to them when they were together might have faded. But it seems like the opposite is true for Frederick. Apparently relief breeds renewed vigor in his case.
His muscles are tensing in waves, effortlessly, in time with Will’s movements. He has no idea how long they've been like this now; Frederick splayed out beneath him, his right leg hooked around the back of Will’s left thigh, pulling him in harder every time Will thrusts forward. His head thrown back against the pillow, his dark hair a beautiful contrast to the white linen (it’s longer these days and it curls as it grows damp). Will thinks that this might be it; this might be as close to perfection as he will get right now, buried to the hilt in Frederick’s body, listening to his desperate sobs and pleas in a language Will doesn't understand.
Frederick grows louder, more vocal, arching his spine when Will’s dick hits his prostate, curling his body inward, forcing Will closer again when it doesn't. His cock is trapped between them and the only relief he gets is from the friction of their bodies, so he is always moving. Frederick’s body knows what it wants and it isn't afraid to ask in a language both of them speak.
Will is exhausted, mentally and physically – he is more than willing to admit that. But he will be damned if he doesn't try to give Frederick what he needs right now. What Fredrick appears to need is everything he has had already, only more. harder. now.
The noises can get distracting sometimes, if he is being honest. It’s flattering of course and it’s hot – Frederick’s voice is beautiful, melodious, even when it grows hoarse from screaming, that only makes it sexier. It doesn't matter what he is saying, the words sound alluring and sensual all the same. But retaining focus can get difficult, especially in times like these, when Frederick’s pitch is reaching new highs and the words come flying so fast they blend together in a constant stream of sharp consonants and husky vowels.
It’s times like this when Will’s hand inches towards Frederick’s face to distract him, to run his thumb over Frederick’s bottom lip, bruised and swollen from their kissing, to gently touch his fingers to the scar below his cheekbone. Once, thoroughly frustrated, he had covered Frederick’s mouth with the palm of his hand, knowing that Frederick likes to be held down sometimes – by hands, not restraints; Gideon cured that particular inclination – and figuring that would be fine. Unfortunately Hannibal smothering him had left some mental scars as well, and Will had to spend the next hour talking Frederick down from a panic attack.
He still likes to be touched though and Will likes the way his moans turn soft when Will tenderly traces his fingers along his stubbled cheek. Frederick turns his face to nuzzle at the palm of Will’s hands, sighs, sucks on his fingertips, and shivers when Will caresses his scar.
He grabs a hold of Frederick’s jaw and forces him into a kiss. Frederick’s groans are almost silent then, muffled against Will’s lips and tongue. It offers a respite, but only for a little while, until Will can no longer sustain himself on the limited oxygen he can catch between kisses. He breaks away and returns his hand to Frederick’s hip. Frederick lets out a keening sound, pleased.
“Oh, for the love of god,” Will says, punctuating with a particularly hard thrust that sends both of them an inch closer to the headboard. “Don’t you ever shut up?”
A smile crosses Frederick’s face, and between gasps for breath he says, “You don’t have any neighbors.”
“That’s not the fucking point,” Will growls, his grip on Frederick’s hips slipping, the thin sheen of sweat that covers his body making it hard to hang on. He tightens his hold to compensate, and Frederick, predictably enough, groans happily in response. “You’re scaring the dogs,” he hisses.
Frederick laughs, a dry, uneven laugh that stutters in time with Will’s thrusts. “I don’t care about your dogs.”
Will can’t keep himself from smiling, but he leans down to hide it in the crook of Frederick’s neck. When he turns his head to suck at the salty skin under Frederick’s jaw, he feels the answering curses against his lips as much as he hears them.
“Please just...” he breaks off into a string of Spanish, then regains focus, “Harder.”
Will slows down instead, ignoring Frederick’s whining protest. “No. I’ll hurt you. You know that.”
“I don’t care,” Frederick says, and for the first time Will notices how thick his voice has become. “I don’t care.”
"I do.” Will sits up, resting one hand on the scar on Frederick’s abdomen and grabbing his cock with the other. It’s slick with sweat and pre-come, and he strokes it easily, enjoying the way Frederick’s eyes glaze over when Will rubs his thumb over the head. He isn’t going to last much longer. “I don’t want to hurt you. I won’t.”
Frederick says something that might be a protest or might be affirmation; it’s hard to tell when his voice is breaking like this. “Okay, okay, then just... don’t stop.”
Will smiles. “When was the last time I stopped?” He abandons his soft caresses of Frederick’s stomach, sliding his hand under Frederick’s thigh instead, changing the angle, pulling him closer and sinking his cock deeper, even as he keeps a slower pace. Frederick’s hands reach for Will’s hips, clinging on but no longer trying to speed him up.
It doesn't take long after that. Will waits until Frederick’s noises start to catch in his throat and then leans down to kiss him again, swallowing his cries while Frederick’s entire body tenses up and he comes all over Will’s hand and both their stomachs. He keeps stroking him and murmuring gentle words of encouragement into his ear while Frederick rides out his orgasm, shuddering and whimpering under his breath, his fingers tangling in Will’s hair and not letting go.
Only when Frederick relaxes into the mattress does Will focus on himself. A few quick thrusts is all it takes. Will is practically silent when he comes, save for a low groan that he stifles by biting into Frederick’s shoulder.
Frederick is always exhausted afterwards, understandably. Tonight is no different, but there is also a lingering tension in him that does not fade while they lie tangled together, sticky and soaked in sweat, still trying to catch their breath, or even after Will has fetched a wash cloth and cleaned them off before crawling back into bed.
“It’s over now,” he says, and his tone is impossible to read even for someone with Will’s abilities.
But Will knows what he is thinking, because Will has been thinking the same thing: it’s over now. Does that mean they’re over now?
It’s not a conversation Will wants to have, so instead he moves closer until he can rest his head on Frederick’s shoulder and avoid looking him in the eye. “You know I don’t speak Spanish,” he says, tentatively trailing his fingers through Frederick’s chest hair.
“I know.”
Will hesitates for a brief second, wondering if this is the right thing to do. Then he does it anyway. “I would like to learn it. If you’ll teach me.”
Frederick is quiet for so long that Will eventually feels obligated to make eye contact – Frederick is staring at him, his expression one of both surprise and intense relief. “You mean that?”
Will smiles wryly, leans up to kiss him and then returns to his previous position. “Yes. Maybe you can even teach me something useful, and not just dirty talk.”
Frederick laughs, and it sounds just beautiful as his moans. “If you insist.”
With that worry off his shoulders Frederick’s exhaustion finally catches up with him, and before long he is asleep. Will stays awake a bit longer, listening to Frederick’s breathing, hoping tonight will bring fewer nightmares for both of them.