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1.
The cabin is small and cosy on a stretch of several hundred acres of wooded land. Far enough removed from civilisation that they run little risk of being discovered, and well enough equipped for them to recover comfortably.
For the first few months, the forest is blanketed in snow and they sleep like the hibernating animals as their wounds heal. Hannibal makes regular trips into town for groceries, but other than that, they don’t venture out of the home.
It’s the sort of life Will has always not so secretly longed for, if not for social obligation and the matter of needing to pay the bills and put food in his dogs’ bowls. Out here, Hannibal is the only companionship he wants or needs.
They can spend entire days in absolute silence, passing each other only briefly in the halls on their way to the bathroom or kitchen, or they can sit by the fireplace together in the den, talking long into the night and early morning. Will can lay on the sofa listening to Hannibal plucking out melodies on the ancient upright piano in the study, or barricade himself in his room with a book for days on end, and it is equally comfortable.
This is the closest thing to peace Will has ever experienced, and he would be perfectly content, if it were not for the tension that finds its way between them from time to time. When Will is reminded of that moment with Hannibal on the cliffside, his expression somehow both unknowable and unmistakeable.
Standing together at the kitchen sink, hips and wrists bumping as they do the dishes. Hannibal washing and Will drying, sharing half-formed memories of childhood or college, but nothing of consequence. Their eyes will meet, and Will’s heart suddenly feels like it’s suffocating in his chest, the air too thin and hot.
Passing in the hall after one of them has come from the shower, still dripping from the ends of their hair, wrapped in a towel and usually little else. Drawing close to the wall to make space in the narrow passageway, and Will is struck by such a sudden, shocking wave of desire he doesn’t fully understand it or know how to process it because he’s never felt this way before in his life.
Sharing the sofa, each wrapped up in their individual readings, and Will stretches out his legs, feet accidentally landing in Hannibal’s lap. The small smile that curls on Hannibal’s lips, not looking up from his book as he shifts it to accommodate Will’s feet. It makes Will want to see how far he could push. Where he could touch. In what other ways Hannibal would accommodate him.
He wastes months just waiting for Hannibal to say or do something. Even before they’re physically able to really act upon it, Will expects a declaration of love in some form or another. They’ve been dancing around it for the better part of a decade, and it seems absurd to carry on any longer. But with every passing day, and no word from Hannibal, Will can’t help but wonder if he’s got it all wrong.
Supposing he is inclined to believe that Bedelia told him the truth, that doesn’t necessarily mean she was right. Perhaps her keen insight failed her in this case. Perhaps her perception was clouded by her own feelings and desires. Or, could it be that Hannibal’s love for him does not extend to the physical?
Because Hannibal would say something, wouldn’t he, if that were the case? He’s never been shy about what he wants, and never been afraid to go to any lengths to get it. They’re here together, and shouldn’t that tell him enough about Will’s stance on the subject?
There are times when these questions are on the tip of his tongue. But even with all the blood and bodies trailing in their wake, all the obstacles they’ve overcome just to be here sharing this same space in harmony, Will can’t seem to gather the courage to force them past his teeth.
So he holds them, until it feels like going over the cliff all over again, sinking deep into the water. They are a crushing pressure in his chest, taking up all the space for the air he needs to breathe. So that every time he’s in Hannibal’s presence, he feels a little dizzy and weak from it.
2.
Well. Maybe it wasn’t quite right to say that Hannibal had never given any sign. There is a moment, a few days after the bandages had come off for good. Of course, during that period of time, there had been a level of unavoidable physical intimacy. Undressed down to their underwear helping to change bandages and clean wounds on daily basis.
Then Hannibal declares them both fit as a fiddle, and Will is suddenly bereft. Doesn’t know what to do with himself in that space of time just before bed when they would meet in the bathroom, leaning up against the counter, fingers brushing the fragile, new skin.
He stands looking in the mirror after his shower, absently stroking the raised edge of his own new scars. Quite a collection he’s got going on now, though most of them have faded with age. The slightly puckered skin on his left shoulder from his stabbing; the flat round, reddish-pink bullet wound from Jack. His hair mostly obscures the line on his forehead. The newer ones are still puckered as they heal, but Hannibal stitched him up with care. He doubts they’ll be very noticeable within a few years--perhaps even less so than his older scars.
And his stomach, a dark, angry red colour. That one Hannibal cut so it would never fade. Will can find the edges of it sightlessly, and even if he could no longer feel it, he could trace its path from memory.
The door’s ajar to let out the steam and it swings open wider when Hannibal raps his knuckles against it. Their eyes meet briefly in the mirror before Will looks away. His fingers freeze on his stomach as though he’s been caught with his hand wrapped around his dick.
Silence hangs thick between them for a moment, before Hannibal swallows and takes another step further into the room. “Does it cause you discomfort?”
Will’s eyes fly up to pin him with a hard look. “What do you think?”
Hannibal is the one to look away this time, eyes cast demurely to the ground. Still, he comes closer. “I meant physically. Does it itch? Does it cause you pain?”
Will shakes his head. He grabs his toothbrush just to have something to do with himself. Hannibal opens the medicine cabinet and when Will has finished rinsing his mouth, approaches him with a jar of cream. Will half sits on the lip of the sink, brow raised in questioning.
“It will take several months, but if you apply this cream three times a day, the scar will fade significantly.” Hannibal reaches out, the cream thick on his fingers, to smear it across Will’s stomach, and Will flinches away. His hand strikes out, grabbing Hannibal around the wrist to hold him at bay.
Hannibal straightens and gently twists his wrist free. “Forgive me,” he says, and scrapes the cream back in the jar, then takes a step away. “I seem to have overstepped my bounds.”
Will snorts, because Hannibal is forever overstepping his bounds, and rarely apologises for it. But he can’t miss the way Hannibal’s lips pinch, and how his eyes are suddenly closed off to Will altogether. He’s gone before Will can even try to explain--there is no pain, there is no itch, and he doesn’t want it gone. That scar is so much a part of him now, the idea of losing it is anathema to him.
Hannibal keeps mostly to himself for a couple of days after, careful not to even brush against Will as they move through the house. Uncharacteristically quiet, though not taciturn. And Will doesn’t know how he’d put it into words, anyway, if he were to try to explain, in a way that doesn’t sound fucked up.
3.
But that wasn’t exactly the end of it. Slowly, Hannibal returns to his normal self. Now fully healed he goes back to making elaborate meals, cheerfully bemoans his lack of quality ingredients and jokes about the two of them going shopping for meat.
Will rolls his eyes and indulges him, because this is familiar. It’s comforting to fall into this back and forth, the two of them quietly amazed when Will never has the guilt-ridden panic attack they’ve both anticipated.
The snow stopped falling a couple weeks ago, and now it’s begun to melt with the rising temperature. They take to going on walks in the afternoon for some much needed exercise, and the crisp air is delicious in Will’s lungs. He feels lighter and younger and happier than he has in years, laughing when he kicks up snow at Hannibal’s legs. Laughs harder when Hannibal kicks some back.
After, Hannibal will start on dinner, and Will is finally allowed to drink again, weaned from his various antibiotics and pain medications. He’ll sip bourbon by the fireplace and idly browse the internet on Hannibal’s tablet. Current events or interest pieces, whatever page Hannibal’s left open if it’s not hopelessly technical or in a foreign language.
Which is how he finds the photo listings for a dog shelter the next valley over. Page after page of them, looking for their forever home. It has to be intentional on Hannibal’s part. He knows Will uses the tablet, there’s no lock on it, he never bothers to close his tabs.
Will opens a few in new tabs that appeal to him for whatever reason and takes the tablet with him into the kitchen. He finds Hannibal at the tiny island, chopping vegetables for stew. Will comes up behind him, tapping the tablet against his shoulder and turning to rest against the countertop.
“This your way of telling me I can have a dog?” Will asks, shaking the tablet.
“You hardly need my permission, if it’s what you want,” Hannibal says. “But this far out, we’re unlikely to happen upon many strays.”
Will thumbs back and forth between a couple of his favourites aimlessly. “Do you have any preference?”
Hannibal glances briefly at the screen, before scooping up the diced onion and turning to dump it in the skillet. The aroma immediately fills the air with the savory fragrance. “You have far more knowledge and experience in that area than I,” he says. “Though, a request, if I may?”
“Oh?” Will arches an expectant brow.
“Just that you allow me to name the beast.” His words are softened by the affection in his voice.
Will is immediately suspicious. “What, you’re going to name it something awful and pretentious like Mephistopheles, or Grendel, or Fenris--oh, actually, that’s not so bad.”
Hannibal huffs a faint laugh. “All perfectly acceptable names, I’d argue,” he says, adding the garlic to the softened onions. With a flick of the wooden spoon, he mixes them together.
“Pretentious,” Will says under his breath, drawing the word out.
Hannibal ignores him entirely, continuing on. “But I was thinking something a bit more...whimsical, if you will.”
Will crosses his arms over his chest, but he can’t help grinning. It’s so easy. How he’d feared for years what it would be like to give in, nothing but guilt and anguish. There are moments, alone in the dark, where he feels a flicker of regret. But with Hannibal, daylight streaming golden through the window, he there is a lightness in his chest, an almost perpetual, serene happiness.
“Okay,” he says expectantly.
Hannibal dries his hands on the dishtowel and comes to rest against the counter beside him. “What do you think of Encephalitis?” he asks.
A burst of laughter escapes Will before he can stop it. “You’re serious?”
“We could call it Cephy for short,” Hannibal says. His eyes are twinkling with mirth, and Will finds himself leaning in thoughtlessly. Into Hannibal’s solid, welcoming warmth, and Hannibal turns to let him closer.
Will’s breath catches and releases shakily. “That’s a stupid name,” he whispers.
“I think there’s a certain charm to it,” Hannibal murmurs. He raises a hand slowly to cup Will’s jaw.
Will shivers at the touch, smiles coquettishly from under his lashes. The rush of arousal and adrenaline is new and exciting, and terribly addictive. He reaches up a hand to rest on Hannibal’s shoulders, fingers curving and holding, just to feel the spark leap bright between them.
There is nothing more outwardly intimate about this moment than a dozen others before. Before the fall, before Will’s realisation, Hannibal’s incarceration, before everything went to hell. Still, they both know what’s changed. Will can feel the charge of it in the air, the heavy anticipation beating in his chest.
A great swell of conflicting emotions rises up in Will, lust, longing, and an almost paralysing fear. Can he do this, can they do this, or will it all just fall apart?
Will ducks his head, dislodging Hannibal’s hand. He turns away, covering for it by picking up the tablet from the counter, and when he turns back, Hannibal is already moving towards the stove. Will swallows back his disappointment and closes all the tabs but one. A Welsh Springer Spaniel, warm golden brown and white fur, long and curly. He tilts his head to the side speculatively.
“Cephy.” Will tries it out with a little half laugh. Then louder, “You know, I think it might actually suit her.” He holds the tablet outwards for Hannibal to see and it earns him a small smile. The brief flash of hurt, the pain of rejection, is gone from his face entirely, but Will’s heart aches all the same.
“A fine choice,” Hannibal says. “We can go pick her up tomorrow after breakfast if you’d like.”
Hesitant, WIll comes up behind him and rests a hand on his shoulder. Thankfully Hannibal doesn’t tense under the touch. Will strokes back and forth once, lightly. “Yeah, I’d like,” he says, and reaches past to snatch a piece of the browned lamb meat. Hannibal swats at his hand with the spoon, hard enough to sting, and Will scampers out of the room with a laugh.
It’s fine, he tells himself. I just need a little more time.
4.
So, no, it isn’t really fair to say there’s been no expression of interest on Hannibal’s part. It’s just that Will didn’t expect for him to give up so easily. After that moment in the kitchen, he’s been so careful. At first Will appreciated it, but now he just wants to scream.
The way Hannibal freezes now, when Will’s feet end up in his lap, and finds an excuse to get up soon after. The way they never share the bathroom sink anymore, Hannibal always waiting until Will has finished. The way Hannibal keeps a measured space between them when they wash the dishes, when they’re out walking with Cephy, when they pass in the hall.
Hannibal tolerates Will’s touches, but makes no sign of appreciation and never attempts to reciprocate.
Yet, for all of that, little else has changed in their daily routine. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe Will needs to be the one to make the first move, instead of allowing things to continue on forever as they are. Toeing the line. Maintaining the status quo.
The problem is, he has no idea where to begin. He is afloat, without another person’s attraction to latch onto and respond to. Whether it’s a good thing or not, he’s always followed the lead of his sexual partners and he’s never had a romantic partner, as such.
Before, in their dance, it was almost painfully easy to know what Hannibal wanted from him. The blood and pain and death of Will’s becoming. This, though...there’s no path set out follow. Hannibal has reined in his desire so tightly, Will has to wonder if he imagined it before.
With nothing more to go on, he falls back on what worked before. He takes the car into town to an honest to god barber. Gets his hair cut and has a clean shave. There’s not a lot else in this one horse town, besides the bars and the grocer, so he drives a little further to the next, bigger town with a department store.
New cologne that doesn’t have a ship on the bottle. It’s not the ridiculously expensive stuff Hannibal probably prefers, but it’s nice. A clean, crisp scent with underlying smoke, sandalwood, and musk notes.
Hannibal must notice it, practically the moment he steps in the door, with his sense of smell. He doesn’t remark on it, or Will’s new look at all, but his gaze lingers over dinner. Will can feel it like a lover’s caress on his face, on the tight seat of his new jeans when he gets up to refill his water glass.
Will doesn’t bother to hide his grin when he retakes his place at the table. He rubs absently at the scar on his cheek, stretched tight. The sensation is strange--he can’t remember the last time he hasn’t at least had some scruff.
“Might I inquire as to the reason for your new look?” Hannibal murmurs.
“I guess I figured it was time for a change.” Will shrugs and swallows his mouthful before speaking again. “Spring coming, renewal and all that.” He waves his fork in the air. “Good a time as any to do it, right?”
Hannibal dips his head in silent agreement. After a moment’s silent reflection he says, “We have died, and now we are reborn.”
“Of the baptismal waters of the Atlantic?” Will asks, amused. “Have we been absolved of our sins, then?”
“The sins we’ve committed against one another, at least,” Hannibal says.
“The ones we don’t plan on repeating, you mean,” Will says.
Hannibal’s eyes drink him in. He breathes deeply of Will’s scent. “Don’t you?”
Will is taken aback, so much so that he doesn’t know what to say to that. He leans back in his chair and drinks deeply from his wineglass. Then the anger comes, hot through his veins, chasing the burn of the alcohol. He shoves back his chair, knocking it over as he stands, and lays his fists on the table. “Fuck you, Hannibal,” he hisses, and storms off to his room.
5.
Clearly his first effort was a failure, but that’s not altogether surprising, when Will cools down and takes some time to think about it. For all the ways in which Hannibal is so incredibly other in terms of how he thinks and feels, he is remarkably human when it comes to this...thing between them. It has made Hannibal vulnerable, and Will’s treatment of him has made him fragile.
This should please Will, after all the damage Hannibal has dealt him, but he means what he said. These are sins he doesn’t care to repeat. So springing it on Hannibal maybe wasn’t fair. Distantly at first, he’s reminded of a conversation between them--one of their first. He calls it to mind, in vivid sound and colour, Hannibal wondering if they could simply be adults about things.
Will laughs out loud at the notion, still in bed after waking late. He scrubs his hands over his face, feeling the new growth of hair, and decides to leave it for now. Cephy lifts her head at the sounds of him stirring and Will levers himself out of bed to tend to her.
Hannibal is in his study with the door shut. Will leaves him be for a time. He lets Cephy out and throws sticks for a while until she’s panting hard for water. After putting down a bowl of food and water for her, he showers, then goes to rummage around in the kitchen.
There are scones and cream left over from breakfast. He picks at one, but even though they’re fluffy and filled with cranberry and orange rind, he doesn’t have much of an appetite.
For a while he kicks around the house. Does his exercises, aimlessly watches the cooking channel for an hour or so, reads in his room for a time until he realises he’s been on the same page for ten minutes, which is when he gets up and goes to knock on the study door. Hannibal lifts his head, almost looks surprised to find Will opening the door, as if there were anyone else who it might be.
“I was just about to make lunch, if you’re hungry,” he says.
“Yeah, sure, if you want,” Will says. He opens the door wider and comes inside, plopping himself down in the soft leather chair across the desk. He rubs his hands on the arms absently, sucks on his bottom lip, feeling out the right words to say.
“I feel like I should be apologising to you,” is what he comes up with, finally. Even if you were the one being a dick. That he manages to keep locked up behind his teeth.
“Oh?” Hannibal stops his sketching, pencil laid flat against the paper. “For what transgression?”
“Come on, Hannibal,” he mutters, scraping his palm down his face. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”
At that Hannibal chuckles, a warm, rueful sound. “How many times I could have said the same to you.”
“Okay.” Will splays his hands in entreaty. “But here we are now.” Discuss it. Like adults. “So for the sake of clarity, let me say, I have no desire to hurt you again. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
Hannibal puts down his sketchbook altogether and studies him. “And why are you here, Will?”
Will thinks about his conversations with Bedelia, and suddenly he feels ill-equipped for this. “You know, lunch sounds good,” he says, and pushes himself up out of the chair.
In the kitchen, he pulls down a bottle of whisky and pours himself a couple fingers. After throwing it back, he pours another, and takes down a second glass. Hannibal joins him a few minutes later, and Will holds out the glass for him. He looks from the whisky to Will and back again, before taking it.
They drink together, and Will pours them both another. Hannibal begins to slice thin slivers of eggplant, zucchini, tomato, and bell peppers, seasons them and tosses them in olive oil before putting them in the oven to roast. When he completes that task, Will rewards him with another glass of the whisky.
By the time they finish lunch, bread toasted and mozzarella melted over the roasted vegetables, they’ve also polished off the whisky. There wasn’t much in it to begin with. Will squats down on his heels to scrounge through the liquor cabinet for something else.
A bottle of tequila catches his eye. Casa Noble Jóven, unopened. He pulls it out and slices through the plastic wrapping. From the corner of his eye, he sees Hannibal studying him. It’s become a pastime of his. Will pours the tequila and slides it down the counter to him.
The tequila is the smoothest he’s ever tasted in his life, faintly chocolatey without a cloying sweetness, and it’s probably really fucking dangerous. He swallows his first mouthful and takes another.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Hannibal asks, swirling the amber liquid around in the bottom of his glass.
Will shrugs. “Why not?” He finishes his glass and pours some more. Takes the bottle with him to the living room, Hannibal trailing behind. “I have to admit, I’m a little curious.”
Hannibal hums thoughtfully and drinks deeply of his cup. They sit beside one another on the sofa, not quite touching. “And you aren’t simply trying to avoid the question?”
The last of Will’s tequila burns on the way down. He sits the glass down on the coffee table with a loud clink. “I’m here for the same reason you are, Hannibal,” he mutters.
Silence follows that pronouncement. It is Hannibal who fills up their glasses when they’ve finished this time. Will’s never been much of a tequila drinker, except for a few memorable nights in college, but this stuff might change his mind.
“Well?” he prompts, brows raised, when it’s clear Hannibal is not going to respond. It’s a bit of a disappointment. “Don’t you have anything to say to that?”
“I’m not sure how I’m meant to interpret that,” Hannibal says. He sips from his own glass and makes an appreciative noise.
“What,” Will snorts, “you think because we’re not out there hunting down someone for dinner, I don’t want what you do? If that’s what it would take to prove it to you, let’s go. Right now.”
Hannibal catches him around the elbow, when Will goes to rise and follows him to his feet, swaying a little from the forward momentum. Will pushes him away with an affectionate, “Lightweight.”
“Even before I was incarcerated, I was never one for hard liquor,” Hannibal says. He slumps back onto the sofa when Will pushes him again. “Which is one of many reasons why it would not be wise for us to go out at this time, though I appreciate the gesture.”
“It’s not a gesture,” Will snaps. When he sits again, flopping down inelegantly, they are pressed together all along their sides, knees to hips to shoulders. Will can feel the heat radiating from Hannibal’s body. It’s barely past three in the afternoon, and Will’s already drowsy from the drink. So much for talking it out in a mature fashion.
He reaches over and grabs a fistful of Hannibal’s shirt and gives a rough jerk. His head falls onto Hannibal’s shoulder. “I’m here, with you, one hundred percent,” he says softly. “Interpret that.”
“Will.” Hannibal’s hand touches his cheek, tracing the new line of stubble, and then down along his jaw. One finger rests briefly at the point of his chin before falling away. Will tips his head back and to the side to look up at him.
Desire pulses on the air between them. Will can practically taste it. He reads it in the gentleness of Hannibal’s eyes as they trace his mouth, the soft inhale from slightly parted lips. The hand on his hip is difficult to mistake. Hannibal bends towards him and Will lets his eyes flutter closed. He isn’t going to stop it this time.
That first press of lips is gentle and lush, their lips slotting together as if they were made for this purpose alone. Hannibal breathes into him, sticky damp and tasting the honeyed agave and smoky whisky. Will licks into him, past his lips, chasing the flavour and the slick slide of Hannibal’s tongue.
Everything is hot. Hannibal’s mouth over his. His hand, splayed over Will’s hip and then up the back of his shirt. His thigh, under Will’s clenching fingers. Will’s burning up with it. He twists, trying to get closer, and Hannibal grabs him and hauls him half into his lap.
Will moans happily at the change of position. So much easier to kiss like this, face to face, Will slightly higher above him. He gets lost in the sensations. Of silky fine hair between his fingers, and the muscles of Hannibal’s thighs firm beneath him. The points of Hannibal’s fingers pressing into the knobs of his spine. His cheek scraping against Will’s with the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow.
Hannibal’s upper lip is a fucking work of art--how has Will never appreciated that before? Plush and perfectly shaped, and Will could bite it forever, varying between light pressure and something sharper that makes Hannibal’s hips buck up, makes him groan so sweetly.
“Fuck,” Will whispers harshly into the wet, slick space between their mouths. He is so drunk, he can’t quite think straight. Can’t think past the rush of finally having what he’s wanted for so fucking long, longer than he ever fully realised. He climbs more fully into Hannibal’s lap, legs splayed wide on either side of him, tugs Hannibal closer, urges him to hold Will tighter.
Will hasn’t made out with anyone in longer than he can honestly remember. It’s never really been an activity he’s had any interest in. The people he’s slept with weren’t usually relationship material. There was a girl in college, the only time he thought it might lead to something more, and a few long sessions on the sofa before he decided if this was a relationship, he wasn’t all that interested. It was boring, actually.
This is decidedly unboring. They kiss until they’re both sore from it, mouths raw and red, laid out side by side on the sofa, legs entwined. Sometimes rocking together, with little intent. At some point Hannibal pulls down his collar and spends a ridiculous length of time just sucking the same spot on Will’s neck, until Will’s whimpering, oversensitive, feeling every swipe of Hannibal’s tongue against his skin like it’s directly connected to his cock.
And when he thinks he can’t take it any longer, Hannibal unbuttons his shirt all the way down and spreads it open, continuing his exploration. Will laces his fingers in Hannibal’s fine hair and clings to him as Hannibal nibbles and sucks down his chest, teases his nipples to peaks with fingertips and tongue and the gentle scrape of teeth.
Will’s never considered himself to have particularly sensitive nipples, but now he’s starting to think he could maybe come just from this, given the proper motivation. But Hannibal’s fingers continue downward, bolder than his mouth. Along Will’s scar with a firm, grounding touch that sparks lust in Will’s gut, and lower still, tracing his belly button.
There is some distant corner of him whispering that this isn’t a good idea. This is so far from the grown up discourse he’d intended, it might as well be a different planet. But Hannibal feels so good against him, his weight pressing Will into the cushions, there’s no place for sense in this.
Will rolls Hannibal beneath him and pushes his shirt up around his armpits. He pours the tequila from his glass onto Hannibal’s chest, where it pools in the faint lines of definition on his stomach, then follows the path with his tongue, sucks it down his throat. Hannibal laces a hand in the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him up for a kiss, chasing the flavour.
They drink straight from the bottle between kisses, and at some point it grows dark outside. Will at least has the presence of mind to suggest they eat something, lest they succumb to alcohol poisoning. Hannibal would probably be horrified if he were sober. As it is, he frowns mightily when Will suggests they just eat the cold, congealed left-overs from lunch for dinner.
For dessert, Will warms the scones in the microwave (another furrow between Hannibal’s brow and a mumbled protest to at least use the oven, Will, if you’re going to insist on this) then pours amaretto over them until they’re soaked, and tops them with cognac and cream. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, other than it seems like a good idea in his current state, but it tastes pretty good. Better, when he smears the cream over the throbbing pulse on Hannibal’s throat and sucks it clean. The salty tang of sweat under the sweet of the cream is delicious.
When Will trips into the bathroom to break the seal, he’s astonished to see it’s pushing nine o’clock at night. He grins at his reflection in the mirror over the sink while he’s washing his hands, admiring the angry red and purple bruise at the crook of his neck, his hair standing on end, curls half-flattened, the whole area around his mouth pink and swollen. He’s never seen himself looking so fucking happy and self-satisfied in his life.
After letting Cephy out, he makes his way back to the living room, only bumping into the wall a couple of times. His hip catches on the corner of the couch, and he hangs over the back to find Hannibal sound asleep. Will huffs in laughter and falls down on his knees, just watching him, for how long he can’t say. He needs to commit this memory, Hannibal’s cheeks a bright, feverish red, his lips parted, hand resting against the remains of tequila and cream on his stomach.
Somehow he looks more disheveled like this than he did in the aftermath of the Dragon, and it inspires tenderness in Will. He gets a washcloth and wipes up most of the mess, Hannibal grumbling and slapping at his hands, but never fully waking. Then he grabs the blanket off the back of the rocking chair and drapes it over him, and leaves a glass of water on the coffee table.
Briefly, Will considers joining him, squeezing into the narrow space on the edge of the sofa and clinging to Hannibal. But his vision is blurry and he still feels the twinge in his shoulder from the injury. His bed is calling to him.
Will slides in between the cool sheets and sinks into his pillow with a pleased sigh. He presses his fingers to his mouth, and then to the spot on his neck, drags them lightly across his own nipples. The keen spark of arousal has passed, replaced by the pleasant, dull tingling in all the places Hannibal kissed him, and the fierce determination to pick things up again when they’re both sober.
1.
Will wakes to the sound of birdsong outside his window and a raging headache. He stumbles into the kitchen, unsurprised to find there is no breakfast and no coffee. He starts it brewing and peeks his head into the living room, but Hannibal apparently moved into his room at some point in the evening.
Outside, the temperature is unexpectedly mild, an early warm snap. The first green shoots of grass are peeking through, and in the forest the birds are singing. Cephy wears herself out chasing squirrels, and by the time they get back to the house, Will is damp with sweat and nauseated.
After throwing back three cups of coffee with some ibuprofen, he feels more human. Enough to contemplate showering, and then he feels up to cleaning up the shitshow that is the kitchen. There are roughly a million bottles out on the counter--the empty whisky and half-full tequila, and the amaretto and cognac, but also a bunch of other shit that he doesn’t remember getting out, let alone drinking.
Cephy happily munches on the stale remainders of the bread while Will puts away the bottles and washes the dishes, scrubs down the counters, covered in crumbs and spilled rum. Then drinks another cup of coffee.
It’s too early in the year to turn on the a/c--he’s not even sure this place is fitted with a unit. Will changes into a pair of shorts he finds in the back of one of the drawers in his room. They look like leftovers from a previous owner, straight out of the eighties--pale pink and cut high on the sides of his thighs.
Then he throws open all the windows in the living room and kitchen, and opens the door, leaving the screen door locked. Cephy sits attentatively in the square of light that pools just inside, staring at the wildlife longingly.
Hannibal emerges from his room a short time later in his pajama pants and nothing else, hair falling loose around his face. He’s clearly not at the top of his game. He messes around with the coffee maker for a minute before he realises there’s already coffee in it, and then turns to find Will, eyes scanning the room before lighting on him.
Then all he can do is stare. There is a slight widening of his eyes as he takes Will in where he’s sprawled out over the couch, shirtless, legs kicked out, arms stretched overhead. He zeroes in on the bruise on Will’s neck, and his face goes completely blank. His throat works with a single swallow, he licks his lips, then turns on his heel and walks silently from the room. A moment later the door to his study closes.
Well. This is an entirely new experience for Will. A relationship where he has no fucking clue what’s going on in his partner’s head. Every time he thinks he’s finally figured things out, Hannibal changes the goddamn rules.
Will’s tired of playing games. He goes down the hall, throws the study door open without knocking, and crosses the room to lean against the desk, facing Hannibal. Puts his foot on the edge of Hannibal’s chair and kicks it out, away from the desk.
Hannibal’s hands flex and close into fists on the arms of his chair. He lifts his head slowly, his expression almost pleasantly quizzical. Anyone else would believe it, which is how he got away with being the Chesapeake Ripper under their noses for years. “Will,” he says. His eyes flick, no doubt involuntarily, to the mark on Will’s neck.
“Hannibal.” Will keeps his tone light, conversation, even as he straddles Hannibal and lowers himself into his lap, palms pressed against Hannibal’s bare chest. He leans in to brush their lips together; Hannibal’s are firm and unyielding. His nostrils flare. From anyone else it would be a snarl of rage.
“Well,” he says, voice tight. “Here I thought you could only bring yourself to touch me when you were pretending to be someone else. Or blackout drunk.”
Will doesn’t fight to suppress his sigh of exasperation. His arms fall to rest in his lap. “What do you want from me, Hannibal?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Enough of your goddamn non-answers, questions with questions bullshit,” Will snaps. “You asked me why I was here, and I told you. Was I wrong? Did I misunderstand what you were expecting out of this relationship.”
“I have no expectations where you are concerned,” Hannibal says evenly. “To have you here with me is enough.”
“That’s really romantic, Hannibal,” Will says, drawing out his name, a verbal eyeroll. “And just so we’re on the same page, I feel the same way. But…” He rolls his hips once, a fluid motion that makes the vein on Hannibal’s temple tic. His hands open and close again, grasping air. “If we both want this, what are waiting for? We’ve wasted enough time, haven’t we?”
There is a war being fought inside Hannibal’s head. Will can see hints of it in the flashes of his eyes. Will ducks his head to kiss the hollow of his throat. “You need to stop second guessing everything, and just taking fucking yes for an answer,” he murmurs, and bites down, hard enough to draw a hiss from Hannibal.
For another breathless moment, Hannibal is still beneath him. Then all at once he surges forward. One arm tight around under Will’s ass, the other reaching out to sweep the desk clear. Will gasps in surprise, hands clinging to Hannibal’s shoulders as he’s hefted onto the desk. Hannibal catches the sound with his mouth, and it’s so much better sober, being able to remember every detail for what it is.
“Fucking finally,” he growls, locking his legs around Hannibal’s waist and pulling him closer.
Now Hannibal does snarl, teeth snapping and closing on Will’s bottom lip. He wraps his fingers around the waistband of Will’s shorts and jerks them down roughly over his hips. Will reaches between them to return the favour, tugging loose the drawstring of Hannibal’s pants and letting them slide down.
The first touch slide of Hannibal’s hips between his thighs is electric. Will wraps his hand around Hannibal’s cock without pausing to think about it. He pushes back the foreskin in an easy glide that makes them both groan, then Hannibal’s mouth is on the mark on his neck, sucking and biting until Will’s whining high in the back of his throat. His fist tightens on Hannibal’s cock and he gives a rough pull.
“Touch me, Hannibal, please,” he manages.
“My memories of last night are hazy,” Hannibal says, licking the spot. The skin there feels hot and numb. “But I seem to recall you saying you could come just from this.”
Will groans, cheeks flushing. “Yeah, well, I’m not entirely opposed to it at some point in time,” he says. “Right now, I want your hand on my cock.” He squeezes a fistful of Hannibal’s hair and tugs him up to look him in the eye, grinning cheekily. “Or your mouth. I’m not picky.”
At his words, Hannibal lunges at him, lays him out flat on the table and half climbs on top of him. Their bodies line up just right, Will’s fist nudging up against his own cock with every stroke of Hannibal’s, and still Hannibal doesn’t touch him. Will moans his complaint into Hannibal’s kiss, and Hannibal answers with a hand between his thighs, brushing dry over his hole. Will starts, whole body lighting up with pleasure and tension.
“Or that,” Will murmurs, surprised with himself.
“Yes?” Hannibal asks, touching him there again.
Will swallows and nods his head, licking across Hannibal’s lips. His hand falls loose from around his cock. “Yes. Yes. Go on.”
There’s a tube of lubricant in the second drawer of the desk, and Will gives Hannibal an arch look when he pulls it out. Will snatches it from his hand, unscrewing the lid and taking Hannibal by the wrist. He squeezes the lube over Hannibal’s fingertips. “Have you been planning something like this?”
Hannibal laughs, and it warms in Will’s chest, something finally breaking between them that lets him fully relax. “You give me far too much credit,” he says. He leans back, puts just enough space to let him reach down with his lube-covered fingers.
“Do you think of me as celibate?” He traces Will’s opening and pushes in with the tip of one finger. Will gasps, not out of pain or even discomfort, but at how easy it is, how his body just gives without any resistance. “Do you think I watch you walking around the house in nothing but a towel, behaving like a cocktease,” at that, Hannibal shoves deeper. Will has to bite his lip to keep from crying out when he finds the prostate with unerring accuracy. “And it doesn’t provoke a response from me?”
“Hannibal,” Will pants. “Fuck, that is--” He swallows dryly, and laughs. “That’s not what I was expecting.”
“Good?” Hannibal asks.
Will nods frantically, and Hannibal does it again, finger rubbing around the edge of his prostate. “You were in here, jerking off, when we could have been doing this?”
“I suppose it would do little good to point out that you could have, at any time, said something, rather than behaving like a teenager with his first crush.” Hannibal shoves a second finger in with the first, rougher than before.
“I guess in a way I was,” Will says, jutting his chin out defiantly. “I’ve never done it like this before.”
They both know he doesn’t mean Hannibal’s fingers opening him up, and it makes Hannibal kiss him, hungry and raw. He adds a third, stretches Will hastily. There’s a fine tremor in his arm when he slips his hand free, and Will kisses him through it, gentling. He feels blindly for the lube beside him on the desktop, slathers it over his hand and reaches for Hannibal’s cock.
“It will sting,” Hannibal warns, and Will quiets him with his mouth.
He quirks a smile at Hannibal when they part. “I’ve had worse,” he says.
Hannibal pushes him flat on the desk again, one hand in his hair. His fingers dig into Will’s scalp, card through his hair, and he licks into Will’s mouth as he guides himself into Will’s body. Will arches off the table at the first, slick glide, lifts his legs around Hannibal’s hips, knees digging into his sides.
“Oh, wow, okay.” All the air leaves his lungs and he draws in another, shaky breath.
“Shall I stop?” Hannibal asks, though he keeps pushing in, slow and steady.
Will shakes his head, the sweat dripping from his hair on his bare shoulders. “Please don’t,” he says. His nails bite into Hannibal’s arms and back. “Don’t stop.”
When Hannibal finally settles deep between his thighs, coarse hair against the curve of his ass, he barely gives Will a moment to adjust before he’s moving. Deep, rolling thrusts that leave them both gasping.
At first, it’s good, but Will doesn’t think it’s going to get him off. He likes the stretch and the edge of pain, and more than that, the knowledge that it’s Hannibal inside him, joined with him in yet another way. He reaches down between them to feel the place Hannibal splits him open and can’t help the wounded, hungry sound he makes.
Will sits up as much as he can, twining arms and legs around Hannibal, face in his neck, and the angle makes all the difference. Now he can feel the pleasure mounting quick and delirious. Then Hannibal’s hand is on him, at last, hot and tight and slick. Will’s hand tightens on his bicep, feels the muscles bunching and loosening with the movement. He lifts his head, nuzzling along Hannibal’s jaw until Hannibal turns to meet him.
It’s nothing like he’s ever experienced before. The building of pleasure is centred differently, tingling in his lower back and thighs. It’s warm and gentle, counter to the hot, bright, sharp pleasure of Hannibal’s hand on his cock. The two sensations are overwhelming, and he’s unravelling at the seams, hanging right there on the edge and waiting to go over. He doesn’t even know what’s holding him back until Hannibal tenses, teeth bared in a grimace as he cums, and that’s it.
That’s what Will needed to see, to hear the low, rumbling groan of pleasure rippling up from Hannibal’s chest as he fucks into Will and shakes apart. Hannibal’s hand stills on his cock, grip firm, and Will bucks up into it. Clings tightly to Hannibal with one arm and touches himself again where they’re joined, the skin puffy and hot to the touch and so sensitive. He gives over to it, cumming with Hannibal’s name on his lips.
Will can’t quite come down, after, the pleasure still tripping through his nerves, synapses firing off. He pants against Hannibal’s skin, licking the salt from the slope his shoulder and pressing a kiss there.
“That was intense,” he says, laughing breathlessly, when Hannibal pulls his softening cock free.
“That was nothing,” Hannibal says. “That was merely a response to your provocation.”
“Oh?” Will’s fingers slip into his hair and tighten, tilts Hannibal’s head down for a kiss.
“I’m going to delight in taking you apart, for hours,” Hannibal tells him, their foreheads pressed together. He strokes his fingers down Will’s cheek, rasping over his facial hair, his fresh scar “I’m going to take my time with you.”
“Sounds good,” Will agrees. He loops his arms around Hannibal’s neck, playful and sleepy and sated. He’s weak in the knees, a strange sensation since he’s already sitting. “Better not leave the bed for days.”
Will laughs in disbelief and delight when Hannibal stands, taking him along. He lets Hannibal carry him across the hall to his room, and deposit him on his bed, still unmade from this morning, warm where the sun has cut across it.
Hannibal follows him down with kisses, and Will loses himself in it, idly remembering how he thought he could kiss those lips forever, and now he can. There’s nothing else for them. No one expecting them, no demands, not another soul in the world that even knows they’re alive.
Will looks forward to provoking plenty more responses.