Chapter Text
“I kissed Alana Bloom.”
Will moves inside and shuts the door behind him. He ignores Hannibal's still expression, murmuring about Dr. Bloom. His complaints indecipherable and clipped, he swings a forgotten bottle of wine, revealed like an afterthought. Hannibal expects to be handed the bottle, but Will hangs his coat instead, preoccupied with his latest mistake.
“Come in.”
Will accepts Hannibal's invitation and rushes through the foyer, disappearing into a dark hallway. Hannibal forgives Will for his bad manners and follows to see where his curiosity takes him.
The hallway ends in candlelight, softly guiding Will into the dining room. He hears sharp laughter and unexpected voices that drain him of any remaining confidence. The shadows that bundle around Will hide, uninterested in meeting strangers. Unfamiliar faces turn, and Will shrinks when he finds Hannibal’s dining table occupied.
A small group of adults chat over unfinished food and half-empty wine glasses. Hannibal interacts with a woman covered in gaudy makeup and garish taste. Her name is Annabeth. Will forgets the names of the men that surround her, their figures inconsequential compared to their waif of a matriarch.
"Oh, a handsome new denizen?"
Will recognizes Annabeth’s brash behavior, an unusual find in Hannibal's company, comfortable with hyperbole and kitsch. Her fine jewelry and tailored clothing argue with her coarse presence, insisting with couture that she belongs. Will doesn’t know much about designer labels, but he is American enough to recognize wealth. Especially the grotesque kind. An affluence that hides under oiled languor, antiquated with animal tallow. Evidence of Annabeth's age and her abuse of fine maquillage. She seems like someone Hannibal would prefer to keep a distance from, albeit a polite distance.
One man turns to face Will, his glasses slipping to the edge of his nose.
"Persephone?"
The men erupt into laughter, and Annabeth chastises them.
"Ignore the hounds. Find a pomegranate and join us, sweetheart."
Hannibal introduces Will, defending his arrival with academic qualifications. Will attempts a well-behaved smile but doesn't sit to join them.
Annabeth’s companions give impressions identical to their consort: strange and misplaced. Another man makes a crude joke, prompting more hysterical laughter. Will can feel Hannibal’s tight form behind him, and his nervous system rattles around the strange atmosphere he’s wandered into.
"The F-B-I?" A young man asks, drawing the acronym out slowly.
Will's smile stretches, tight and wavering. Hannibal's guests communicate with heavy tongues, weighted with expensive alcohol and rich duck fat.
"Oh, perfect! Another doltish pup to dote on me!"
Annabeth's insult goes unheard, eclipsed by Will's apprehensive silence. He wonders if his rude intrusion volunteered him into this ill-fitting fellowship, unwelcome by Hannibal and grating.
Hannibal steps forward and tries to mollify Annabeth, suggesting gently that her behavior towards Will might appear crass. Annabeth disagrees, touching Will with a firm hand and acrylic nails. They scratch, making Will's stomach clench. The group continues to laugh, teasing Hannibal now for his attempt at modesty.
"Can't we have any fun?"
Will hears Hannibal murmur apologies and pleasantries. It gives Will enough space to apologize and retreat into the attached kitchen. Hannibal follows.
“S-Sorry.” Will whispers, clutching the wine bottle to his chest, thick glass creaking under his palms.
Hannibal smiles, unfazed, his eyes wandering to the merlot. The wine was a spontaneous decision, an offering from the bottom of a kitchen cabinet, remembered only moments before Will left Wolf Trap. It clashes with his unexpected presence, looking increasingly odd the longer it goes unoffered.
“I didn’t know you had guests. I can—”
Hannibal doesn't allow Will to finish his apology. He reaches to accept the wine with a soft hand, using the handover as an excuse to stand close. It is a generous allowance, reassurance that Will's company in an empty kitchen is preferable to those in the dining room.
“Why don't you stay?” Hannibal asks, his eyes studying the wine’s unfamiliar vineyard and inauspicious year. “We are just finishing up.”
“I’m not much for company right now.”
Hannibal hums, placing the bottle on the kitchen island before wiping his hands with a clean towel.
“There won’t be company to have," Hannibal says. “I’m a very humble host. Unselfish in the evening’s liberation of my guests.”
Hannibal's joke is sweet, determined to share his good mood, to let it radiate and brush against his guest’s tight apprehension. Will can do nothing but accept it with a laugh. It's a familiar dynamic between them, converse temperaments that clash and comfort, providing evidence that they don’t need to be similar to enjoy each other.
Will wonders if Hannibal’s charm is a practiced skill. It looks easy from afar. To gracefully convince strangers that their visit has ended. To do so without offending. If this skill is inherent, then it is a foreign language to Will. As an adult, he has only known the blunt weight of solitude, a lifelong inability to charm a fly off a horse.
"—Perhaps my best virtue?”
Hannibal reminds Will that they are having a conversation and that he is asking him to stay.
"Well, maybe not your best—"
Will's voice attempts to imitate Hannibal’s playful tone. A lesser psychiatrist would assume behavioral mirroring, but Hannibal knows what Will’s loneliness looks like.
Will's aversion to eyes, his cold and rigid response to those around him. Most assume those behaviors are some innate gruffness or a defensive form of detachment. But Hannibal knows Will better than that. Bad manners and strange comments are secondary to a deeper dysfunction: a painful and uncontrollable shyness.
Hannibal laughs at Will's thinly veiled compliment. He feels a swell of pride at having influenced Will’s mood so easily. It evokes an unfamiliar volume of affection in Hannibal. One that he hasn’t felt for a long time, quantitative only to his childhood, to someone he thought he loved more than any soul on earth.
Someone small and dead.
Will's face falls. Hannibal's expression must have softened or revealed too much. Will's mood slips back, becoming tender and timid, suddenly unsure how to smile, distracted by the shape of Hannibal’s hands, by his gentle intimidation.
“I’m afraid my overindulgence in such virtues works against me,” Will says, tucking his eyes back to his shoes.
Hannibal responds with a vibrating hum, his eyes lowering to Will’s lips. He hesitates. Despite all his fun, it could be dangerous for Hannibal to test this new boundary. It's a tempting one, the opportunity for something selfish, something that offers both sacrifice and satiation, refusing to guarantee either.
Hannibal sighs, experiencing a long-forgotten sense of whimsy, still not immune to its pull.
"Stay."
It’s dark outside, and the house is still. Hannibal’s guests must be gone by now. Will cannot hear them but recognizes the sound of creaking wood as doors open and close. He waits for Hannibal in a small room, some secondary office or study. There is a couch, a desk, and a thick carpet to pace over.
Will tries to calm himself, to sit on the nearby sofa and settle into his thoughts, but every attempt fails. His concerns return to Alana and his behavior at Wolf Trap. His mind follows a thread leading to Hannibal. Another potential faux pas that he will be forced to endure.
Hannibal was so odd to Will at first, so unfitting to the reality Will felt safe in. He was sure that Hannibal’s interest wasn't any different, that it matched the grotesque fascination Will often inspires in psychiatrists. Usually, the comfortable ones. Affluent and sheltered from any nuance in mental illness. Will becomes a sideshow to them, a curiosity that ultimately falls short of expectations.
It’s a captivation Will liked to pretend Alana was blind to. Or, hoped she was.
Hannibal is not like those other doctors. After all of their conversations, their sessions, Will came to see a softness, an honest adoration in Hannibal where others would recoil. The more terrible Will revealed himself, the less other Hannibal became. Not a prodding instrument or a measuring needle, but someone to harmonize with, someone who sings the same song.
On the surface, they shouldn't be friends. Hannibal is the opposite of Will in every way: his manner, his clothing, even his charm. But one thin layer deep, Will finds a mirror. Viscera identical to his. Their minds match too, speaking through an undercurrent of electrical impulses that fire together like siblings. Children who survived the same dark household, carrying a set of iron chains and defective instincts.
Will reprimands himself for being so dramatic. They can't be this close this fast. Hannibal can't see inside of him. Not this deeply.
But still—
Will likes Hannibal.
He wants to be closer to him, to affirm their matching parts. To discover if this recognition is true or if he’s unraveling further. The more Will observes, the less hollow he feels, persuading a fascination that he isn’t sure is healthy.
It’s the reminder of his own yearning that stings. An immature attachment. To have such an inappropriate fascination is as foolish as anyone can be within their academic sphere. Unprofessional, weakening any argument that he isn’t losing his mind. Only an unstable person would feel such joy and excitement from such a superficial crush. Or two of them.
Jack's face appears suddenly, in Will's mind, pinched and disgusted. The phantom expression jolts Will out of his spiral. He chastises himself again, reacting to the visual reminder with resentment. A Freudian slip if Hannibal were to ask. To be so drawn to please men in positions of authority, to prove himself. Will aims to resist Phantom-Jack's assumptions, and his disobedience entertains filthier possibilities.
Would it be so terrible to feel something so naive about a man so serious? Is Hannibal not allowed to entertain in silly crushes, too? They are both alive and both adults. They have bodies that want, bodies capable of bending and swelling. Is it so radical to want to join them?
The empty room doesn't offer Will an answer. It chooses apathy, and the ceiling rises to mock him. Will's mind fills the emptiness with urges to isolate, to hide behind poetic rumination instead. Every simple emotion demands to be weighed, considered just as seriously by the people who are afraid of him, who call him different. It’s infantilizing.
I deserve to be stupid, Will thinks. —To make selfish mistakes. If I want this, I want it to be easy. Everything else in my life is so hard.
A clock ticks on Hannibal's wall like a metronome. Ominous and singular. Will flops to the couch, his hand trying to wipe away a sheepish grin when he allows himself the option of fantasy.
A body to press to.
Hannibal appears breathless when he returns to Will and smiles, unaffected by his companion’s flushed expression.
“We are alone."
Will puts his finger to the fine velvet of a new sofa, one in a deeper part of Hannibal's home. This room differs from the one before. It’s not quite a room but an inlet between two larger rooms, open, framed by furniture structured around a small fireplace. A resting place between two posts.
Will squints. The space is dark, illuminated only by flickering flames and the ghosts of hallway lights. He remembers his conversation with Hannibal, the one they had about his house. If he leaves the lights on at night and watches it from the flat fields, it looks like a boat at sea. This feels like that, too.
The clinking of glass and metal distracts Will from diving too deep underwater. He watches Hannibal work, mixing and smiling, preparing drinks at a small bar more elegant than cheap wine. Hannibal had offered dessert, but Will had declined, explaining that his stomach was too twisted to take on sugar. He does not refuse strong liquor.
Whiskey, neat, poured like thin syrup into a crystal glass. When Hannibal hands it to Will, he stands tall, his shoulders broad without his dinner jacket. Will rarely sees Hannibal dressed so casually, with rolled sleeves and a loose tie. He tries to focus on his glass. It bounces firelight around the room like a prism, shadowed in thin spots by his fingers.
“I still want to apologize for interrupting,” Will says.
Hannibal joins Will on the sofa, sitting close, warmth radiating from his body when he faces Will. The new position pushes Will further onto the elongated chase, his legs pinched where the sofa and the sectional meet. It forces them to sit closer, their legs and knees touching.
“No need. They were—” Hannibal swallows, contemplating the appropriate descriptor. The polite one. “—additions to tonight’s plans. Brought by the man I intended to host alone.”
Hannibal smiles, proud of his attempt at delicacy. Will hums.
“Someone special?”
“A new friend. One just as virtuous as you in the company of strangers." Hannibal swallows his cognac. "He left. Leaving me stranded with his acquaintances.”
“Oh.” Will laughs. It's amusing to think of Hannibal trapped in an awkward social situation. It’s so normal for a man so complex, so boring.
Hannibal leaves out important details, omitting that his uninvited guests were just as disliked by Mr. Budge.
“Musicians. Working with the symphony. My new friend acts as their purveyor. Strings, reeds, instrumental management.”
“You sound unimpressed.” Will sips his whiskey, smiling on the rim.
“They are new to the company—" Hannibal tries to hide his dissatisfaction. "—And they are young.”
Will's eyebrows arch up.
“The new generation,” Hannibal says, his eyes narrowing.
“Does classical music change that easily?”
“The translation of old composers, new arrangements. They can inspire creativity and novelty. Or they can deconstruct the source material into something derivative.”
Will responds slowly, understanding creeping in. “Iteration.”
“Often, a crude push for modernity in the music. Unfortunately, a common influx every new decade. The banal influence of the nouveau riche,”
Hannibal's accent thickens the sweetness of his complaint. Will finds it endearing. He responds with sharp laughter, light and young enough to surprise them both. He shuts his mouth and takes another drink, ignoring the warmth in his cheeks, fanned by the bright alcohol.
“I kissed Alana,"
“You are upset.”
Will doesn't miss Hannibal's tone of tenderness. His eyes shine like glass, offering an emotion without any sorrow, something selfish and flat. One that moves Hannibal in unexpected ways.
“Rejection is upsetting. I have wanted to kiss her since I met her. I told her that.”
Hannibal doesn't reply, mimicking the pillar he knows Will so desperately wants to lean on.
“When I told her— It felt like a lie. It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like one.”
Hannibal sighs, shifting in his seat. He places an arm on the back of the sofa, his elbow bent and fingers only inches from Will's neck.
“That sounds like loneliness. You sound lonely.”
Hannibal stops himself. That was pithy. He blames the alcohol for loosening his tongue.
“She said—” Will’s voice thickens. “—She’s not compatible with the way I am.”
Hannibal resists the urge to bark, to scoff with incredulity. He keeps his face still, but his disapproval translates.
“What is so strange about you?” Hannibal asks.
Will’s expression wrinkles, and he looks at his hands.
“What I see, what I feel. This instability—”
“You analyze and empathize with people who do terrible things. I get paid $500 an hour to do that.” Hannibal laughs and takes another swallow of his drink. “Psychiatrists, detectives, priests? That perspective is a requirement; we would be useless without it.”
Will looks back at his glass, mulling over Hannibal’s argument, grappling with it in his mind. He reconsiders his fears, pushing against the validity of chimeras trapped in his chimney. He doesn't tell Hannibal about them.
“It should be something that Dr. Bloom—" Hannibal hesitates, pursing his lips.
“What?” Will smiles, prodding to tug an answer free.
Hannibal tries to straighten himself, to force reservation in. He considers apologizing for his unprofessional behavior, but tonight sobriety has too steep a price.
“Alana was a student of mine," Hannibal says. "Some students, while bright and capable, lack perspective.”
“Doctor Lecter,” Will whispers, his smile widening.
Hannibal laughs against his glass. He moves himself closer to Will, his fingertips grazing the small curls at Will’s nape.
"I don't wonder why you kissed her, but why you felt compelled to drive an hour in the snow to tell me about it."
Will knows that Hannibal makes his observations with kindness, but his behavior sounds foolish when spoken. Inelegant for a stable adult. He tries to respond but swallows thickly instead, color rushing to his cheeks.
“One kiss? Was that all?”
The question would be crude coming from anyone else. With Will, Hannibal takes allowances, small liberties, to both reveal and enshroud their dirty secrets.
“Well. She left." Will traces the rim of his drink with his finger.
"—And I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You are.”
A pulse passes between them, a beat of silence and hot breath. It gives the fire time to crackle, to shine in the clarity of Will’s eyes.
“I wasn’t always so inexperienced,” Will says. “I was very, very alluring when I was young.”
Hannibal wants to agree. To argue that things haven’t changed.
“Soft curls and a stubborn heart," Hannibal says. "Surely an aphrodisiac for young girls.”
Will laughs, and Hannibal resists the urge to lavish Will with compliments, to praise his loveliness until it suffocates him.
“My mind was narrow.” Will's eyes shine with mischief. “Too lost in the suffering of adolescence to allow any fawning.”
“How?”
“Like most teenagers. Tumbling from a few genuine tragedies. Focusing only on the heavy burden of puberty and the unfairness of the adult world.”
Will’s mind drifts to the past.
“Dark clothing and sad music. A small book of Poe that I tried to hide. The kind of self-destructive apathy that all young men aspire to."
Will pauses, considering his younger self.
"I wanted to fall in love. A horrible romantic."
"Of course you were," Hannibal says, souring Will's attempt at cynicism. “Romantic, bright, and sensitive. If you saw yourself now, at that age, you would have a kinder reflection. Lonely, bright boys are easy to be kind to.”
Will pushes down the urge to disagree. “What were you like?”
“Me?”
Hannibal pictures his teenage years, the parts that were plain and slow. He tucks away the violence, exploring the banal intensity of that age instead: hot summers, changing bodies, and the bright flames of desire.
“Foolish. Severe." Hannibal says. "Riddled with the kind of impulses that translate to mistakes."
Will warms, enjoying the images those descriptions bring. He pictures a strapping young boy, tall and blonde, covered in skin that flushes pink in the winter. It's an image that fits, as European as a fairy tale, a handsome terror for young girls looking for young husbands.
Hannibal leans close to whisper. "When masculinity can feel more powerful than civility."
Will breathes deeply. Hannibal's scent is an onslaught this close, his fragrance a sauna.
"I wasn't so much that kind of boy," Will says.
"I don't believe that. There must have been a summer. Long and humid. The budding of puberty. Mine was a torture."
Hannibal studies his glass, rotating it under the firelight, allowing it to reflect the placid hunger that flashes in his eyes.
"Somehow, in a constant state of arousal, inflamed and naïve, hypnotized by indulgence. Stupid."
Will wants to argue, to divert from the path Hannibal's forked tongue carves, but he remembers his argument with himself. Adult bodies and the justification of stupidity. It gives Will permission to keep quiet, stoked like a bundle of embers, eager to match the inferno of Hannibal's flirtation.
“Stupid enough to fall in love. To mindlessly chase after lonely boys who read Poe.”
Will’s eyes study Hannibal’s face, wide and vibrant, searching the points of his companion's expression for truth. He can only recognize heat and curiosity. A desire that Will isn’t able to convince himself is real.
“Do we grow up and change?” Will asks, more to himself, his eyes fixed on the worn fabric of Hannibal's shirt.
“Maybe Alana saw the stilted parts of me. Things inside unwilling to age.”
“All the things that make you human?” Hannibal pretends to be annoyed. “Does she see you that way? A copy of the broken child you used to be. An iteration?”
Will’s eyes turn up, drawn into the pull of Hannibal’s argument. A tight knot in his chest unfurls, exhausted with resistance.
“It wasn’t me- What she saw. It's the same thing everyone sees."
Alana’s rejection echoes in Will's mind, the thorns in her kind words. He remembers his behavior, how alien it felt. There was an absence within him, a miserable engagement of things she might like or things she might agree to. Paid for with inauthenticity and detachment. A deeply unfamiliar voice.
"Is that what Alana offers you? Is that why you kissed her? Your bed of roses to prick yourself on?" Hannibal's question cuts an inoffensive wound, loving when it bleeds.
“What do you see?” Will asks, "—When you see me?”
Hannibal remembers his conversation with Bedillia and says something foolish.
“I see myself.”
Will makes a small sound, one that travels between them on a sigh and lidded eyes. The moment turns wet, dewy with affection, on track to a vicious drench. Hannibal lifts a hand to Will’s temple, brushing at an errant curl. He admires how Will's eyes search and plead, glittering under burning flames, asking to be loved.
Hannibal leans in, drunk on the position Will’s wonder puts him in. Like a Deva delivering ambrosia to a worshiping mortal. Big like a mountain, small like an insect.
Take from the nectar of my mouth.
Their first kiss is a drawing of weight, lips following identical paths, finally on their way to each other. Will whimpers at the first taste of Hannibal’s tongue. The initial flavor is cognac, but then iron and salt, something from dinner. Further in, the taste changes. It becomes sour and nourishing, like swallowing milk.
Their mouths catch in sync, moving reactively forward and back. The mold is soft and tangible. Audible. The sugar-sweet snap of kisses, pitched high, cracking and wet. Hannibal and Will sculpt a stretch of muscle together, a wet carving of clay they can squeeze. If Will’s kiss with Alana was firm and desperate, his kiss with Hannibal is languid and assured. It lasts between them, active and involved. Growing.
They move. Hannibal presses close, his lips and tongue tasting what Alana was naïve enough to reject. It feels righteous to take this from her, to correct the focus of Will's attention. A sentiment that could lead to a fraying of control, a ferocity, one that encourages jaws to snap.
Hannibal pulls his mouth away, nipping at Will's lips, pretending to be harmless. It's a practiced performance; his teeth shape themselves to feel blunt. Safe to be touched by. Will believes them; his mouth chases, stretching for another kiss, indifferent to sharp points.
Hannibal pulls back to speak, whispering against Will's lips. “Two affairs in one night?”
Hannibal watches Will rattle, enjoying the painful and bashful response. Hannibal explores, his hand finding Will’s belly and traveling down, applying pressure and movement. Their bodies move to accommodate, to watch. Hannibal smirks when Will shudders, and the tent at his pelvis stretches the seam of his trousers.
"Already? From kissing?"
Will blushes furiously, the playful banter a reminder of forgotten concerns.
“Shouldn't we—"
“You aren’t my patient.” Hannibal clips, and Will snaps his mouth shut.
“And even if you were—” Hannibal shifts his hand, pushing his fingertips to feel the base of stiff flesh, swollen under worn cotton.
"—I’m not sure it would change my mind.”
Hannibal's eyes are dark, pitched in the low light. Will feels invited by them. His hands reach and pull in a sudden shifting of limbs and the soft meat of someone's palate. Hannibal finds Will’s mouth lax and pushes his tongue in. They taste each other again, sinking into velvet fabric. Will is proud of himself, of his reckless behavior.
Hands explore where they can. Will moans against the palm between his thighs. Hannibal finds the heft of Will's cock, pulling and cupping. Will's hands are less confident, fumbling over expensive linen and muscle, timid with the deep rivets of Hannibal's masculinity.
A dynamic surfaces between them, one that Will isn't ashamed of. His body goes limp. Hannibal's size and insistence outweigh his own, lulling him into the entrapping safety of obedience. His hands become gentle restraints, his mouth warm medicine meant to soften frayed nerves.
Submission for Will is as comfortable as it is unfamiliar, an unexpected pressure that Will fits himself under. Hannibal's strength isn't just overpowering. It pulses with charity, filling instead of draining. Will becomes stronger under Hannibal. Capable of enduring his weight. It wraps around Will and injects itself, empowering him with a long-denied intensity. Passion. Desire.
The reckless and selfish attitude required to ask to be fucked. Will moans against Hannibal's tongue. He wants to have sex. He wants to cum.
Will feels greedy hands loosen his waistband. He looks down and sees Hannibal taking more liberties, pushing a hand into his boxers and grabbing. The sound Will responds with is short and striking, still surprised to be touched. It's been so long. Will's body fills, his cock tight, blood flooding to fatten and impress. His hips move again, his knees unsure how to bend, arguing with the tight constraint of cotton and the rigid shape of the chaise.
This won’t work. Hannibal lets go, leaving Will’s cock to yank at buttons and zippers. Will tries to hide in Hannibal’s shoulder. To pretend he isn’t watching his not-psychiatrist pull his cock out. Will moans when it happens, regardless of whether he can see it. The cooler air of the room makes his blood rush, an involuntary attempt to keep his length hot and swollen. Hannibal's hand tugs, pulling on Will's arousal like a toy, making the smaller man's vocal cords twist.
Will wonders what he must look like, his short cock sticking up from his pelvis, his boxers pulled down and bunched at his thighs. It probably looks stupid. Will clutches at Hannibal's shirt, feeling the seams stretch and complain. He can hear Hannibal laugh and tries to calm his reaction with his tongue and teeth on Hannibal's neck. The smell he finds is erotic, something different from his cologne.
Is it musk? Does it come from between his legs, damp and taut from being too full?
The frenzy stops when Hannibal's hand pulls away, his playful teasing masked as temperance. His touch moves to Will's chest, placating, and his body moves back, disrupting their pseudo-embrace. Will whimpers at the space that forms between them, remembering Alana's cold withdrawal. He grips Hannibal's biceps, finds his round shoulders, and pleads silently for him to return.
A grandfather clock chimes, drowned out when Hannibal groans against Will's enthusiasm. He surrenders to it, allowing for fever, just as susceptible to his partner's demands, just as incapable of restraint. Will's hand moves, guided by victory, reaching and shifting until it finds what's between Hannibal's thighs. His caress isn't shy or tempered but curious and unpracticed. Hannibal grunts in response, losing himself in inexperienced hands.
Will's mind finds filthy memories, secrets hidden quietly under his initial fascination. He recalls dreams. Vague and wet fantasies. Hannibal's mouth, disconnected from his friendship, his naked body slick and fervent, absent of any modesty or professionalism. Will admits to himself how effectively he ignored those visions, clustering them with the other incomprehensible parts of his mind, too terrified to consider transference or splitting. They were illusions then, more Freudian extremes, only trying to digest fear and theoretical incest, nothing reflecting any actual want or desire.
Those fantasies aren't illusions now. They return to Will as vibrant premonitions, red flags in hindsight, a desperate collection of instructions.
Hannibal, in tune with Will's reckless need, pulls away again, trying to breathe. He lifts, kneeling to a taller stature, bracing one arm on the back of the couch for stability. Perhaps he initially planned to move, to walk away, or to resettle. But now he's frozen, looking down on Will and close to salivating. Will isn’t blind to Hannibal's appetite; it accentuates the flush in his cheeks, making the obscenity of his arousal clear. Will can trace the shape of Hannibal, tasteless and ample under expensive fabric.
From below, Hannibal's body is a temptation, one that any lonely man would indulge in. Will’s hand returns, reaching out, cupping and pushing at Hannibal's cock, just as rigid and fat as his own. Hannibal groans again and tilts his hips forward, his arm trembling to hold himself up. Will's pointed attention causes Hannibal's body to change, swelling to a new size. Blood and testosterone replacing civility.
They've passed a point; Will has dragged them past it. There is no turning back. Will moves to sit on his knees. To reach up at Hannibal's chest and tug. He wants something he can't articulate: more of Hannibal's mouth, more of his hidden body. Will feels his own cock bob, his belly fold, and his bunched pants fight against movement. In his instability, he pulls too hard. The buttons on Hannibal's shirt scratch and pop, clattering against each other and then falling to bounce around, making small, round shadows against insecure light.
Will's face pales, but Hannibal grins, pulling the rest of his dress shirt away. It folds back like parchment, too crisp to join in their movement. Will doesn't have time to appreciate Hannibal's bare torso. The sweet clink of metal distracts him when Hannibal pulls at his belt, the buckle and leather separating in a tactile pass. Hannibal’s movements mesmerize Will. He leans back into the sofa, his thighs spread and cheeks pink. He ignores his pants pulled down past his hips, comically disheveled and still on, framing his cock as it bobs.
It's another performance, one that Will watches, transfixed, as Hannibal undresses. He discovers, unsurprisingly, that Hannibal's body isn't perfect. He isn't a warrior made of stone. There are soft parts of him, round curves and dips to measure, contrasted by a clear strength and weight. It's a body of function, rough-hewn and capable. The admiration Hannibal's body deserves doesn't come from perfection but from form. One apt to navigate Will's own without apprehension, with entitlement.
Hannibal's hand reaches past the waistband of his pants while his other hand pulls on buttons. They are nice trousers. Made of twill or wool or whatever the fuck $700 pants are made of. Will can't see a zipper, too lost in old fantasies to even help. His eyes trail up to catch hair, thick and dark, on Hannibal’s chest, endearingly grey near his heart, curled and antagonistic. He then looks south to Hannibal's belly, then his pelvis, reaching in time to watch Hannibal's cock bounce out.
Someone makes a quiet noise, probably Will. He swallows, his eyes wide with wonder, his expression dumb. Hannibal's cock hangs heavy, shadowed with heat and jutting. It is expectedly different, shaped wide and curved, hooded with skin that Will's American childhood attempted to make strange. Will experiences the opposite effect. He wonders how the shape of it would fit inside of him, on his tongue. How it would taste, as sweet as unplucked fruit, ripe and forbidden. Will is just as naïve as Adam, just as manipulated.
Hannibal bends, shifting to remove the rest of his clothing, and then invites himself, without license, to undress Will. It's a trespass he gets away with. Will helps, not as painfully shy, but still feeling unfit. They fall into a sweet tangling, a confusion of legs and discarded clothing. Moving to use the chaise for what it’s made for, getting closer, getting comfortable.
They lie together, Will on his back and Hannibal half on his side. Will's hand returns to Hannibal's cock. He wants to be bold, to prove it won't be as easy to dismiss his desire as it was for Alana. Hannibal groans at Will's eagerness, at the warm palm on his cock. Will knows enough to pull gently, to slide thin skin down and over sensitive flesh.
Will tries to recall old memories of humid nights. Drunk evenings that sought illicit videos online. Amateur clips of men entangled, brazen enough to force their bodies together. Will wanted to enjoy those videos, to allow himself to be frivolous with his curiosity. He is embarrassed that he withdrew instead, snapping the laptop shell closed in mortification.
Seeking redemption, Will mimics the enactments he remembers, albeit with the ferocity of authentic desire. Hannibal feels only slightly different from Will's own body, more velvet to glide over steel, more of a barrier, allowing slick fluid to gather and lubricate each pull. Will inches closer, bending his knees and rotating his hips. He shivers when they brush against each other, pointing his own cock close enough to touch with each movement.
Hannibal makes another noise, a rumble, pushing himself into Will's eager hand. He becomes impatient, bending and pressing his body to Will's, moving and rolling them to find a space between Will's legs to slot into. They've somehow managed a missionary position, the small chaise taking their weight with a creak. They ignore its protests, lost in sensation, no longer guided by intention but thrust into thoughtless movement.
Their bodies are flush now, fitting against each other like lonely puzzle pieces. Will's hands wander when Hannibal returns to Will's lips, taking more kisses from him, allowing another drink. They kiss deeply, the long line of Hannibal’s body thrusting gently, with a groan or two to interrupt them.
The kiss is a brief stay; Hannibal leaves it to wander, curious to taste the rest of the man underneath him. Hannibal finds Will's taut neck and the wild pulse that beats under it. Salt and oil, the earthy wax that grows on leaves and skin. His nose follows an invisible trail, finding Will's chest next, discovering red meat. Umami under the thick texture of tallow, shifting to the sinew of soft nipples.
Will makes a quiet sound, and Hannibal looks up to smile. His warm breath placates, keeping Will's nipples lax, only to tug at them with his fingers, forcing them to peak. His mouth replaces fingers; it laps playfully, teeth grazing skin. Hannibal is sweet when he bites, his teeth soft and unserious, a kitten's bite. He keeps Will's gaze, watching as heavy eyelids complement flushed cheeks. Will's flesh is invigorated, his nerves trembling and fat. The sight intoxicates Hannibal, unlocking a primitive drive. Eat, fight, and run. Fuck. Eat again.
Hannibal's mouth is a torture, tonguing and sucking against warbling moans. Will's body responds with pathetic squirming, hips shifting back and forth, needy and unsure. His cock hurts from being ignored; it pulses against Hannibal's belly, weeping clear fluid. Hannibal makes a sound that resembles a laugh, and he moves to the side. His hand reaches, finding Will's sad cock and tugging, his mouth unwilling to leave the taste of Will's chest.
The fire crackles, snapping and whispering, insulating the flaming passion that grows between not-psychiatrist and not-patient. Will wades through flames and coiling smoke, unburnt. Hannibal's wet mouth and demanding hands promise to keep Will safe and unseared. The opposite happens. Will's body melts, turning fluid as it soaks, drowning in the humidity that envelops them. A bath that gives his body permission to be exposed, to be soft and vulnerable. To give when bitten. Now easier to digest.
The dark in the room vibrates with waves of hidden light. Will emulate its trembling. Rambling, his speech unfocused as Hannibal strokes his cock. Will attempts to call out but stumbles over Hannibal's name, still unfamiliar with it. He narrowly avoids calling him Doctor, understandably unfitting while they fuck.
Hannibal growls, his mouth sucking and dragging. His entire body shifts down, abandoning Will's chest. He bends to stay on the long chaise, a leg and thigh unfolding to find balance on the floor, only his hips on the sofa to grind against. Will jolts, trying to sit up when Hannibal's tongue finds his cock.
Will wants to cum, suddenly. Violently enough to make unabashed movements and pleas. Hannibal helps the sensation pass, slowing his tongue and putting firm palms to Will's hips. It works well. Will's body transitions into a different beat, one that leaves him panting, undulating slowly under Hannibal's mouth.
Time passes differently now, building fog and fantasy to hide in. Hannibal enjoys his meal, lifting up and down on Will's cock, aerating the orgasm that he promises to pull. Like cheap wine that tastes good. His movements encourage strange sounds. Will warbles, and Hannibal responds with vibrations at the back of his throat. It's unlike him, guttural and intoxicated. A gluttony that makes him sloppy, his lips dragging in an intentional flounder.
Will is weak, not stupid. He knows how much of Hannibal is pretend, but he doesn't protest. His cock pushes in different directions, finding a pocket, the flat flesh of a cheek to thrust toward, then moans and twists, revealing his wanton nudity to the fire, just as careless. Will's movements aren't pointed. They tumble out, unsure and immature, but pressing on, seeking more soft silk to push against.
Hannibal's hands try to guide, his speed picking up, impatient with soft welcomes. The sounds his lips make are salacious, wet again, thick and dramatic. The slick ugliness of tight skin and fat tongues. Hannibal and Will make sap together: the long draw of honey. The vicious seduction of lanolin and calendula. Sticky between fingers, primordial and living.
When Will finds moments of lucidity, he can't help but watch, his thighs spread and limp, his cock sinking into Hannibal's warm mouth. The texture wrapped around Will is warm velvet, wet and layered, tight with rich saliva and a ridged palate. Will's hips thrust up with a more confident beat, remembering to be mindful of lovers, to be kind. But with each push-up, more of his control unravels. He can't feel teeth, and it disappoints him, a wild revelation that his mind is incapable of unpacking.
Hannibal's fingers take liberties, gripping Will's thighs and then moving under them. They lift, explore, and map what they find, keeping themselves warm and friendly, unscrupulous about their hidden agenda. At least at first.
Will feels Hannibal's palm under his balls, cupping and then tracing back. The distraction of Hannibal’s mouth isn't enough to keep him from jolting when Hannibal tilts Will's hips, lifting his thighs, making room to touch unfamiliar muscle. Hannibal's finger pads press lightly over coarse hair and the tight furl of Will's hole. Will's mouth gapes for a moment and then snaps, his eyes squeeze closed, unsure how to respond, still a victim of his modern sensibilities. Will isn't upset by Hannibal's bold assumption of Will's preferences. Instead, the allowance arouses him, another maneuver of Will's body that translates to frenzied attraction.
He wants you this badly. He wants to fuck you. He wants to take it from you.
Ultimately, Will decides Hannibal's curiosity isn't something to be afraid of. Eager fingers don't linger; they only test Will's unspoken boundaries and then return to tease and stroke his cock. Will allows himself to sag between Hannibal's choices, to let go of any semblance of control and spread himself wider. It is somewhat of an oversight, one that Hannibal takes advantage of.
Hannibal's mouth disappears, following the aforementioned path of his fingers, dangerously searching. Will moves to protest, nervous and startled by new frontiers. His incorrect assumption of modesty makes him too slow and lazy to complain. Hannibal's tongue licks Will into movement, swathing over that unfamiliar path Will had thought Hannibal would leave alone. From the safety of Will's perineum down to the shadowed inlet, Hannibal laps.
Will squirms again. Hannibal's mouth on his hole is alien and startling. Will's legs are in the air now, bent at the knee and shaking. The new position makes him feel vulnerable and accessible. Like a slut.
The room fills with Will's strained voice. A warbling response to the rush of arousal that combats his unease. Hannibal’s assault intensifies, punishing Will for assuming he wouldn't enjoy this, that he couldn’t imagine himself at the brink of orgasm by a lazy tongue, especially one attached to a man. Will's hands search and clutch, quietly begging the tongue to fuck him, a sudden and unfamiliar desire.
Is it?
"Wa-Wait." Will's voice is tiny, withered, and weak.
Hannibal smiles when he licks again, his eyes terrible and taunting. Will pants while he begs, clearly distraught by how good Hannibal's tongue feels. Will curses again, each lick electric and cruel. His thighs continue to tremble; he wants to ask Hannibal to stop, but his hands grapple to stroke himself, too lost in undulating pleasure to fight.
The cruelty ends. Hannibal's mouth shows mercy, leaving Will's bottom to return to his neglected cock. Not much of a reprieve, but generous enough to allow Will to unclench and drop his feet. Hannibal uses his mouth again, just as slow and just as tight, dragging the act out as thin as possible. Long enough to watch Will, to memorize what he looks like during sex.
Will's body offers a wanton image, his nudity now languid and pink. He arches out, his belly unprotected and his expression foolish enough to trust the mouth between his legs. Hannibal revels in the rush of control that Will allows. His own arousal is coiled and sedate, hidden by his position on the chaise. He ruts a few times to join in Will's dramatics, thrusting against ruined velvet. Will moans, thrilled to be encouraged. Hannibal's hands travel up, grabbing at nipples and muscle, mimicking the pace of his mouth.
Their play amounts to a peak. Will's body rushes with warning, pulsing and fluttering with each long drag of Hannibal's clutch. He can feel the tight squeeze at the back of Hannibal's throat, the plush flesh of his cheek, and the thick saliva that gathers to ease the way. If Will could see into Hannibal's mouth, he would find teeth glossy with hunger and drool that coats Will's cock as it slips in and out, stiff and swallowed without guilt.
"Fuck, fuck." Will's voice cracks, breathy and desperate. He's embarrassed at how sticky his skin is. How his curls become damp and coiled around his head when he's close. Will whimpers at Hannibal, his hands grabbing and pushing. The back of Hannibal's throat squeezes and contracts, molding around the tip of Will's cock like a tight kiss.
Will sees himself for a moment, a perfect picture for pornography, supplicant and lush. Folded in half well enough to bunch the skin at his belly, looking vulgar. He doesn't care. His mind and body give. Will wants this; he wants to cum, to be devoured and loved. He wants to fuck into the back of Hannibal's throat and die there a little. Sex turns into a defeat, and Will's body is ready for it.
"I'm gonna cum!" Will warbles, his vision fuzzy on Hannibal's movements, his hand wound tight in ashy blonde hair. Will’s back bends to push up, wanting to watch. His knees rotate for his feet, still in socks, to find balance.
Will's orgasm builds before it falls, rising and tumbling and rising again. A crescendo of pleasure courses like rivers through his veins, swelling him to capacity until the dam cracks and all of him rushes out.
Hannibal hums, pushing down on Will's cock and swallowing, satiated with the nourishment that pumps out.
A natural violence erupts. Will's body forms within a new atmosphere of thunder and water, drenched in perspiration and warm from the exertion of life under it. It turns into a downpour, filling dry inlets with fresh waves. Tides that rush over the panting, breathing creatures that live inside of him, wailing upwards with each new wave of release. Will rambles on incoherently. He begs and whimpers, harmonizing with each pulse of cum that paints the back of Hannibal's tongue.
Hannibal can't keep Will still. His smaller body wobbles, spent and vibrant under translucent darkness. Will’s pelvis rotates. His hands flex and reach involuntarily. Will is practically sitting now, Hannibal's head buried between his thighs, holding him still while he thrusts through his orgasm. Hannibal is only strong enough to keep Will from tumbling off the couch, unwilling to let go of the cock stuck firmly in his throat, still swallowing.
Eventually, the river runs thin, the water becoming mild. Will's orgasm ends in his head, curling around his crown like static electricity, fuzzy with disorientation. Parts of Will are numb, murmuring with sensation and relief. Overstimulation encourages him to fall back, to lie flat, and to relinquish any remaining control over his body. Hannibal rewards Will, laughing softly and letting go. It's an easy transition, with absent kisses and soft licks, moving upwards and over, searching for different parts of Will to tenderize. When he finds Will's mouth, he hesitates, moving expertly back to the small table.
Will watches Hannibal in a daze, unmoved. His naked, hard, not-psychiatrist reaches for the abandoned glass of cognac, taking a haphazard swill and rotating the alcohol in his mouth a few times before spitting. The liquid returns to the glass, amber but clear, proving that he swallowed everything else. Hannibal wipes at his mouth roughly when he's finished, and Will remembers where that mouth once was. He is grateful for Hannibal's consideration, even if also mortified.
With good manners and hygiene attended to, Hannibal returns to Will and their interrupted kiss, lingering with a heavy tongue. Will whimpers when the taste of alcohol mingles between them, his heart swelling at being allowed so much passion, so kind a consideration.
Things slow down. Hannibal appears in control, calm with the soft moments after sex. But even in the haze of afterglow, Will isn't so easily deceived. Hannibal isn't as collected as he would like to appear. There is an urgency beneath his confidence, skin deep. His hips still absently thrust, his movements a heavy pressure against Will's body, seeking entrance into somewhere tight.
Hannibal acts without asking for permission; he pushes at Will's body with his hands and slowly gets him to turn. It's a little awkward at first. Will's sated limbs try to linger and then flop until he reluctantly turns onto his belly. Hannibal's actions are insistent, his hands pressing firmly into designs obvious and filthy. Will watches through a blurry lens, humming his approval. The new position is just as towering as before. Hannibal lifts again, one knee bent and the other supporting his weight. His hips hover over Will's body, aligning to aim and inspect, to point his cock down, and to pull on it.
It's another lurid display. Will watches absently, his neck craned without strain, his body slumped and pressed against the couch cushions. Hannibal shuffles for a moment, affected by Will's lidded eyes, amused and naïve. Eventually, Hannibal presses a wide palm to Will's bottom and pushes, exposing coarse hair and dark skin around bunched muscle, coveted by Hannibal as possibly unavailable. All the more erotic that way. For both of them.
Will blushes, his awareness returning in ripples. He smiles despite his embarrassment, huffing a laugh and remaining spread. It's a simple thing to do, despite how unfamiliar it might be for him. Will doesn't need to perform or impress. He only needs to stay still, to languish in affection and the pulsing wave of Hannibal's hunger. It's easier to be food, a meal plated and dressed. Lazy with irresponsibility, mindless and without purpose, except to be desired, to be chewed.
It makes him feel sexy.
Hannibal's chest rumbles while he pulls on his cock, watching Will's form under it, studying it with a heated gaze, lost in his growing insatiability. The muscles in his thighs and chest lock, rigid and focused. It won't take long. Hannibal is iron in his hand, sensitive to any shift in pressure. The image of Will under him promises euphoria, the kind Hannibal knows he has little control over. So he surrenders to it.
Hannibal stops stroking; he makes a tight fist and fucks it, his hips pumping with his hand. It serves as a stand-in for the soft body under him, the still and comfortable hips that wiggle imperceptibly with Hannibal's unstable movements. A poor substitute for the tight hole he can't breach, only inches away.
Will tilts and shifts, attempting to make himself look more desirable. Not sure how well he is doing, feeling coltish. He assumes it must be enough to lie there, devoid now of any shame or embarrassment, empowered by how badly Hannibal wants to cum.
Will's unrelenting trust makes Hannibal's heart pinch. Will smiles, and Hannibal's resolve continues to erode.
"You gonna cum?" Will slurs.
The question doesn't register at first, shadowed by the faint twist of an accent. Hannibal knows enough about Will to pinpoint the dialect. He envisions the poverty of Will's childhood. How the Louisiana sun may have warmed his memories, unlike the hollow winter of Lithuania. Hannibal's answer is a noncommittal grunt. Stilted by trembling thighs and the focus required to banish Baltic ghosts. His mind retreats to Will's sun. He can smell honey cornbread and the moss of an unfamiliar wetland. A collection of faux impressions that ache in their own right. Cruel reminders that tighten Hannibal's jaw.
Hannibal moves his hand to the small of Will's back, leaning forward, using his weight to mollify the urge to bite. Will's hips shift again under pressure, jutting when he bends his knee, offering the meat of his thigh, pale and fat like underbelly.
It's effective. Hannibal's fist tightens. He groans, and his hand returns to stroking. Wild images pass through his mind. Will's hips in his hands, soft with fat and testosterone, the bend of his spine, his whimpering nature amplified. Fucking into loose muscle, slick and used and belonging to him.
The fantasy is filthy in different directions. Hannibal's depravity expands to visions of bloody teeth and viscera, of hunting and the weak will of prey. They rush to his cock and return, dissatisfied, to the milky pink safety of cum and tacky skin, of the promised vice of Will's body.
The conflicting possibilities are as unclear as they are arousing. How far can Will be pushed? With a steady dose of affection and praise, how desperate could Will become to please him?
Will moves a slow palm to Hannibal's thigh, reaching to touch, to find skin and coarse hair. To connect. The unexpected tenderness moves through Hannibal. From brittle white bone to the bundled mass of sensation behind his cock. He experiences the same waves he watched flood over Will, swelling, growing, and filling every limb before fusing into an implosion that rushes out.
A whimper escapes someone, and Hannibal's hand reaches out on instinct. It grabs the meat of Will's nape, softer than intended, unwilling to squeeze. The touch pulls vague, happy sounds from Will, and the bend of his neck fits under Hannibal's palm, happy to be held.
"Hannibal." Will's voice breaks through, muffled by a velvet cushion.
The sofa creaks with weight, and Hannibal cries out. Hot pulses, milky white and opaque, sap out through rigid knuckles and spongy flesh. Hannibal aims and finds Will, marking his hole shamelessly, a coital declaration for future explorers. Will jumps at the strange sensation. Sordid and lewd, an exhilarating degradation that Will would allow again, despite how deeply it makes him blush.
Hannibal drags the head of his cock through his own fluid, against Will’s sensitive hole. His voice cracks as he maintains an iron resolve to stop himself from pushing in, from sinking into heat and slick, knowing it will hurt Will.
Knowing he could get away with hurting Will.
Thankfully, Hannibal's dark thoughts pass, too difficult to consider as Will's draw saps his body. Hannibal slumps, and the dramatic fog dissipates. Will laughs when Hannibal stumbles, flopping onto the couch with a grunt, like any other average man after he cums.
They knit another sweet moment, unexpected and plain. Hannibal feels hands on him, gentle passes of affection. He hears murmuring, sweet signals that remind him of old voices. He isn't entirely aware of the memories that try to tug loose, but he enjoys their comfort regardless, letting his vision swim and his head vibrate. Surrendering to the afterglow of a powerful orgasm.
Hannibal can't recall the last time sex affected him this deeply. He feels a vague sense of detachment from his body, as though the shape doesn't align with what's there. That which serves only as a resting place, a concentration of mist, temporarily formed to protect and conceal everything else inside.
Hannibal wonders, only for a moment, what the inside looks like. Can I see it? Can Will?
Hannibal feels a palm on his forehead, and his eyes flutter open when he registers Will's voice.
"Oh."
Will retracts his hand, the movement shy, fighting the urge to apologize for it. Hannibal grabs slowly at Will, unfazed. He searches Will's body with blind hands, reaching and squeezing, tugging Will into a sticky hold. They kiss again, Will whimpering when the taste of Hannibal's tongue proves more familiar.
Hannibal uses the kiss as a distraction, grabbing at his discarded shirt and using it to wipe at Will's bottom. The act is too quick for Will to avoid; he jolts again, a little softer this time. Hannibal's movements are slow, apologizing for making a mess of Will's backside.
It is still strange to be touched there, but Will remembers how good it felt, how good it still feels. If he could, his cock would respond to the attention now, wondering about tongues and fingers and cocks. Will thinks about gay men and the rituals that are normal to them.
Is Hannibal gay? Am I? What a stupid question to ask now.
"I have something." Hannibal tosses the shirt and pulls away to stand. His movements are a little difficult, sluggish, and endearing. He walks with a sway, eventually finding enough strength to stabilize.
The room is still dark, but Will can see Hannibal through the shadows. He hears the deep sound of wood and brass before Hannibal returns languidly, his socked feet padding on the solid floor. He is still unflinching in his nudity, his flushed cock, now soft, bouncing with each step. Will doesn't have any indignity left in him to blush, watching Hannibal move with admiration.
Light flashes when Hannibal returns and reveals a slim silver case. He pops it open like a book, and Will realizes it's a cigarette tin, something vintage, or perhaps modern but designed to look old.
Hannibal plucks out a thin cigarette and sticks it between his lips. He lies back down next to Will and lights the cigarette with a flat matchbook. Hannibal's eyebrows arch when he turns to Will, winking when he takes a drag and passes the cigarette over.
Simpler memories return to Will from when he was young, when he shared stolen cigarettes with a friend. Two boys pretending to be their fathers, whispering secrets and learning how to lie. Will takes the cigarette, laughing on the exhale to conceal a small cough. The rush of nicotine is warm against his softened form. He passes the cigarette back and stretches, letting his happy muscles feel every bit of oxytocin his mind allows.
Hannibal lies as close as he can, his body solid and sated. Will allows himself to curl around it. It's a half-embrace, sweet and casual enough to be considered a normal allowance for new lovers. Still, Will expects Hannibal to sit up, to finish his cigarette, and to move, but he doesn't. He lies still and quiet, sharing his body, smoking, and soaking in the heat they generate together. Will does his best to mimic relaxation, taking the cigarette when it's offered but only pretending to inhale, not wanting to ruin good sex with an upset stomach.
"I save them for special occasions," Hannibal says, his accent thicker after an orgasm.
"Am I special?" Will's tone is teasing, but Hannibal's expression sobers them both.
Will, once again, anticipates disconnection. He expects Hannibal to pull away, to stand, to thank Will for a good fuck, and to ask to keep things professional. Instead, Hannibal turns, presses his mouth to Will's, kissing him deeply, pushing his tongue in to solidify his interest.
"You are perfect."
Hannibal's hand reaches for Will's thigh, pulling and lifting it to wrap it around his hip. To hold him closer, uninterested in modesty. Will wonders for a wild moment if Hannibal wants more, if his refractory abilities are superhuman. But Hannibal's cock is soft; he only wants to kiss, wants Will's body closer. Wants more touch for the sake of touching.
Will kisses back, abandoning his cigarette to an ashtray. Slowly and sweetly, Will allows himself the excess of romance and wandering hands. Touching without permission again. Moving like a ritual, or perhaps worship.
They are tired enough for sleep now. They no longer search but meander idly, small kisses and hands shifting across skin only to shift. The fire dies out. They drift in the darkness, eyes ready to close. Hannibal whispers before it ends.
"Stay."
When Hannibal wakes, the sun is rising. He is still naked and sticky, but alone. He stretches to sit, wincing when his stiff bones creak. Hannibal ponders his missing not-patient, his assumed escape, and the awkward conversations he can expect when he sees Will again. Hannibal tries to ignore his disappointment, laying the foundation of a new cage to lock their night into.
"I think I've burnt it."
Hannibal startles, turning his head around to find Will holding a cup of coffee with both hands.
"That machine." Will shifts awkwardly, his eyes looking back at the kitchen.
"The Breville," Hannibal says, his voice rough in the morning. Will hands Hannibal the mug with an amused expression, sweet and misplaced. Hannibal sips and winces.
"It's very burnt."
They both laugh, and it gives Hannibal a moment to see Will. Couch tossed curls, soft lines near his eyes, and the brush of stubble on his cheeks. The small boxers he wears stretch over strong thighs, accentuating the curve of his belly and a chest only lightly dusted with hair.
Hannibal stands swiftly, proving himself taller even when naked. He looks at Will with carefree tenderness.
"You are beautiful in the morning."
Will tries to scoff, to sound unconvinced, but his smile and shyness betray him. Hannibal kisses his insecurity away, clutching the burnt offering between them.
Will's phone trills, piercing through the morning like a siren. The ringtone is stock, bland, and offensive. It takes a moment for Hannibal to find the rattling device between two couch cushions. Will's face pinches when his phone screen flashes a familiar name.
"Jack."
Hannibal tuts.
"Tell your father we are being very good boys," Hannibal whispers, and Will chastises him with a pinched expression, holding back laughter.
The conversation is quick and quiet, uneventful compared to every other time Jack calls on Will. Hannibal waits for Will to hang up before speaking again.
“Another killer’s serenade?"
Will smiles, lopsided and young. "It's our song."
"You have to go."
Will nods slowly. Hannibal thinks about letting the moment remain strange, watching Will squirm, but an impulse stops him. One that comes from the same place inside where winter ghosts live. Hannibal reaches out, kissing Will one last time. Pecking softly where a quick tryst would pull away. The attention turns Will's eyes round and sweet. He dresses quickly, amused by Hannibal's unwillingness to find a robe.
A terrible little itch crawls up from Hannibal's stomach. sick of all this sweetness.
"A patient told me today he expects a friend might be involved with the murder at the symphony."
Will startles when Hannibal details Franklyn's suspicions and Mr. Budge's shop. Will agrees shakily to an interview and pats his pockets to find his keys. When he turns to leave, Hannibal calls out.
"Be careful.”
Will doesn't reply, only waves awkwardly before slipping out.
The room is silent again, touched periodically by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Hannibal stands by himself, filing away new memories, precious and quiet. The practice takes longer than usual, slowed to a crawl as he stumbles through his own mind, unstable and dark.
Hannibal looks at his palm and remembers how it felt around Will's neck.