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Their connecting flight to Ho Chi Minh City includes a night’s layover in Tokyo; it is less conspicuous to book an economy flight with its inconvenient delays—and besides, Hannibal says, they could both use a night’s rest on a real bed after their adventures in dragon-slaying. Hannibal’s gunshot wound has healed ‘beautifully,’ he’s been told, but it’s only been a little over a month, after all. Will knows that just because Hannibal doesn’t look like he’s in pain doesn’t mean he’s not feeling it, so he doesn’t argue. 

Their shuttle is barely heated and jolts them along on a bumpy road until they get to the small hotel in which they’ve booked their room for the night. Hannibal cheerfully offers their fake passports to the thin, mousy guy at the desk and says a few things in what seems to be fluent Japanese. The mousy guy, much impressed, actually blushes as he hands over their room key. 

Hannibal’s hand comes to rest on the small of Will’s back as they make their way toward the elevator. Will resists the urge to glance back, to see if the guy at the desk is staring after them. He doesn’t have to look to feel the envy and desire that exudes from the man. He has his empathy, after all, and it’s obvious that the other man is charmed by Hannibal. 

“Tease,” Will mutters as the elevator door closes behind them. Hannibal lets his hand drop from Will’s back. 

When Will looks over at him, he’s smirking slightly. “Who am I teasing, exactly?” Hannibal asks, and Will looks away again. He watches without another word as the light travels from floor number to floor number until it hits their designated floor. 

Will stares at the single bed in their room when they let themselves in. “Is that supposed to fit two people?” 

Hannibal, turning back from bolting the door, peers over Will’s shoulder in the narrow hallway at the bed. Will catches a twitch of his lips before he snatches it off his face. “It is the usual size for an establishment of this class,” he explains patiently, as if to a child. “The Japanese are not as tall in stature as—”

“But are they child-sized?” 

“Would you prefer to exchange this room for two separate rooms?” Hannibal asks. Will knows that if he tells Hannibal yes, they would end up with two rooms tonight. He glances away from Hannibal, back at the small bed in the center of the room. 

“It would raise suspicions, wouldn’t it. You acted like we were—That guy at the reception desk.” 

Hannibal places a hand on his shoulder. “Well then, might I suggest we move out of this claustrophobic hallway and decide who should take the first shower? We’ve been on that airplane too long for my taste.” Hannibal’s hand is warm, and Will wants to lean back into it. He takes a few steps forward toward the bed, instead, and offers Hannibal first crack at the shower. 


He’s flipping through Japanese channels at a pace that really doesn’t allow for much of anything to register when Hannibal opens the bathroom door, releasing a cloud of steam into the main room. Will’s finger goes slack on the remote control. Hannibal’s wearing a white terry cloth towel around his waist. He doesn’t look like he has anything on underneath it. Or anywhere else. 

“Your turn, Will,” Hannibal announces, casually padding to the other side of the bed where he dropped his bag earlier. He lifts the duffel bag onto the bed and unzips it, beginning to rifle through it for, presumably, some goddamn clothes. 

He’s close enough that when he leans over the bag, Will can see water still clinging to the hairs on his chest. Hannibal’s gunshot wound is puckered and red, and it should be the thing that draws Will’s eyes, except that he can’t tear them away from the glistening droplets embedded in Hannibal’s chest. “You’re still—” he begins, and then bites his tongue. 

Hannibal tilts his head up questioningly. Will feels a laugh bubbling up inside him. 

“You’re such a fucking tease.” 

Hannibal abandons pretense and gives him sweet smile that makes Will’s stomach tie itself into knots. “You were jealous of the man downstairs,” he says softly. He pulls a pair of pajama bottoms out of his bag, but doesn’t doesn’t do anything with it other than drop it back in. He sets the bag down on the floor again.

Will shouldn’t be surprised that Hannibal knows. Of course Hannibal knows. He doesn’t dignify the statement with any kind of response, which is all the confirmation Hannibal needs. 

“Why, I wonder? It is not as though I paid him any particular attentions.” Neither of them mention that even if Hannibal did pay someone else attentions, it’s not as though Will has any claim on Hannibal.  

“What, can’t you read my mind?” snaps Will, but it’s half-hearted at best. He’s distracted by the soft, curling gray at the top of Hannibal’s chest, the hair getting dark and thinning out as it trails down to his navel, and then even further—

Hannibal straightens and rounds the corner of the bed to where Will sits on the edge. He grabs the remote from Will’s lax fingers and tosses it over his shoulder; it registers a muted thump as it hits the carpeted floor. 

“Some of your thoughts are semi-transparent to me, at least,” he admits softly to Will, “but certainly not all of them.” He closes his eyes and sniffs the air demonstratively, then opens them slowly and lets them fall, trailing down from Will’s burning face to rest on his dark gray slacks, where Will’s arousal is so obvious that Hannibal doesn’t even need his finely-honed sense of smell to detect it. 

Will swallows, and wishes that he could detect anything other than amusement from Hannibal, anything that would make his upcoming confession less pathetic. “He was so clearly smitten with you. He so clearly wanted you.” 

A small silence stretches between them, punctuated by the distant noise of the TV still on in the background. Then Hannibal smiles, and it’s one of those things Will loves so much about Hannibal: he never makes Will say more than he has to. 

“You were jealous of his ability to want me so openly,” said Hannibal, in a crowing voice. “Dear, dear Will.” 

Will releases a shaky breath, fingers gripping the bedspread tight so he doesn’t reach out and touch Hannibal instead. “You preen at the flattery,” he bites out, “But this isn’t—you couldn’t possibly—” You can’t possibly want me back. 

It happens too quickly for Will to react, even with all of his previous training in law enforcement, even after having killed a dragon. Hannibal’s hand flies out, curling around the back of Will’s neck. His other hand grips Will’s shoulder and presses him down. Will’s back hits the bed hard, and Hannibal is on top of him. Hannibal’s cock, hot and hard and there with only a fast-slipping towel between him and Will, nudges against Will’s thigh. 

“Couldn’t I?” Hannibal’s breath is against his neck. He lowers his lips to Will’s rapidly beating pulse, scrapes his teeth gently against the line of skin just under Will’s jawline. 

 Hannibal smells like hotel soap and toothpaste, flowery and minty fresh, but underneath it all he smells like Hannibal, like that woodsy aftershave Hannibal has always worn, with the tang of citrus hidden behind layers. 

Will feels tension uncoiling inside him, until he’s a free and tangled mess under Hannibal. He sighs, lifts his hands up and allows his fingers to slip through the hair on Hannibal’s chest, soaking up the stray water droplets from Hannibal’s shower. 

He whispers Hannibal’s name, gasping as Hannibal’s teeth sink into his shoulder, just short of drawing blood. He allows his fingers to curl, to grip, tugging at Hannibal’s chest hairs. He wants to bury his face in those curls. He wants to use them to rip Hannibal apart, expose everything underneath. He wants to just hang on, keep his grip on Hannibal as Hannibal devours him. 

Eventually, Hannibal comes for his mouth, hand cradling Will’s jaw and holding him still as Hannibal’s tongue plunders his mouth, wet and slick and sliding deep into him, as though he is attempting to crawl inside Will with the kiss. His other hand makes quick work of Will’s belt, his fly and zipper. He tugs Will’s underwear down and exposes his hard cock to the cool air for a moment before he has both of them in hand, the silky skin of their cocks rubbing together as Hannibal ruts against him. 

Will’s head is slick with pre-come, and Hannibal thumbs the tip of it, uses it to slick his hands, ease the slide of his palm back and forth across their hard cocks. Will moans into his mouth, and Hannibal makes a pleased humming noise at the back of his throat and pulls away from Will. 

Will feels bruised and ruined by the kiss, but he just lies back against the bed, his heart thudding in his chest as Hannibal moves down over his body, hands trailing across Will’s thighs. 

“What would you like, Will? Tell me.” 

Will takes in a gasping breath, staring down at Hannibal’s lips hovering over the tip of his straining cock. “Shit. You—Are you offering to—Fuck.” 

A smile curls Hannibal’s lips. “Yes, that as well. But perhaps not right now.” His eyes burn, and Will’s body feels so heated that he wonders if the encephalitis has come back. “I’m afraid I don’t have the patience,” Hannibal continues, a deep rumble in his voice. “But that isn’t what you want right now, is it?” 

Will shakes his head. “No,” he says, and can’t think past the swell of Hannibal’s kiss-roughened lips inches from his dick. “No, I want you to suck me off. Suck me off, and then—” He draws in another shuddering breath. “I want to come on you. On your chest.” 

He doesn’t really expect Hannibal to be disgusted by anything he’s said, and he’s pretty sure Hannibal would agree to anything, even the—god—the fucking. But he doesn’t expect to see Hannibal’s smile widen into a joyous, ferocious grin that’s more animal than human as he lowers his lips to Will’s cock, taking it swiftly into his mouth. Will can’t help the little jerk of his hips as Hannibal swallows him, can’t help the tiny wail that escapes him. 

Hannibal pulls back and then slides his lips down Will’s shaft again, tongue teasing the underside of Will’s cock, mouth wet and hot and god, no one has ever sucked Will off like this before, but with such intensity, such unabashed delight. Hannibal’s attention is fixed on Will’s face as he drives Will out of his mind, glittering eyes half-lidded and hungry, like he wants to drink the whole of Will’s essence in, as if he’s convinced he can. 

Will gasps and jerks and bites his lip bloody when Hannibal reaches down and traces three fingers lightly over Will’s balls, down past his perineum to press the pads of his fingers against Will’s hole. “Hannibal. I’m almost—” 

Hannibal pulls his mouth away slowly, almost regretfully, lifting and positioning himself to hover over Will again. He licks the hand not still pressed against Will’s asshole and strokes Will hard and fast, moving in to tease the head of Will’s cock with small, darting touches of his tongue. When Will’s orgasm takes over, Hannibal leans forward and takes the spray on his chest and torso. 

Will watches as pearly beads of come catch on the hair on Hannibal’s chest and groans at the sight of it, groans again when Hannibal runs his fingers through and uses Will’s come to slick his own cock up. Hannibal’s head falls back; he breathes in deeply as he touches himself, his hand making wet noises on his dick, and god, that’s Will’s come he’s using to jack off, Will’s scent all over Hannibal, all over Hannibal’s chest, trailing down Hannibal’s stomach, on Hannibal’s hard dick. Will doesn’t blink once, can’t look away from the sight of Hannibal in such an intimate act.

Hannibal comes with a soft sigh, spilling over his fingers, their releases mingling on the skin; some of it hits the tops of Will’s thighs, a droplet lands on his balls. 

Hannibal maneuvers himself onto his back beside Will. The television is still on in the background, but Will can’t make out anything over the roar of his own pulse, still thrumming inside him. They are both breathing heavily, and the air smells of sex. 

After a few moments Hannibal moves, probably to go get something to clean them up. Will reaches for him, catches his hand and holds on. “Little bit longer. Please.” 

Hannibal twines their fingers together. He turns his head to look at Will. His warm breath unsettles the strands of hair that have fallen across Will’s cheek. “Has your jealousy been pacified, Will?” 

Will feels himself grinning; he doesn’t stop it. He twists until he’s lying on his side and pulls Hannibal closer. He lays his face against Hannibal’s chest, unmindful of the come still sticking there, smearing against his cheek. He inhales deeply. The scent of wood and citrus and cheap hotel soap is still there, but now it’s overpowered by Will’s own scent, thick and musky. 

“You like it.” Not quite a question. 

Will nods, still grinning. He tangles his fingers in the curling strands by his cheek. “I've never been with anyone with chest hair before,” he says simply. And then, because orgasm makes him feel magnanimous, “I like smelling myself on you. Right here.” 

Hannibal’s hand smooths over Will’s back, and Will shivers at the thought of their combined mark all over him. “If I know anything of hotel gossip, I imagine any doubts as to your possession of me will be put to rest as soon as housekeeping is through with this room.” There is humor in his voice, but Will recognizes pride and fondness there, too. 

Will nuzzles Hannibal’s chest with his nose again, not altogether unpleased by the satisfaction he feels at the word possession. “Good,” he says.