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i.
Frying catfish is second nature to Will- it is simple and methodical and routine in a way he finds soothing. Fish into milk, out of milk, into flour, out of flour, into the frying pan, out of the frying pan. They don’t do this often- Molly is health conscious in regard to how much fried food Wally gets to have- which makes it a bit of an occasion when they do. Molly is in the kitchen too, making slaw from a recipe on her laptop. Wally’s doing his homework at the table. Will knows these things without having to look- he can’t take his eyes away from his cooking. He can hear the sound of a knife on a cutting board beside him, and the sound of pencil scratches behind him, but all he can see is his own hands, breading and frying fish.
Even the heat of the oil and the sizzle when the fish lands in it is calming- more than calming. Hypnotic. It reminds him of his childhood in an abstract way- not tied to one particular place or time and a comfort for that. He feels grateful to get to share it with Molly and Wally. He feels the gratitude like a sinking dread he can’t quite place.
He’s making too much fish- it’s just the three of them. He should stop. They’re going to have leftovers for days, and fried fish doesn’t hold up that well in the fridge. He should stop. Molly’s stopped- Will can’t hear her next to him anymore. She might be talking to him, someone’s talking to him, but Will can’t tell.
He can’t turn away from the stove. Oil pops up against Will’s wrist; he doesn’t even feel it.
Something’s happening behind him, something is in the house. Will can feel tendrils wrapping tight around his ankles. He wants to jerk away, to turn and help Molly, to run away, to get out of the house, to get away from the monster pulling at him. He’s unable to move. His eyes unfocus for a moment, and once his vision clears it is not catfish he’s frying, but hundreds and hundreds of fleshy, writhing tongues.
Will wakes up, gasping and shaking.
He heaves himself out of bed and stumbles into the en-suite. It takes three tries to get a hold of the control and turn on the sink, sticking his head under the cold water. It’s a shock, which is what was intended, but Will keeps his head under the stream for a long time. The water pressure doesn’t feel good against the scar, mostly healed, in his cheek. It feels awful, and Will lets himself feel it.
Eventually he shuts off the sink and towels his hair off. There’s a small window in the bathroom, and the sky is the dark blue of a pre-sunrise. There’s no use going back to bed; he replaces his sweaty undershirt and puts on a pair of jeans and his boots.
Will quietly goes into the hallway- he has to walk past Hannibal’s room to get into the rest of the house, which Will thinks is probably by design. He gets to the kitchen, makes enough coffee to fill his metal tumbler, and walks out the backdoor to make his way to the river that is throwing distance from the house they’ve been staying at for their recovery. It’s a decent sized house on a riverfront, surrounded by green trees. It’s not the kind of place Will could have easily pictured Hannibal, and exactly the kind of place Will would picture for himself. Will spends hours daily by the river, even when it rains. He doesn’t even fish, though he definitely could, and keeps telling himself he will, one day.
The river is close enough to the house that Will can hear the screen door bang shut. He glances back to see Hannibal slowly walking down the back patio steps into the yard. He looks rather defanged these days- barefoot, hair ungelled and falling gently over his forehead, dressed in loose slacks and a linen shirt unbuttoned enough that the beginning of silver chest hair peaks out. He’s thin too, evidence of the fact that he could only very recently claim to be ‘recovered’. He still favors his left side as he slowly walks to the edge of the fence to look out into the sparse woods that surround them. Will isn’t sure how much of the surrounding land is their property- Hannibal has referred to the riverfront as ‘their river’, but they’re so isolated that Will doesn’t know if that’s accurate or just because no one else is around to enjoy it- and either way Hannibal never seems very interested in going any further than their backyard. Hell, they might not even have any actual claim to the house. Hannibal had told him a location and helped Will get them there before yielding to his wounds and ailments- as if he had been somehow forcing his body to not give in until he guaranteed he and Will were safe somewhere. It’s been a long three months since that- entire weeks where Hannibal could barely keep water down, much less food. Where Will tearfully pleaded with Hannibal’s unconscious body to please not leave him alone.
Hannibal still doesn’t have much of an appetite, favoring (comparatively, to everything else Will has seen him eat) plain pasta and soups. It’s unclear to Will how much of this is a result of Hannibal’s physical health, and how much is mental. The idea of Hannibal being depressed sets him on edge.
Hannibal sees Will looking at him- he doesn’t wave or nod or call to him. They meet each other's eyes and stare for a long moment. Will doesn’t want to be the one to look away first but he does, anyway. He knows he’ll never win a waiting game against Hannibal.
Will turns back toward the river, and eventually can sense Hannibal a few feet behind him.
“Have you had breakfast?” Hannibal asks.
“Yes,” Will says, though it isn’t true. His appetite isn’t much better than Hannibal’s, especially in the morning. “Have you?”
“Yes,” Hannibal says, also lying. His voice is still rough with sleep. “I’ve left you a list of supplies on the kitchen table- are you going into town today?”
Will drives into a nearby town twice weekly for their shopping- they’re both on the FBI’s most-wanted at this point, but Will is less recognizable than Hannibal. Even if the opposite was true, Will would worry about Hannibal being out on his own. There hasn’t been a real medical emergency in over a month, but the memory of when they were constant is fresh enough in Will’s mind that the idea of Hannibal out in the world makes him extremely anxious. ‘List of supplies’ means grocery list- though it is bare-boned enough that Hannibal’s term is fitting.
“Yes.” Will finds their halting conversation frustrating, but doesn’t know how to fix it. Doesn’t know how to fix any of this, and not only because he’s not entirely sure what’s wrong with them. He had been solely focused on their survival, but now that they survived, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. What to do with Hannibal.
ii.
Things do get slightly better, with time. Hannibal’s mood increases as he regains his strength, though he is still often listless in anything that isn’t cooking. Will feels well-fed, but not satisfied by much else in his life.
Hannibal’s supply lists become more varied and less dull, to the point where Will usually has to go to three different grocery stores to get everything Hannibal requests. Will doesn’t mind- he’s both glad that Hannibal’s feeling up to cooking and glad there’s something he can do for Hannibal besides numbly stare at him. There were weeks where Will did literally everything for Hannibal, fed him, bathed him, helped him piss. Nights where Will would fitfully doze with his head on Hannibal’s chest in case Hannibal’s heart gave out while he slept. And then, Hannibal got better and could take care of himself, and Will was left with no idea what to do with whatever life he had left.
It’s with this desire, the now neglected need to do something for Hannibal, that Will finds himself staring at a bag of cornmeal. It isn’t on his list, but it does strike something in him. He puts it in his basket, and then goes to the butcher counter for the second time on this trip.
Once he’s in the car, starting the drive from town to their house, he calls Hannibal on the smartphone he’s never used. Hannibal likes routine, and Will feels he should give him a bit of warning if he’s going to mess it up.
“Are you okay?” Hannibal’s tone is tense, suddenly loud in Will’s ear. He had answered before the second ring tone stopped.
“What?” Will frowns before feeling stupid. They’re fucking fugitives- of course Hannibal would think something is wrong, Will calling him when he’s supposed to be home soon. “Oh, yeah, it’s fine. Everything is okay. I just- I just had a question.”
“Okay.” Hannibal still seems uncertain, and it makes Will start to regret this a little.
“Do you mind if I cook tonight?”
There’s a pause on the line. “No,” Hannibal says, drawn out a little, like he’s still thinking about the question. And then- “Is that all?”
“Yes,” Will says, fully wishing he hadn’t called at all. “I’m on my way back now.”
“I’ll see you in a moment,” Hannibal says, still sounding introspective.
Will hangs up, and sighs.
Will arrives at the house and gets himself set up in the kitchen- Hannibal offers his assistance and Will banishes him to the kitchen table.
“I hope you don’t have a moral opposition to fried foods,” Will says, though he’s already begun cooking.
“Not a moral one,” Hannibal says. Will knows he’s staring at him, and is both discomforted and thrilled by it. Not an unusual or unwelcome feeling.
“An aesthetic one?” Will offers, and glances back to see Hannibal give a barely-there smile in response. Will wants to make Hannibal smile, broadly and at him. He wants to make Hannibal happy. Will finds he wants to make Hannibal feel a lot of things.
Three halved fillets of mahi-mahi, a cornmeal batter, fresh corn kernels in a pan on the stove for on the side. Honey-sriracha aioli for dipping. It’s what Will considers a slightly elevated comfort food, and it’s what he intends to serve to Hannibal to prove- well, to prove something.
Will focuses on the cooking, both because he needs this to be the best meal he’s ever cooked on his own, and because if his attention is on the food then he can focus less on his increasing anxiety about deciding to do this at all.
Will does let Hannibal pick out the wine- they’ve built up a fair supply since Hannibal cleared himself recovered enough to have a glass or two with dinner. Will thinks maybe he should have gotten beer at the grocery store- what’s a fish fry, even a small one, without PBR- but he’s never seen Hannibal drink beer before, much less the beer of Will’s troubled youth. Hannibal ends up pouring them both something white and bubbly.
They eat. Hannibal doesn’t tell Will it’s good, which annoys Will until he realizes he can’t recall the last time he complimented Hannibal’s own cooking. He silently promises himself that he will, tomorrow. Hannibal does finish his plate though, which pleases Will when he thinks of the days he had to force Hannibal to even have ice chips. They clean and put away the dishes together, as quiet and subdued as dinner was.
“I’m going out to the river,” Will says, once they’re done. He hesitates for just a moment before asking- “Do you want to come?”
Hannibal looks at Will. Will has the distinct feeling of having every centimeter of his face analyzed. Finally Hannibal just nods, and follows Will out to the riverbend.
Will sits with his toes in the cold water; Hannibal is sitting on a stump just behind him. It’s loud with the sounds of water and bugs. Specks of light illuminate briefly before vanishing. Will can’t see lightning bugs without remembering Chiyoh’s prisoner. What he did to Chiyoh’s prisoner, what Hannibal doesn’t know that Will did to Chiyoh’s prisoner.
And that’s the heart of the issue, really- Will is a murderer. Hannibal is a murderer fifty times over. They murdered, together, beautifully, and Will accepted it and now here they are, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, waiting for something, something Will has no idea the identity of. Hannibal is so quiet now. He still looks at Will like he always did, with suffocating affection (love, a voice in Will’s head says), but Will doesn’t feel very loved. He feels- he feels resigned, and the resignation seems to be coming mostly from Hannibal.
It seems almost unfair to Will, that he would give into Hannibal, give into his own worst impulses, and be rewarded with a man so subdued Will barely recognizes him sometimes. Where are you, Will thinks, watching the lightning bugs dance around the tall grass.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Will says, turning back to look at Hannibal. They meet eyes, and Will doesn’t know what to make of what he sees.
“Of course not,” Hannibal says, lightly. “Where else would you go?”
Where else would you go? Will continues staring at Hannibal, a little shocked. He doesn’t know what to make of that. It seems almost insulting. Will turns back to the river, feeling as if he’s said something wrong, but not knowing what. He’d been trying to be nice. When really, he shouldn’t have to be nice to Hannibal just to try to make him feel better at all.
Will listens to Hannibal walk back to the house without another word. Will grinds his teeth. Rude.
He’s not sure what Hannibal wants, is part of the problem. And he’s not sure what he himself wants, either, but he doesn’t know why Hannibal isn’t taking the lead. Hannibal had wanted Will, or so Will thought, and he’d gotten exactly that.
Pardoning Dolarhyde, it’s been well over three years since Hannibal killed someone. Even if Hannibal doesn’t necessarily have a pathology, he does enjoy killing. Will knows he enjoys a lot of things he can’t do here, locked away in their little house. As for why Hannibal isn’t trying to restart his life post-prison, isn’t trying to get back into any of his old hobbies of either the violent or artistic persuasion, Will has no idea.
And it isn’t as if Will has been discouraging- Will knew what he was signing up for, risking their survival with the cliff. Will is here. He is willing. Willing to kill and cannibalize and display and whatever else Hannibal wants to see him do.
It’s not that simple, exactly- Will wasn’t able to lose every ounce of common morality in the rolling Atlantic- but it’s close enough to the truth to make Will feel a little ashamed. He’d do that, if Hannibal wanted, if it would make Hannibal smile and talk to him- really talk to him- again. If Hannibal, for whatever reason, wants to spend the rest of their lives in this house on the river, Will is fine with that too- even though he doesn’t think that’s really the case. He just wants Hannibal to be himself again. He wants Hannibal to treat him the way he’s always treated him. He wants-
He wants a lot of things, from Hannibal.
Will stays out on a river a long time, thinking. He’s going to be eaten alive by mosquitos tomorrow, but doesn’t really care. He wonders what would happen if he stays out here all night, if Hannibal would come and get him.
Where else would you go?
There isn’t an answer to that question, which Will thinks is maybe the point. He completely eliminated any opportunity for him to go back to his old life when he took himself and Hannibal off the cliff- either they died and were dead or they lived and all Will had left was Hannibal. He had chosen that and still, Hannibal is acting like-
Will presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. He doesn’t know what Hannibal is acting like. He wonders if maybe Hannibal thinks that Will doesn’t want to actually be here, but then Will thinks maybe he’s convoluting it. Maybe it’s simply that Hannibal doesn’t want Will here.
Will thinks on it until he feels driven mad by the buzzing of the cicadas. If Hannibal wants me gone at this point, Will thinks, he’s going to have to kill me himself.
iii.
“Have you ever lived in a dorm?” Will asks. “When you were in college?” It’s nearing when they usually go to bed, but Will’s in the living room reading one of the pulpy crime books that they inherited with the house, about murdered coeds, and it made him think of the six months he’d spend in a college dorm. He can’t imagine Hannibal in such a situation, though he knows Hannibal has lived through much worse. It seems too mundane an ordeal for Hannibal to have even put up with.
“I have stayed in hostels and in institutions that required shared living spaces,” Hannibal answers, meeting Will’s eyes from across the room. He’s reading something too, but it doesn’t seem to have a title on the cover. “Never something that would be considered an American dormitory.”
“I’m trying to picture you cooking on a budget, with only a hot plate and a mini fridge.” Will says. He’s tipsy, and a bit on edge tonight. It wouldn’t be entirely incorrect to say he’s trying to provoke Hannibal, but into what he can’t say. Hannibal responds good-naturedly to the prodding. His patience with Will has always been endless, until it suddenly isn’t.
“There have been many times where I suffered from an absence of resources and equipment,” Hannibal says. “I find simple meals to be an equal adversary to anything complex- as long as the ingredients are fresh, and the meal is created with care.”
“The secret ingredient is love,” Will snarks back, and immediately regrets it once he hears what he’s said. He thinks about the meals Hannibal made in his recovery- they had been good, if not less complex than Hannibal’s usual fair. Even Hannibal’s most simple pasta meals ended up something Will would consider gourmet.
“Yes.” Hannibal says, still looking Will in the eyes, simple and honest. As simple and honest as anything could be between them.
Will turns his face down, face heating. He has a dizzying feeling of falling back into time, before he had even begun to know the truth of Hannibal. Even in the early days, in Baltimore, Hannibal had cooked more meals for him than anyone else in his entire life. Certainly more than his father, more than any girlfriend.
Will is quiet for the rest of the evening. He drinks more, with Hannibal, and then without him. Around one in the morning, he drunkenly fixes himself a plate of leftovers and eats it standing up on the patio. When he stumbles back into the kitchen, the plate slips easily from his hands onto the tile floor.
“Shit.” It doesn’t shatter, or even crack, but it makes a hell of a noise in the quiet of their little home. Will stares, completely still, hoping to not hear Hannibal walking down the stairs. Of course, after just a few moments, Hannibal appears at the bottom of the staircase. He’s still in his clothes from the day- he hadn’t been asleep yet. Will doesn’t know if that’s better or worse than him coming down in pajamas.
Hannibal takes in the situation, and says nothing.
“I’m sorry.” Will blurts out, and then bites his own tongue. Fucking red wine.
“Whatever for?” Hannibal asks, sounding genuinely befuddled.
“I don’t know,” Will says, and then, truly drunk and emotionally drained and not able to help it. “I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry for whatever I did that made you treat me like this, Will doesn’t say. It’s, of course, a nonsense thought. Hannibal hasn’t been treating Will like much of anything. And, more to the point, since the day they met, Hannibal has only ever treated Will exactly how he wanted to, regardless of what Will wanted or deserved. Will feels stupid for thinking he ever believed he could pull this off, being with Hannibal. Feels stupid for thinking he could actually get what he wants.
Hannibal walks over to him, kneels down to pick up the plate, and puts it in the sink without rinsing it off. “Come upstairs, Will.”
Will feels restless. He wants Hannibal to make him go upstairs, whatever the fuck that would look like. He wants Hannibal to stab him in the kitchen, to rip his throat out with his teeth. He wants Hannibal to fuck him. He wants Hannibal to do anything to him, as long as he means it.
“I want-” Will starts, not sure where he’s going with it. His desires are too weighty to be said aloud in the quiet of the kitchen.
Hannibal just looks at him expectedly.
“I want to sleep in your room,” is what he ends up getting out. To Hannibal’s credit, he doesn’t visibly react beyond a nod, and watches impassively as Will walks up the stairs and climbs into Hannibal’s bed.
Will feels a little daunted by Hannibal just standing next to the bed, but he also honestly doesn’t know what he would do if Hannibal tried to get in with him.
“Are you still having nightmares?” Hannibal asks as he watches Will get settled.
“About us getting caught.” Will replies. Not that they’re currently doing much that would warrant being caught, besides simply being alive. He also often has nightmares about Molly getting hurt, which- even in his state- he knows not to share with Hannibal. “Not just nightmares.”
“Oh?” Hannibal says, and Will likes that tone. He sounds curious. “What are your good dreams about?”
“Your mouth.” Will says, easily. “Dolarhyde’s throat.”
If Hannibal replies, Will doesn’t hear it.
Will wakes up with a blinding headache, with no sun coming through the window. It can’t be more than a few hours since he fell asleep. He keeps his eyes closed a minute before remembering the circumstances in which he fell asleep. He assumes Hannibal will have left, probably taking Will’s own bed, and is genuinely shocked when he opens his eyes to see Hannibal, asleep, sitting upright in the chair in the corner of the room. Will stares for a long time. It’s an unerring thing to do, and perhaps a kind one as well. Will wishes desperately Hannibal had just gotten into bed with him, and can’t bring himself to feel anything but bitter about it.
Will doesn’t recall falling back asleep, but he wakes again, to sunlight. His head isn’t much better and Hannibal is gone. Will begrudgingly goes to his own bathroom to stick his face under the faucet, brush his teeth, and swallow a couple of tylenol, and then makes his way downstairs.
Hannibal is setting the kitchen table; something is cooking in the oven. A cup of coffee is sitting out for Will. Will takes it outside to sip at until Hannibal calls him back inside for breakfast- simply toast and coffee.
“Four ingredients,” Hannibal says as they sit at the kitchen table. They’re both still in their clothes from the day before. Will wonders if Hannibal had really stayed by his side for most of the night. Wonders how long he spent just watching Will sleep. “Seven including spices and herbs.”
“It’s lovely,” Will says. It isn’t his own word, but the sentiment is real. It is, in that moment, Will’s favorite of all the meals Hannibal has made him. Simple ingredients made with care. “Thank you.”
“What do you have planned for the day?” Hannibal asks after a few moments.
The question sets Will on edge, and then immediately makes him perk up. Hannibal hasn’t inquired after his day in such a way once since they’ve arrived here. “Nothing,” Will says, maybe a little too eagerly. “Nothing that can’t be put off.” It isn’t exactly like they live a busy life.
“I could use some assistance in the kitchen tonight. What I have planned is time-extensive, and I would appreciate a sous-chef.”
Will is shocked, and buries his smile into his coffee cup. He thinks better of it and, suddenly feeling buoyant, looks Hannibal in the eyes and smiles at him. “I want that.” And while it's not all Will wants, it’s a start.
iv.
"What is demi-glace?" Will asks, watching the viscous liquid drip onto the cuts of lamb. He’s been helping Hannibal cook most nights the past week, and while Will is still frustrated by Hannibal’s near-apathy, their cooking together always lights a spark of joy in Will that he honestly isn’t sure he’s felt in years.
At Hannibal's frankly offended look, Will continues, "I've had it before, I've just never looked into what it is."
This does not appease Hannibal's concern. He’s quiet for a few moments, clearly thinking about what he’s about to say. And then- "I am genuinely baffled by the notion of putting something into your body that you do not know of its origin."
Will turns to gawks at Hannibal’s back as he keeps stirring something at the stove. "You fed me... undisclosed meat without me knowing what it was for close to a fucking year, Hannibal." Hundreds of others, as well, but Will isn’t particularly concerned with them.
Hannibal ruffles, at the accusation and at the language. "I knew what it was," he replies, primly.
The answer settles in Will's gut. Hannibal knew. Hannibal knew, so it was as good as if Will knew.
“So you would eat anything, even if you didn’t know what it was, as long as I did.”
“Yes. I trust you, Will.” It’s not a lie, but there’s something in how Hannibal says that, Will can just barely detect a fragment of anxiety.
Hannibal begins a lesson about the five sauces of French cuisine, but Will’s mind is already elsewhere.
Will thinks about it all night, until the next morning, at breakfast.
“You should make a light dinner,” Will says, “and then I want you out of the kitchen after we eat.”
“Alright,” Hannibal says easily, which in turn makes Will want to snap at him with his teeth like an animal.
Will’s anxious the rest of day- his plan isn’t much to be anxious over, in the long run, but they so rarely break routine it seems much more important than it is. Hannibal does as he’s told, and after a small dinner of tuna steaks and a salad, he exiles himself to the living room.
Will starts cooking immediately. He’s been planning this all day, so he knows what he’s doing, but he still feels the same pressure as when he had fried fish for Hannibal, weeks ago. It’s very important to him to do this right, to make food that Hannibal will enjoy.
He ends up making five meals- all picked for their relative simplicity and because he knows they’re all things that Hannibal enjoys. The most frustrating part is reading recipes from the small screen of his smartphone, instead of being told what to do by Hannibal.
Will has worked up a sweat by the time he’s done, but he’s pleased by the dishes. It’s a lot of food, and it all looks like it’s supposed to. Neither of them like to waste food, but Will’s made small servings, and everything seems like it will keep well.
“Hannibal,” Will calls.
Hannibal comes from the living room to sit at the kitchen table and Will goes to him, holding a cheap tie he had thankfully been able to find at the small clothing section of the supermarket.
“I want you to blindfold yourself,” Will says. He feels no small amount of pleasure at the unconcealed surprise on Hannibal’s face.
“Alright,” Hannibal says, not sounding anywhere near as assured of himself this time. He does so, and Will very slowly moves his hand in front of him a few times. Once Will’s satisfied he can’t see, he receives the five dishes from the kitchen.
“I’ve made five dishes. I want you to try each of them.”
“Do you want me to guess the ingredients?” Hannibal asks. “My elevated senses are not a party trick.”
“You can if you want to show off,” Will says, dryly, and then, remembering- “I want to feed you something that you don’t know what it is.”
Hannibal smiles very softly at that, and simply opens his mouth.
Will stares for a few moments. This was his idea, and yet the image of Hannibal’s soft mouth opening for him is thrilling.
He feeds Hannibal a bite of the first dish and- despite claiming it’s not a party trick- Hannibal easily lists off the recipe and ingredients, down to the brand of dijon mustard Will had used. Will had just bought the most expensive one at the store.
“You don’t even need to taste it, do you?” Will asks about ten minutes later, after Hannibal’s guessed the ingredients of each one of the dishes perfectly, five for five. “You could do it just by smell."
“Honestly,” Hannibal says, “you would have been better off asking me to leave the house while you cooked. I knew the basics of the recipes before you even called me in here.”
Will rolls his eyes a little, but is glad Hannibal is blindfolded and can’t see his smile. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him that Hannibal being haughty is making him feel pleased.
“I am surprised,” Hannibal continues. “That you put so much effort into making food you knew I’d find delightful.”
“I’m not useless in the kitchen,” Will says, almost insulted, though he supposes uselessness is relative, when compared to Hannibal.
“I know,” Hannibal says. “I just meant that this would have been a perfect opportunity for you to inflict some cruelty on me.” Hannibal doesn’t sound like he cares about the idea much one way or the other. It makes Will blink hard, feeling like he’s been hit.
“That’s what you think of me?” Will says, not being able to control the emotion in his voice.
Hannibal’s browline furrows above the blindfold, and he begins to speak, “Will-”
But Will cuts him off. “There’s one more,” he says.
Hannibal’s brow is still furrowed but he parts his lips obediently.
Will takes one steadying breath, and leans in, and presses his lips to Hannibal’s.
Hannibal inhales sharply, but doesn’t otherwise move, so Will kisses him again, again, again, finally muttering, “Hannibal”, soft and needy, into his mouth.
Hannibal finally reacts, kissing Will back and grabbing at him, at his waist and his arms, holding on for dear life.
Will laughs a little into the kiss, bringing his hand up to push the blindfold off of Hannibal’s face.
Hannibal opens his eyes, and they’re shining. His hair is ruffled by the removal of the blindfold, and Will reaches up to smooth it back.
Hannibal snatches Will’s hand in his own, too quickly to be gentle, and kisses his palm and fingers.
“Hannibal,” Will murmurs again, feeling like he’s saying his name for the first time.
Hannibal is looking at him in wonder, like he loves him- like he loves in the way Hannibal has always loved Will, dark and gruesome, tinted with possession and control, but he’s also looking at Will like he loves him in the way other people love- kindly, without obligation or violence.
Yes, Will thinks, feeling feverish and out of breath just from kissing, thinking of the past months of near-apathy, this is what I wanted.
He kisses Hannibal again, and then twice more, unable to stop, and he says, barely pulling away, “I want you.”
Hannibal’s eyes close, and he licks his own lips, and Will’s his brain statics out for a second. Apparently, this is what Hannibal had been wanting too.
They kiss, softly and mostly close mouthed, until Will’s shoulder aches from the angle, and then Will pulls away only to crawl into Hannibal’s lap, feeling the chair shift under the weight of them both. Will feels silly for a moment- he’s never sat in a partner’s lap before and here he is, closing in on 40 years old. But Hannibal dispels his fears immediately in the way he gathers Will up in his arms, petting over his back, holding him like a treasure.
He sets his mouth on Will’s neck, tentatively at first, and then with teeth at Will’s encouragement. Will moans and Hannibal sucks, not especially hard but with intention, at his pulse point.
Will brings a hand up to run his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, light and silk-soft, and he tugs him away from his neck softly so he can look at him. Hannibal’s pupils are blown wide, his lips red and slick, and he looks, well- he looks horny. Undone, turned on beyond belief, holding the object of his affection in his lap.
Will has never seen Hannibal like this before, and it makes him fond and aching in turn. What expressions of Hannibal has Will not seen yet? What will they continue to learn about each other? How can there even be anything left, at this point, that Will has not felt with Hannibal by his side?
“I don’t want there to be anything between us anymore,” Will says, barely thinking as he says it. Glass and blades, guns and cages. What an artifice it all was. “I want all of it. All of you. And I don’t want to hurt you, Hannibal. Why would you think that?”
Hannibal reacts strongly, ducking his head and squeezing Will tight to him.
He’s trying not to cry, Will thinks, wondrous, not embarrassed or uncomfortable in the slightest. He feels validated.
“It’s okay, Hannibal,” he says, softly petting over Hannibal’s eyes until tears start to fall.
Hannibal is on his way to being annoyed, but doesn’t look away from Will.
“You’re beautiful,” Will offers, meaning it intensely, but unable to stop himself from smiling and almost laughing as he says it. He likes Hannibal annoyed.
Hannibal kisses him fiercely, and Will takes the hint to shut up, and lets himself be kissed.