Will swirled the whisky around his glass and looked over at Hannibal. He sat in a low chair nearby with his legs crossed and an air of calm expectancy about him; if he hadn't forsaken his three piece suits in the months they'd been in hiding Will could have believed them back in one of their therapy sessions.
"This feels familiar," he said, watching the firelight set the whisky aflame. "Should I dig up some more secrets to tell you?"
Hannibal's eyes tracked his hand as he brought the glass up for a slow sip. "Are there any secrets left between us, Will?"
Will took another drink. The wine with dinner had left him relaxed and warm. The whisky was doing more than that.
"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Hannibal's forehead creased into a frown, and Will couldn't help a small smile. He was the one giving up control here, agreeing to drink while Hannibal remained sober. If Hannibal thought he was going to keep his composure the whole time, he could think again.
"I enjoy having control over your body." Hannibal's hands clenched and unclenched on the arms of his chair. The fire flared up and cast a flickering glow over him. "If you're unwell, or if you drink too much, I can do things. Help you walk."
Will emptied his glass and refilled it while it still burned in his throat. "Help me undress." He huffed a laugh. "It's been a while since you did that. Florence, I think. The drugs."
Hannibal was slow to respond, and his voice was thick when he finally spoke. "You were very... pliant... in my hands."
Will remembered what it had been like when they first arrived here, how he'd had to bathe and tend Hannibal most of the time. There had been a sense of power in knowing Hannibal couldn't make it to the bathroom by himself.
He just didn't quite have Hannibal's taste for that power.
"I was helpless," Will said, and he should be angry, but all he can remember is the expert handling of his body, careful and affectionate in Hannibal's own strange way. Those broad hands supporting him, guiding him.
He'd thought about that often over the years, turning it around in his mind to look at it from different angles.
"I know you have always valued self-control very highly." It wasn't an apology, and Will appreciated that. He wouldn't have believed Hannibal if he'd offered one.
"Makes it more of a prize." Will raised his glass again but stopped it short of his lips. He waited until Hannibal met his eyes. "You wanted control, Hannibal. Now you have it."
The shadows seemed to deepen around Hannibal, but perhaps it was just that he burned a little more brightly. Will closed his eyes, suddenly light-headed, and he didn't think it was entirely due to the whisky.
"Take a drink, Will."
Will obeyed, and when he opened his eyes again Hannibal was leaning forward in his chair. He had a flash of memory, hot and fevered, of hands on him. Hannibal's face hungry in a darkened room. It might have been a dream, but he knew it wasn't.
Whisky tingled on his tongue.
"You touched me," he said. "When I-- the fever--" He pushed the hair back off his forehead; he was sweating a little. He could still feel the ghost of Hannibal's hands.
"Nothing inappropriate," Hannibal said.
"But you wanted to." Will knew it was true; he wondered what it said about him that he found the thought arousing. He wondered if Hannibal could tell.
"Yes." Hannibal's gaze was steady on him. "Drink, Will."
Will took a long swallow. The room was growing fuzzy around the edges, and he gave in to the urge to lean his head back. He wasn't used to drinking like this, not any more.
"And tonight?" The ceiling was high and barely visible with just the firelight illuminating the room with an orange glow.
Hannibal was silent, but after a few moments Will felt a cool hand on his forehead. He rolled his head into it and felt fingers tangle briefly in his hair before releasing him.
"Tonight," Hannibal said, leaning in close. "I plan to help you upstairs and put you to bed. Then I will watch you fall asleep."
His hand was back on Will's face, as if it couldn't help touching him now he had permission.
"That's a terrible idea," Will said carefully, making sure his lips formed the words he wanted. He felt Hannibal's hand falter on his cheek. "When it's not what either of us really want."
He reached up Hannibal's arm until he found his shoulder, his neck, his face. The whisky glass tumbled to the floor and rolled off somewhere into the darkness. Hannibal didn't resist when Will pulled him down, just parted his lips willingly.
Hannibal tasted as Will imagined he himself did right now, minus the whisky. Dark chocolate from dessert. Fine red wine. He searched past them for some taste that was just Hannibal, but he wasn't sure what he was looking for. Hannibal's eyes were half-closed when he pulled back, his expression blank if you didn't look too closely.
Will always looked too closely. Hannibal's lips were still parted, as if he was breathing Will in, as if he was still processing all the new sensory information.
"I think I've had too much to drink," Will said, letting his limbs loosen and relax. He blinked slowly and deliberately at Hannibal, fumbling with the top button of his shirt.
Hannibal's fingers closed around his.
He knelt down by the chair, close enough for Will to feel the heat of his body all along his side. His fingers left a trail of all too brief touches down Will's chest as he unbuttoned his shirt. Will watched Hannibal's face, intent and focused on nothing but him, and it sent an unexpected thrill though him.
Will bit down hard on his bottom lip when Hannibal reached for his belt; there was something about those capable hands uncovering his body that made him want to sprawl out even more wantonly across the chair, spread himself wide for Hannibal to do with as he desired.
Will wasn't going to do that. Whatever Hannibal wanted, he was going to have to take.
He wasn't surprised when Hannibal paused with a hand over his own personal mark. He traced the line of the scar with his fingertips, and Will couldn't help his stomach clenching. There wasn't much sensation in the area, the damage had been severe, but Hannibal's face--
Possessiveness. Need. Greed.
Hannibal's lips met his again, and now Will could feel the hunger boiling up from deep inside him, taste the need like coppery blood on his tongue.
Of course Hannibal tasted like blood.
His breath hitched as Hannibal pressed his lips against his neck, worked his way down his throat. He murmured words Will didn't recognise, because apparently by 'I enjoy having control over your body', Hannibal really meant 'it turns me on so much I forget how to speak English.'
Hannibal's mouth was feverish on Will, his fingers still spread across the scar like he was afraid it would disappear if he let go. His control was hanging by a thread, and Will could think of more than one way to sever it. He'd been thinking about it for a long time.
Then Hannibal's hand pushed into his jeans and wrapped around his cock. Pleasure mingled with the warmth of the whisky and the heaviness of his limbs, and he let himself relax into the chair.
He came with Hannibal's hands on his thighs and his mouth hot and wet on his cock, and the last thing he saw before his eyes closed was Hannibal licking the taste of him off his lips.