Archive of Our Own

“One key over Will, there you are. That’s the Major chord of F sharp.”

Hannibal’s hands linger on Will’s shoulders, looming above him like vulture waiting for its prey to slip over the precipice. Will plays the chord, a dismal sound without any accompaniment. He turns slowly to face his teacher.

“I’m never going to be your musical protege if I still don’t have a grasp on what a sharp even means.” 

“This is merely something to pass the time, Will.” 

Hannibal digs his fingers into Will’s shoulders then, pressing right up against a sore muscle. "Oh," he says without meaning to. The ache in his upper arms and back diminishes rapidly as Hannibal keeps pressing, moving along to his neck. The nerves there tingle and his muscles loosen. He suppresses a shiver as the kneading continues. 

“I wish we could heal faster,” Will whispers, finding contempt for the way his voice rises in pitch with the relief these ministrations bring. Hannibal rubs in circles at his nape with his thumbs, and he holds back the “Don’t stop” that threatens to roll off his tongue.

“In time, we will have the opportunity for extravagance. For now, we should be doing the bare minimum for our recovery.” Hannibal’s hands find their way into Will’s hair, and Will doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t want to. “Won’t be long now.”

Will closes his eyes as nails scratch against the sensitive spots on his scalp, rubbing and rasping in gentle movements. He dances his fingers over the keys of the Harpsichord, only thinking about playing them. Hannibal rubs his knuckles against his temples for a while.

“Is it dinner time yet?” Will asks when Hannibal’s massage begins to slow.

“Yes, I have prepared a Brandy Flamed Peppercorn Steak. It is nothing special, but I am positive you will find it tasteful.”

Will smiles lightly. He doesn’t want to reveal to Hannibal that anything beyond the cheeseburgers he’d get at McDonalds as a little boy would be special to him. He mourns the loss of Hannibal’s touch briefly as he retreats into the kitchen. 

Their hands will be on each other again tonight when they are curled up on the couch, watching the American news stations after flipping through several Spanish channels Will cannot understand. Touch had been non-negotiable after the fall. It had not been discussed and hadn't needed to be figured out.

It just is . Natural as breathing.

When they’d been healthy enough to travel to Argentina, Hannibal had put an arm around him on the boat, nosed slightly into Will’s hair to take in his scent. Will had slid his hand through Hannibal’s fingers, intertwining with him in the only way he had known how. The only way that had made sense after the bluff.

Tonight, the news is talking about them. Pressed up against his side, Will is holding Hannibal’s hand, rubbing over the pads of his fingers in thought when Hannibal nudges him.

“They seem to think they have found a clue to our whereabouts.”

Without looking up, Will reminds, “Last time they thought that, they ended up with more evidence towards the theory that we died going over that cliff.”

“We nearly did.”

Will looks up then, a smirk drawn from his lips. “Instead, I am forever to be labeled by the press as your warped courtesan. Wouldn’t death have been easier?”

Hannibal turns to him, eyes playful.

“Do courtesans throw their lovers over the sides of cliffs?”

“Are you my lover, Dr. Lecter?” 

The sides of Hannibal’s lips twitch up, and he turns back to the TV. Will resumes rubbing the pads of Hannibal’s fingers, ghosting a line down his palm. 

After a moment, Hannibal says in a low voice, “The term lovers comes with various definitions and connotations. Ones that date back to 1700 or 1200 BCE.”

Hannibal does not expect an answer. He expects Will to stay silent.

This is the point they always reach; the line that neither of them cross.

Will doesn’t know why. It seems as if that would be instinctual, the next step, but maybe he is far too comfortable in this reality they’ve created. The routine of it gives him a sense of amenity. If he broke that, or if he allowed Hannibal to break that, he’s not sure where they would stand. He likes being able to touch Hannibal like he's been doing. For now, it is enough.

It is the night when he grows truly restless. As if there is a caged animal within him creating a storm fabricated out of something desperate and wanton. Starving for something that is missing.

They spend their nights in separate bedrooms. It seems silly to Will after having spent weeks together in a small cabin on a boat, wading into the Argentinian waters for a new life, that they would not share a bed together. 

Vaguely, it makes logical sense. They aren’t together, not like that. 

Every night, Will turns to the empty side of his bed and wants to see him there. It more than a risk when he finally breaks, and strolls into the darkened halls of their home, standing outside of Hannibal’s door with nothing but his boxers on and a loose white shirt. He knocks, only then remembering it is far too late in the night to be knocking on doors.

It is strange to him when Hannibal answers almost immediately. 

“Come in, Will.”

Will enters and tries not to stare. Hannibal has no shirt on; broad shoulders, dusty chest hair, and toned muscles all on display. It strikes him funny he would never think twice about a man, not if it wasn’t Hannibal. He stares out the window instead.

“I’ve never lived next to the ocean,” Will says. “The waves are louder than I ever dreamed they could be.”

“They are loud on this side of the house too, Will.” 

It is meant to dismantle Will’s excuse, but Hannibal lifts up the sheets anyway; a once in a lifetime offering. Will takes it without a second thought, climbing into the bed already warmed by Hannibal’s solid body. 

Will turns so he is facing away from Hannibal, and shimmies back just enough to be an invitation. Hannibal moves in and wraps an arm around him, sighing against his back and pressing his face into Will’s curls. It’s overheated, and intimate in a petrifying way, but Will has never been able to drift into sleep as fast as he does in Hannibal’s firm hold. 

Will chokes on the water under the faucet.

He swats Hannibal’s hands away as he leans back, wiping a sleeve across his face. He turns the faucet off and directs his displeasure towards the man hovering over him.

“You told me it was spicy, you didn’t tell me it was the fucking sun! ” 

Will rubs his throat in anguish, still feeling the burn from their dinner. Hannibal shuffles over to the fridge and apologetically brings back a bowl of something white.

“My own recipe for greek yogurt,” Hannibal explains, handing Will a spoon with it, “Please try this. Dairy is the best remedy for spicy ingestions.”

“It’s not simply ‘spicy’ if it’s destroyed my fucking mouth!” Will barks out, grabbing the bowl from Hannibal’s hands and spooning the yogurt into his mouth like a starving street urchin. “Jesus christ,” he mumbles through it. 

Hannibal has the audacity to smile at him, huffing strangely with flared nostrils as if he’s holding back a laugh. Will snarls.

“You think this is funny, asshole? You are gonna get the payback of your lifetime, I promise you that.” 

Will hands the bowl back to Hannibal when he’s done, and he flinches when Hannibal reaches forward with a thumb to swipe residue of yogurt off the side of his mouth. He puts the thumb to his lips, licking it up and Will turns away, face red for another reason entirely. He’s too high-strung to think about this unresolved thing between them right now. 

Too sober.

“In an hour, I want you in the living room. No arguments. Be sitting there when I get back.” Will gestures wildly to said room. He doesn’t elaborate as he grabs the car keys and storms out the front door.

When he returns in fifty minutes, he's holding the cheapest bottle of vodka he could find. He’d traveled to the strip of shops they occasionally visit in the city for groceries or clothes. He had seen Hannibal purchase expensive wine from a liquor store there. 

At the time he had also noticed the cheap options only a few rows over.

Hannibal is sitting on the couch like he was told to, and when he eyes the bottle in Will’s hand, a stark look of disgust falls over his features.

“We are getting drunk,” Will announces, popping the cap. 

“Will.”

“I told you I’m not hearing any arguments. You want to apologize? You’ll drink with me.” Will grabs two shot glasses from the kitchen and plops down on the couch beside Hannibal. He pours them shots. “Drink up.”

Hannibal picks up his shot, but does not take it.

“You drink wine all the time, what’s a few more percentages in your blood alcohol level going to hurt?” Will says sharply. Leaning forward with a sly smile, he adds, “I could always make you, you know.” 

Hannibal’s eyes flick over to him, challenging. Will has no time to figure out if he is willing to go through with the threat when Hannibal downs his shot and holds it out to Will. Will laughs triumphantly, takes his own, and pours them new ones. 

They’re on their fourth shot when Will asks the pressing question.

“When was the last time Hannibal Lecter got drunk?” 

Hannibal gives him the barest smile.

“Why is Will Graham so determined to get me drunk?”

“Once you loosen up you’ll answer my questions, I bet,” Will informs steadily. He pours them another shot, and when he’s thrown a glare, he includes, “We’ll be doing six, by the way.”

“Lovely,” Hannibal deadpans, taking his fifth with a wince. “I suppose you’re doing this just to loosen my tongue, then? What do you hope to discover?”

“I don’t know. I’ll leave it to drunk-you to share some embarrassing stories.” 

“You already know everything important that pertains to my life, Will.”

“Yeah, but important and embarrassing are two entirely different things,” Will adds with a wink. Hannibal cocks his head. 

“You’re not trying to take advantage of my inebriated state of mind, are you Will?”

Will nearly spills his sixth and final shot. 

“I don’t know what you’re implying Doctor,” Will says in an innocent lilt, downing his shot with a shaking hand. 

Hannibal snorts and downs his own.

They’re drinking far too fast to not get drunk quickly and efficiently. But, just as Will suspected, Hannibal is not the alcoholic type like him. Will can get through the night maybe on the higher end of being buzzed, but he knows Hannibal will be flat out drunk. He is very close to being drunk already.

Hannibal Lecter does not snort. 

He has no intentions of taking advantage of Hannibal. He’d never do that, even with what he’s done to the human body with knives or his hands; he’s not the sexually sadistic type. That is a whole other level of evil neither he nor Hannibal could ever stoop to. At least not without consent. 

He isn’t opposed, however, to breaking the ice about their longing. Once they’re sufficiently drunk enough, of course. 

When he hears Hannibal laugh, he decides he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. 

“What’s so funny?”

“I cannot believe I’ve allowed you to get me drunk,” Hannibal says and his voice is losing much of its regularly used articulation. “Will Graham, you clever, very clever, diabolical boy.”

“I see the drinks are working fast,” Will mutters fondly. He tries again. “Hey Hannibal, when was the last time you got drunk like this?” 

Stubborn as ever, Hannibal puts a finger to his lips and huffs out a laugh.

“Okay, I’ll ask you in twenty minutes then.” 

“If we’re asking questions, Will, may I ask you questions, a question.” 

Will smiles slowly. “Sure.”

“Whys’t you wanted to eat Bedelia’s leg? It was your idea, Will.” He leans in close on the couch, and Will is realizing they maybe should have done this at the dining table. The couch is far too intimate, too comfortable, and Will is far too buzzed to not be considering closing the offending gap between them.

“Are we really going to talk about this while we’re drunk?” 

“Why not?” Hannibal’s brows furrow to match the exaggerated downward turn of his lips. 

“Are you pouting?” Will accuses with a grin and a pointed finger, “Oh my god, you’re pouting at me.”

“I’m not,” Hannibal protests, shoving him with a hand, “ Pouting . Absurd boy.” 

Will laughs, taking the hand that had shoved him in his own. He looks down and strokes over the inside of Hannibal's wrist.

“I didn’t like that she was my replacement,” Will confesses. Perhaps his own tongue is threatening to loosen dangerously when he adds, “It may have been misguided jealousy.” 

Hannibal’s eyes flare. He leans in ever closer. “Jealous of what, dear Will?”

Will curses him inwardly for reversing the interrogation, but he responds, unable to deny Hannibal the pleasures of this disclosure. 

“Everything,” he whispers. “The fact that she was the one with you in Florence. The intimacy, the close proximity she shared with you. The ridiculous stolen identities.”

“Have you not regained everything she once possessed?”

“No, no I haven’t. Not everything.”

Will heavily contemplates taking another shot, but decides against it. He wants to be lucid enough to see Hannibal at the peak of his drunken state. However, this conversation is delving into a realm he is not comfortable exploring at the moment, so he pushes Hannibal’s face away with a hand and a fond smile. “Don’t ask,” he orders. 

Hannibal doesn’t.

They end up huddled together under a blanket, changing channels and chuckling at the immature personalities they find on the foreign reality shows. After an episode of some cheesy dating show, Will clicks the power button on the remote, looking up at Hannibal from where his head is rested on his chest.

"This feels more natural than anything I've ever come across in my lifetime," Will whispers. His head feels warm and bubbly, like he's flying on a cloud. He digs his fingers into the firm flesh through Hannibal's shirt to ground himself.

"Hannibal?" Will cranes his body upward to get a good look at his face.

Hannibal's eyes are closed, a content smile on his face. He'd been awake not thirty seconds prior. Will’s face droops with irritation. 

"Hey, no falling asleep on me, old man." Will jostles him lightly and delights at the way Hannibal's eyes shoot wide open.

"Dance with me," He demands all of a sudden.

Will’s stomach twists into a tight knot.

“What.”

Hannibal is pulling him up to his feet, dragging him to the record player. He puts on a song Will faintly recognizes, from some romantic media no doubt. Perhaps a Deborah Kerr film, he thinks. He blushes while he’s dragged to the middle of the living room.

For a drunk man, Hannibal holds his balance adequately as he tries to maneuver them elegantly in a rotation. Will drags his feet, embarrassment sliding in past the slim veil of alcohol. “Hannibal…” he protests. His answer is to be twirled. 

He can feel the drink swash around within him and grabs Hannibal’s shoulders to steady himself. He thinks he might be sick. 

“Hannibal, I’m not Bedelia. This isn’t exactly my forte,” Will mumbles even as he allows himself to be continuously danced around the room. He fumbles over Hannibal's feet but that doesn't stop Hannibal.

“Nonsense. Anything can be your forte if you want it to be.”

“I don’t want it to be,” Will replies with a shocked laugh as he’s dipped suddenly. Hannibal keeps him bent and lifts his knuckles to kiss each of them.

Will blushes furiously, snatching his hand back. 

Hannibal lifts Will back up and nearly topples over onto the couch, all the spinning and alcohol sufficiently disorienting him. Will grabs him to keep him standing.

“Hey, less dancing, okay? We can still be drunk without throwing our backs out or, uh, vomiting all over the carpet, right?” 

Hannibal nods, holding his stomach as if to quell the discomfort. 

Will makes them coffee, the sweet blend that Hannibal usually makes in the morning. He’s under no illusion this will sober them up, but it will maybe settle their stomachs. 

“I guess I thought I could be drunk the same way I was in college,” Will explains, his own words slurring just enough for Hannibal to reward him with a coy smile.

He hands Hannibal his coffee. 

“I guess I need to realize I’m forty at some point.”

“You don’t look it,” Hannibal muses, leisurely taking a sip. His eyes light up. “Ohhhhhhhh, this is good, Will.” He all but chugs the coffee.

Will observes him with wide eyes, watching him chug until the black liquid is gone and the mug is placed on the coffee table. Hannibal sits on the arm of the couch, smiling back at Will as if he isn’t acting like a goofy child. 

“Thanks, you don’t look geriatric.” 

Hannibal looks genuinely offended. “I’m not geriatric.”

“Soon enough,” Will winks and sips at the coffee, still hot. He once again glances at the now empty mug on the coffee table, wondering how Hannibal didn’t scorch his tongue.

“Rude, quite rude,” Hannibal mutters, eyes fluttering. 

"One more time. When was the last time you got drunk, Hannibal?"

Stubborn, glistening, eyes and a grin like a sated crocodile.

"I'll never tell." 

Will sighs, setting his own mug down and lending Hannibal a shoulder. He leads them back to their bedroom. Hannibal is laid down as carefully as Will can manage, and he moans into the pillow, comfortable at last.

Will tries his best not to find this utterly and unnervingly attractive.

“Sorry for assuming you could handle your drinks,” Will teases, and brushes the hair out of Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal catches his hand and kisses his open palm. 

Will draws it away, rubs his hand as if to vanish the kiss. 

“Why do you do that?” Hannibal whispers, almost somber.

“What.”

“Pull away.” 

Will tries his best to ignore the pure hurt on Hannibal’s face, and stands to leave the room when Hannibal asks him “Why,” once more. 

“You’re drunk, okay? If we were, if we’re going to...I don’t want it to be when we’re,” Will stops. He was raising his voice and he refuses to get mad at Hannibal right now when it's neither of their faults. They're both drunk. Will feels like ripping his hair out and laying next to Hannibal all in the same moment.

“Go to sleep, Hannibal.” 

“You too,” Hannibal requests softly, tugging at the hem of his shirt. He wants him in bed.

Will melts, and nods. 

“Okay, okay. Let’s just get some rest, alright?"

“I simply cannot do with a hangover today, William.” 

“Don’t call me William.” Will bristles. When Hannibal is truly annoyed with him, he calls him this name, and when he further wants to push his buttons, he’ll say;

“Billy,” with dark, unforgiving eyes. Just like he does now. 

“Fuck you, okay?” Will slams a plate down, and Hannibal grabs him by his arm before he can storm off into god knows which room. 

“I had important business to attend today.”

“You should have told me that last night before I started pouring shots!”

“It was your choice of punishment.”

Punishment. We're not in the fucking middle ages . 

“Then don’t complain!” 

He rips his arm away from Hannibal’s grasp, but he leans against the table as they both stew in silence. Their heads are both pounding something sickly, and no amount of coffee, water, or aspirin is managing to dull their pain.

“What business,” Will asks in a soft voice, after the agonizing quiet shifts into something that makes his stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Come with me.” Hannibal suddenly has a hold around his wrist, and is dragging them towards their bedroom. Will’s usually not in here during the day, and his heart pounds against his ribcage when they stop in front of the foot of the bed.

Hannibal disappears into the closet, the arrant noise of hangers clicking together the only sound to accompany Will’s uneven breathing. 

He returns with a beautiful suit, nearly black, but more of a deep maroon. Like blood. Will reaches out to touch the fabric when Hannibal presents it to him. It’s soft and smooth and Will can’t remember the last real suit he ever owned. 

“Hannibal, is this—” 

“It is yours, Will. I estimated your measurements.” 

My fucking measurements, holy shit that's hot . 

Will can’t help his own smile as he takes the suit in his hands. It comes with dark, opal cufflinks and a black pocket square. 

“I thought we were fighting,” Will says with a breathy chuckle. 

“Not fighting, Will. Merely hung over and bitter about it.” 

He's not wrong.

Will wants to put the suit on now, though it is morning and they have no where important to be. 

“Hung over like ridiculously egotistical frat boys.” 

“Quite.” 

“Hannibal, I like it a lot. Thank you.”

“There is a condition,” Hannibal responds. Will slowly looks up and realizes Hannibal is apprehensive. No remnants of his usual suave, over-confidence shines through in his face. Will tilts his head in lieu of a response. 

“I wish to bring you to the opera.”

Oh . Of all the things Will had been expecting him to say, it hadn’t been that. It makes Hannibal’s hesitance somewhat captivating, if he’s being honest with himself. Hannibal Lecter can worry and fret just as much as any other human. About simple things. He plied Will with a glorious, expensive gift, in hopes it would be enough to sway his opinion on the theater. 

Will would have tried the opera with Hannibal regardless of gifts, but he takes great pleasure in waiting a few tremendously loaded seconds before saying, “I don’t see why not.”

The corners of Hannibal’s lips quirk up. Will knows he's overjoyed.

“You’ve purchased tickets already haven’t you.”

“Yes."

Will laughs, “I’ll just follow your lead then.”

Turns out the tickets were for that same day, later in the evening. Will is happy to wear the suit so soon. Hannibal helps him with his cufflinks, standing rather close behind him in the mirror. Will looks at himself in the reflection and thinks about drawing an arm back to press Hannibal’s face into his neck; he can feel Hannibal’s breath on his neck where he’s leaning over to make sure he’s tying his tie correctly. Will doesn’t reach back, though he feels the phantom sensation of those warm lips against his skin, imagining to his heart's content. 

 The venue is grand. Teatro Colón, perhaps the biggest opera house in Buenos Aires, holds about two and a half thousand individuals, and almost every seat has been sold out for the opera they’re seeing tonight. 

Will hasn’t ventured out much, certainly nowhere near as busy a city as Buenos Aires. He becomes self conscious bumping shoulders and exchanging humble expressions with patrons and opera-goers. Hannibal keeps a steady hand on his back, the only thing grounding him. He’s thankful at least for the suit, so he doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb. Every man surrounding him has probably never gone a day without wearing cufflinks or polished shoes, and every woman has a cliche proclivity for pearls and diamonds. 

Their seat is in the middle, three rows from the front. The stage doesn’t obscure their view as it would in the first, and Will guesses these are most likely the best seats in the house. He doesn’t dare ask how much Hannibal paid for them. 

Money had never really given Will much thought, but even he has to admit Hannibal has a wallet the size of a solar system. Or two.

While they are waiting for the show to start, Will makes eye contact with an older man across the row, whose eyes are narrowed to slits as if he’s visualizing every worry that swashes around in Will’s mind. Will nearly gets up to escape to the bathroom, or anywhere else, but Hannibal places his hand over Will’s on the arm rest. 

“People are more blind than you may think,” Hannibal assures, calm and collected. The man that had been staring has already turned back towards the stage, chatting eagerly with his wife. Will slumps back in his chair, letting the words sink in.

Hannibal is right. They’re far from home, and Will is paranoid.

Nobody is here to catch them. They’re just here to watch an opera. People will see what they want to see.

The curtains draw open, and the beauty and extravagance of the set takes Will’s breath away. In the next second, he notices Hannibal’s hand hasn’t left his, and Hannibal’s fingers are dipping in between the crevices of his own hand. 

Will’s gasp is unheard when the music begins, a bellowing orchestral crescendo.

Will moves his fingers just enough so that they’re holding hands, and Hannibal’s grip tightens momentarily as if to encourage him. Will is more than encouraged, throughout the opera, they do not let go of each other. They do however, occasionally rub a finger over the other’s knuckles, or squeeze in assurance or affection. 

They touch. They touch all the time, but this is different. It’s romantic .

After the show, Will feels a little drunk of the arts. The opera had been fantastical and the music still echoes in his head, and his chest. The visuals make the lobby seem dull and unsaturated. What he still feels as well, is Hannibal’s hand, now at his elbow, leading him gently past the bar and out to the car.

He’s sated, and happy. More happy than he ever remembers being.

They don’t speak until Hannibal takes a wrong turn on the way back to their house. Will waits five seconds before asking;

“Are we going home?” 

“No, Will. I must request one more thing from you tonight. Though, I’d prefer it to be a surprise.” Hannibal watches the road, eyes glistening with something dangerous. 

Will doesn’t inquire further. It may be the most foolish decision in the world, but Will trusts him. He has to. There is no other choice for him. 

Hannibal manages to surprise him even now, apparently. Will thought he could predict him, but at ten pm, they’re pulling into the driveway of a lighthouse. Will eyes the ocean suspiciously, watches the waves crash against the jagged rocks beneath the lighthouse’s bluff.

A man comes outside to greet them, speaking in chipper Spanish, words that Will cannot understand, but can respond kindly to. Hannibal only says a few words to the man who nods and disappears back into the house. Will wonders if he manages the lighthouse, or if he just lives here. Will remembers reading something about wickies slowly becoming a dying breed. 

Hannibal seems remarkably smug for no good reason. Will wants to ask him what the hell is going on, but he knows Hannibal will just tell him it would ruin the surprise. Will’s starting to despise the concept of surprises. 

The man returns with a small crate, like one for an animal. Will stands there stupidly as Hannibal and the man await his reaction.

“A crate,” Will notes. 

Hannibal is still smug. Will looks back and forth between the two pairs of eyes staring him down. Out of nowhere, a small mewling sound comes from the crate, and the gears in Will’s brain begin to turn. 

Oh.

Will kneels down so he can see inside, and a small pug is curled into the corner, mewling and sniffling. It’s snout isn’t quite black as much as a chocolate brown, and it has the classic cream colored coat he correlates with most pugs. 

The man begins to speak swiftly, and Will only catches a few words that he can’t piece together. Hannibal puts a hand on Will’s shoulder.

“He’s telling you that his dog ran off and found herself a mate, returning with a pregnant stomach the size of a full blown balloon. He has to tend to the lighthouse, and does not have time for three puppies.” Hannibal speaks back to the man, most likely responding for Will. The man grins and nods, handing Will the crate. 

“I responded to his ad in the paper,” Hannibal explains. 

“They still have ads in papers?” Will mutters, rhetorical. His head feels light with a warm feeling he can’t label. He's itching to have the dog in his arms. 

Hannibal speaks to the man again, this time whatever he says sounds more like a question. The man nods, pointing to the lighthouse part of the property. He shakes Hannibal’s hand frantically, and bows his head to Will before departing back inside his home. 

“Come,” Hannibal says before Will can protest or thank him, or kiss him. Fuck. He’d really like to kiss him right now. The urge is stronger than it’s ever been, waves threatening to crash repeatedly into the dam surrounding his heart until there’s nothing but cracks and rubble. Instead, he follows Hannibal silently.

It’s a smaller lighthouse than he’s normally seen in films or pictures. It is the color of brimstone, more likely attractive in the night light than the day. Will carries the crate up the spiral stairs when they get inside, soothing and shushing the small noises the puppy makes. He still hasn’t fully processed the fact that Hannibal is letting him have a dog.

When they reach the top, Hannibal gently takes the crate from Will and places it on the floor, just next to the door. Hannibal leads Will to the railing, and they look out at the sea together. 

Despite all the times Will has left his house to gaze at the sight of it, fascinated that it looked like it was on water, he has never been one for window shopping the landmarks of the world. He likes to travel, not necessarily look at famous bodies of water or canyons.

But, right now when he looks out at the sea, salty breeze making his eyes water, he feels he could shed tears. When Hannibal loops an arm around his waist and pulls him close, Will lets out a sigh of relief that could have been embarrassing if they were anywhere else. If Hannibal was anyone else. They stand here for a while, perhaps half an hour and Will does not grow tired of the waves crashing up against the rocks on the shore. 

Will feels bold.

“Hannibal,” he mumbles, intoxicated from the heat of the body against him. “If I saw you every day, forever, I would remember this time.” 

Hannibal tenses against his side, the memory coming back to him in full. The grip at Will’s waist grows tighter and he feels lips against the top of his head, dragging lightly against his hair, nearly reaching his hairline. Will can feel his breath on his temples. 

“You magnificent creature,” He whispers back, nearly unintelligible. 

They must go soon. There is a dog waiting for them by the door, and they cannot simply thrive on the beauty of earth alone.

If they could, how bittersweet would that be?

Hannibal turns to face him, one hand still curled around his hip bone, the other trailing up his neck to his scarred cheek. Hannibal caresses the mark and leans forward to kiss it gently. Will’s pulse quickens, and he tilts forward towards Hannibal, as if pulled by an invisible string. Hannibal kisses his forehead, and then his nose.

Will’s eyes are closed. The sight would be too much to bare. Hannibal’s nose touches Will’s, almost asking Will politely to reciprocate. Even if Will did not wish to, his body reacts directly to this gesture, wavering on his feet as he leans up just slightly to press his forehead to Hannibal’s. He opens his eyes just for a moment to see Hannibal this close before closing them once more, a shudder wracking his body.

One of his hands tightens in Hannibal's shirt and the other finds purchase at his neck, drawing him close enough so their lips brush. They give each other a few chaste kisses, testing the waters, each one harboring the sensation of a tame electric shock. 

Will’s mind flashes back to the moment on the bluff, when they’d nearly reached this point. Hannibal opens his mouth and encourages Will to do the same, and Will allows it, no longer able to deny Hannibal a single thing. He wants it as badly as Hannibal does.

They don’t kiss for long, just enough to get the taste of each other in their mouths, and for just enough for Will to smile helplessly, unabashedly.

Hannibal is smiling too, a rare thing. Not like his drunken smile, or his polite smile. His pointed teeth are showing, and his eyes are wrinkling at the corners. Will imagined a more bloody, volatile moment of passion. Not something so domestic and muted. It's perfect.

They’re happy. They don’t deserve to be, but they are. 

Will climbs onto the couch next to Hannibal, curling up against him under the blanket. He gleefully accepts the kisses Hannibal scatters across his forehead and cheek. He fumbles around with the remote, changing the channels until they reach the American news station. The footage on the screen causes Will to drop the remote.

Hannibal stiffens. 

The headline at the bottom of the screen says: Margot Verger and wife Alana Bloom undergo plans to revitalize the Verger dynasty and bring down major unlawful meat-packing corporations . Margot and Alana are being interviewed on TV. Margot is holding their small son tightly to her breast. 

“Hannibal,” Will warns.

Hannibal opens his mouth as if to respond, but his focus is locked on the screen. 

“Hannibal, shut it off.”

Hannibal does, without hesitation. Will sits up, staring blankly at the coffee table. He’d nearly forgotten his old life. He doesn’t want to think about it, let alone see people he used to know when he was another man. 

“Tell me, Will,” Hannibal says in his psychiatry-voice. The one Will still despises. “Do you feel regret?” 

“I’m not doing this,” Will declares and throws back the blanket. He disappears into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine. Hannibal follows. In truth, there is no where else he could go. Basil, their pug, sits at Will’s feet, huffing and grumbling until he’s given a treat. Hannibal watches silently as Basil takes his treat into the living room to eat on the carpet. Not ideal, but neither of them could ever be angry at Basil for long. 

Will practically chugs his wine. 

“Don’t stare at me like that.”

“Like, what?”

“Like you’re working on a way to reformulate the question to not sound so psychiatric. Like you’re trying to figure out what you can say to me to get the answers you want to hear. I'm not your toy anymore.”

“Will, that was not my intention when I asked you that question.”

“What is your intention, Hannibal? Do you want me to regret leaving everything behind? Do you want me to be miserable?” Will slams his glass down when it’s empty.

“Are you miserable?” 

“No!” Will shouts. He winces at his own voice, but Hannibal remains stoic, staring back at Will like a lifeless statue. He’s waiting for Will to say more. He won’t pry. He’ll be respectful, and walk away now if Will wants him to. Will doesn’t want him to.

“I don’t feel regret, I just,” Will stumbles over his words. “I don’t feel anything.” 

Hannibal seems confused. Of course he is. It’s impossible to explain, really. 

“Hannibal, I died the day we went over that cliff. I’m still me, but my life before then is nothing but a broken dream to me. I don’t care about Margot, or Alana. I looked at their faces just now and did not feel a shred of remorse or regret. Nothing.”

“Will…”

“Let me finish.” Will swallows, throat feeling dry despite the burning residue of alcohol. “Hannibal, you can’t psychoanalyze me anymore. No part of me wants that life. Not anymore, not at any point in the future. I couldn’t live without you, and I couldn’t live with you. I had to kill the part of me that was still grappling desperately to the version of morality that had been molded by everyone in my life other than myself.”

“You did all that just to be with me,” Hannibal says softly. The only thing Will had done was throw them off a cliff, possibly to their doom. Hannibal says it like he had made a deep, heavily calculated, sacrifice. No. He hadn’t. But, he appreciates the sentiment. 

“I did that because I’m in love with you. It was easier to live or die with you than force myself to live without you. It was righteous in my eyes. To give the universe a chance to decide rather than me.” 

“Decide it did.”

“It did,” Will murmurs back. 

Hannibal takes a few steps forward. Will leans back against the counter, subtly inviting. 

“Were you distressed because you felt nothing then?”

“Mildly distressed,” Will responds sheepishly. “I’ll live.”

Hannibal closes the distance between them, and strokes a hand down Will’s cheek, to his neck. “And what do you feel when you look at me?” 

Will’s first instinct is to tease and tell him he still sounds like a psychiatrist, but he can’t resist the opportunity to say what he’s been aching to say for weeks, months. 

“Adoration. Frustration. Love.”

“Frustration?” Hannibal questions playfully, ignoring the L-bomb. Will slides one of his legs forward in between Hannibal’s and looks up at him from behind his lashes.

“A little bit.” 

Hannibal kisses him, gentle and loving. Will drags him closer until their chests bump and Will’s thigh is pressing into Hannibal’s crotch. Hannibal lets out a shaky breath, kissing Will with an open mouth, fingers probing at his hips. 

Will moans when Hannibal’s cold hands slip underneath his shirt, skating over warm skin. Hannibal trails kisses down his neck, sucking at sensitive spots Will didn’t even know existed. Will tugs at his hair, pushing him closer, moving his thigh against Hannibal’s cock which is twitching to life rather quickly. Will laughs, kissing him sharply, fingers dancing over Hannibal’s belt buckle, when there is a sudden crash from the living room. Hannibal swerves around, and Will’s arms drop loosely to his sides.

It turns out Hannibal and Will weren’t the only ones getting frisky. Basil is humping the small table which held one of the living room lamps. It is now shattered all over the rug. 

“Ah,” Hannibal states.

“I guess I’ll finally set up that neutering appointment,” Will mumbles, still feeling out of breath and hot all over. He dials the number for the vet, while Hannibal sends Basil on his way so he can clean up. 

They’re in bed that night, staring at each other with Basil at their feet, snoring loudly. Will begins to laugh. Hannibal stares at him with round, curious eyes before he joins in too. 

Will’s hand is hovering over the knob that will start the shower.

He woke up with a hard-on, his dream consisting of Hannibal pressing him into a mattress and fucking him until he was oversensitive and slick with sweat. It had been a few days since their moment in the kitchen, and Hannibal had not made further attempts to seduce him. Will had wanted to, but had grown cold with fear every time he was close.

It’s easy to kiss him, to hold him. Easier than anything he’s ever done.

But, Will. Will has never wanted anyone to fuck him. Not like that, never thought about a man taking him. Never thought of himself like that. When they had been together in the kitchen, he’d been overwhelmingly horny and filled with lust that had aged like a fine wine over the five years he'd been falling for Hannibal. 

He was only thinking about getting Hannibal’s cock in his hand. 

It hasn’t been agonizing the last few days, wondering when the right moment will arise, but Will is reaching a desperate point that he can’t just ignore. Standing in front of the showerhead, he thinks hard, and then turns it to cold. He shivers the whole while he washes up, and it’s the quickest shower he’s ever taken. His boner is subsequently banished from existence.

Hannibal meets him in the kitchen five minutes after he finishes pouring coffee. 

“Did you take a shower, Will?” He asks, noticing Will’s dripping hair. 

Will remains as casual as possible. “Uh, yeah.”

“Hmm,” Hannibal pours himself coffee. “The bathroom did not steam up at all.” 

Will’s breath catches in his throat. This bastard. He probably thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes or someone similar, a fucking detective in the making.

“It was fast." A pathetic response.

Hannibal’s eyes twinkle. “Was it?”

Will places his cup on the table and crosses the island to grab Hannibal’s face in his hands. He kisses him hard. 

“Stop pissing me off,” Will demands breathlessly against his lips.

“I will if you allow me to ravish you,” Hannibal responds, biting at his jawline. Will feels the weakness in his knees, and tugs Hannibal back to their bedroom before they give out. Hannibal follows eagerly.

He pushes Will against the bedroom door once it’s closed behind them, pressing his half-hard cock into Will’s hip. A shocked moan is tugged from Will’s lips and he bucks forward instinctively. 

I guess the right moment arose then , Will thinks dryly.

This is nothing like the kisses Hannibal had been giving him prior to this moment. These are rushed and fervent. Hannibal is biting at his lips, his jaw, his neck like determined to devour him. Will is pliant, unusual for him, but it seems to come relatively naturally. 

Their cocks brushing against each other through their pants is one of the most erotic things Will has ever experienced. He feels Hannibal's hands at his ass and makes a high pitched noise when Hannibal squeezes and tugs him forward and up.

He allows himself to be carried to the bed and thrown down onto it. He bounces on the mattress a couple of times before Hannibal crawls back up his body, spine curving as he leans down to suck marks into his neck. Will arches his back, gripping frantically at fabric and feeling obtusely like a porn star in their first porno. All teeth, panting, broken moans and a furious blush painting him from head to sternum. 

Hannibal rips open his shirt, kissing down his chest so fast, Will doesn’t have time to stop his hips from rolling up against the heat of Hannibal’s mouth. The bulge in his pants brushes against Hannibal’s neck and he moans, hands flying down to grab the silver-blonde that is already falling out of place. 

“Hannibal,” Will warns as Hannibal fights with his drawstring and tugs down his pajama bottoms and boxers in one go. “Holy shit, don’t go so fast,” he pleads even as he tugs at Hannibal’s hair, encouragingly. 

“Do you want this, Will?” 

A stupid fucking question . 

“Of course, I just—” 

“What.”

“It’s been a while,” Will admits, embarrassed. He thinks if Hannibal so much as breathes on his cock, he might come from that contact alone. “Can I undress you?”

Hannibal looks him up and down hungrily, and reluctantly flips over onto his side after a few seconds of consideration. Will takes a deep breath, and kisses him, distracting himself from his own throbbing arousal. He unbuttons Hannibal's shirt slowly, happy to reveal an expanse of skin covered in salt and pepper chest hair. Will drags his nails through it, a small gasp escaping his lips. The sensation is so new . 

Hannibal smiles, more calm than he was a few moments ago. Will is a bit more eager with Hannibal’s pants. He doesn’t want to be the only one fully nude for too long. 

When Hannibal is just as naked as he is, he runs his fingers up the shaft of Hannibal’s cock in wonder. He’s only ever seen his own, and maybe some in a locker room in high school. Never in this context. Hannibal is remarkably patient as he strokes it slowly, testing out the weight of it in his hand, marveling at the dampness of the head. 

Hannibal pushes his forehead against Will’s as Will begins to stroke him faster. 

“Will,” he mutters, like a prayer. “Will, may I do something for us?”

“Yes,” Will responds.

Hannibal draws him closer and reaches a hand down to take both of their cocks. Will cries out when he begins to move his hand. Feeling Hannibal’s cock against his own, going in and out of Hannibal’s fist, it’s all too much. Will grabs at Hannibal’s shoulders, digging half moons into his skin. 

“Fucking hell,” Will mumbles, feeling the familiar tingling crawl up his spine. He groans, bucking forward. “Why is it so good with you?”

“Because we love each other,” Hannibal says simply. 

Will nods frantically, rocking his hips forward when Hannibal’s hand tightens a fraction. He does love him, but he’s not really looking for an emotionally loaded talk right now. 

Will grips at Hannibal’s neck when he’s seconds from coming, kissing him hard with tongue and teeth and pure unbridled desperation. Hannibal flips him on his back, ripping his hand away and swooping down before Will can protest.

He sucks Will’s cock into his mouth, taking him completely in one go. Will shouts, grabbing at the pillows and finding the headboard instead. His cock bumps repeatedly against the back of Hannibal's throat. It contracts around him, as if he means to swallow him. “Hannibal, christ ,” He claws at the wood of the headboard as Hannibal sucks him wantonly, tight lips suctioned around his cock. He swirls a tongue expertly over the tip until Will is coming down his throat with a scream. 

Hannibal swallows everything down, continues sucking after Will has come down from his orgasm, doesn’t move until Will is tugging his hair sharply upwards. He’s twitching and oversensitive. He means to reciprocate, then sees Hannibal’s cock is as soft as his own. Hannibal looks sated and appeased. 

“Did you come just from giving me a blow job?” Will asks in astonishment. His throat is hoarse, and he’s still slightly breathless as Hannibal curls against him like a cat. 

He hums, confirming the question. 

“You underestimate how deeply I yearned for you Will, all these years.”

Will blinks, running a hand through Hannibal’s hair, slick with sweat now. Hannibal kisses his swollen lips, a declaration of love. 

Will kisses back, acceptance, reciprocation, a promise.

“We should probably get some breakfast,” Will states, though he’s never wanted to stay in the same place more than he wants to in this instance. 

Hannibal’s eyes are closed, and his hum is half-hearted at best.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Will complains, with a shove. Hannibal laughs, falling on his back. He stares up at the ceiling with a grin. It's unnatural seeing him genuinely elated. Will leans up on an elbow and watches him laugh, completely captivated.

It dies down, but Hannibal is still lively and upbeat, hopping up to slide his undergarments on. “Come Will, you can help me beat the eggs.” 

“Okay, sit,” Will orders. He dangles a treat above the two dogs. Their newest, a Dalmatian named Mousse is having the most trouble with these demands. She’s wiggling her butt and sitting up and then down in short intervals.

“Mousse you need to sit still for more than five seconds if you want this,” Will explains, tossing the treat to the well-trained Basil who has been sitting patiently. 

“As much as people wish to believe it, dogs cannot in fact understand any human language,” Hannibal notes, setting the dining table.

“No but they can understand treats and gestures.” Will tosses a treat to Mousse who finally manages her task. “Good girl.”

He strolls over to Hannibal to watch him over his shoulder. “Talking to them calms me down.” 

“Are you not calm?”

“I am calm, but it’s always nice to keep it consistent.”

Hannibal kisses him as he passes to the other side of the table, setting down utensils in their rightful place. “I have good news for you tonight.”

“Another surprise?” Will grumbles.

“Better.” 

Hannibal circles the table, setting a place for a third person. Will stops shadowing him, his mind buzzing with sudden dread. “Hannibal.”

Hannibal pours drinks for all three spots, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Will doesn’t find this very funny. 

“Hannibal, what are you doing?”

There is a knock at the door, and the pit in Will’s stomach falls to his feet, and he feels like vomiting. “Get that, would you, dear Will?”

Will wants to scream at him and flip the table upside down. Why the fuck would Hannibal think this is a good idea? Why the hell wouldn’t he tell Will? Will hates himself for going to the door in as calm of a manner as he does. 

When he opens it, he understands.

Pedro Guzman. A man Hannibal and Will have been talking about for months, every since Will’s first week in this house. He’d been a potential first kill for them both once they were back on their feet, and healed. Will hasn’t heard his name in three weeks, and honestly, he forgot about him. He manages one of the biggest dog fighting rings in the country of Argentina. Underground enough that if he went missing, only black market regulars would miss him. They decided if they were to kill, it couldn’t be anyone too extravagant. The more known names in the dog fighting business would have to stay put, or else Hannibal and Will could risk exposure. 

Pedro had been perfect. Will had accepted that one day he’d be face to face with this man. And he is now, taking the man’s coat and hat and placing them on a hanger.

He’s still mad at Hannibal for not letting him know the man would be coming to their house. He isn’t even sure what Hannibal intends to do. Kill him here? Kill him while they’re eating? Is this just to check in on their prey before they kill him at a later, undisclosed time? Will is frustrated to the point of white knuckles and a tight throat. 

Hannibal greets him politely, pulling out his chair as a welcoming gesture. 

“Smells great, what are we eating?” Pedro questions. Hannibal has disappeared into the kitchen to bring back an answer. He’d asked Will not to help him with food this evening, and now he knows why. 

Will stares passively at the man adjacent to him, and Pedro seems uncomfortable under the scrutiny, eyes flittering every which way, a bouncing knee against the underside of the table. “A lovely house you have here, gentlemen.” 

Will must commend him on the smoothness of his English. His accent is thick, but his articulation is superb. Will wonders if he gets lots of English tourists at the dog fighting ring. “Thank you,” Will responds steadily.

Hannibal returns with four plates, two balanced on each arm. 

“Asado and Chimichurri.”

“Oh, really?” Pedro asks, eyes bright. “My mami used to make this when I was a kid. All different kinds of sausages. She’d serve it with fruit.” 

“I hope you’ll find my choice of meat quite tasteful, then.”

Will shoots Hannibal with a glare. Hannibal couldn’t be serving Pedro what he thinks he is. They haven’t killed anyone since the Dragon. There’s simply no way he’d even have that kind of meat. Will eats his portion anyway. Never one to shy away. 

Pedro and Hannibal switch between Spanish and English a few times throughout the course. And it’s halfway through that Pedro finally acknowledges Will again. 

“Your friend seems to be at a loss for words.”

“He was not expecting your arrival.”

Will smiles awkwardly. “Apologies if my attitude was untoward.” 

“No problem,” Pedro says with a thumbs up. “I’m honored that I was special enough a guest to be considered a surprise.”

Hannibal’s eyes are locked with Will’s as he takes a bite of one of the larger sausages on his plate. “I was curious to see what he would do.” 

Will’s fist tightens around his fork, and his lips quirk up. It’s a game, then. Hannibal doesn’t care if Pedro dies tonight or dies another night one year from now. He wants to see if Will can be pushed into action by temptation or by rage. 

He’ll play. 

They speak idly throughout the rest of their dinner about Argentenian politics. Nothing about the dog ring comes up in conversation, and Will wonders if Pedro knows that they know. If Hannibal brought that up whilst making his acquaintance. 

“I believe it is time for dessert,” Hannibal says with a polite smile, rising from the table to take the currently empty plates from their placemats. He leaves Pedro’s because there are a few slices of meat left on his plate. “Excuse me, gentleman.”

Mousse trots in from the kitchen at the same time Hannibal disappears through the swinging door. She sits at Will’s feet, obedient for once in her short life. 

“All the sausage is gone, girly, scram,” Will mutters fondly. He nudges her with his foot, but she stands her ground, a whine drawn from the back of her throat. It must smell like some sort of sausage heaven for a dog. 

He turns cold when Pedro feeds her a small leftover sausage from his own plate. 

“A lovely animal you have here,” Pedro drawls, petting firmly over Mousse’s head. She wags her tail, unknowing of the man’s cruelty. 

Will’s fingers inch toward the knife on his plate, a dangerous sensation settling in his gut. When Pedro’s fingers curl down into Mousse’s mouth, Will’s hand closes around the handle of the knife. Pedro has her jaw in a vice-grip, admiring her teeth. 

“Your animal could be quite the contender.”

Mousse makes a helpless noise as she tries to tear away from Pedro’s punishing hold.

“Tell me, have you ever considered bringing her to a ring?” 

Hannibal places the third plate on his upper right arm, steadily making his way back to the dining room with Basil following at his heels. 

“Vanilla sponge cake lathered in my own recipe for dulce de—”

Will is standing over Pedro’s body, blood pooling out from the man’s neck, slowly covering the table. Mousse is barking, wagging her tail, and licking Will’s arm. 

“Let’s have it then,” Will says. He waves a hand for Hannibal to come forward and give him his plate. “Looks delicious.”

“I think you’ll find the additive of salt in my recipe is much more inviting than the sweeter versions.” Hannibal puts the third plate on the floor for the dogs to crowd around and eat together. They huff gratefully as they stuff their faces. It’s a small enough portion that neither of them will get sick. Hannibal does not want to waste good food.

They sit across from each other and chow down silently on their dessert.

“I appreciate you going for the neck rather than any other vital spots. I wish to use a variety of his organs.” 

“There’s only so much you can do with a butterknife, Hannibal.” 

“Then it is fortunate I set out my sharpest ones.”

Hannibal and Will smile at each other, both expressions sultry and challenging, the fire between them crackling at its highest, most sweltering capacity. 

Will ends up with three fingers buried inside him later that night. Hannibal sucks kisses over his cock, like a method of worship while he works him open for the first time. Will won’t accept anything less than being fucked until he screams and shakes.

Not tonight. 

“I’m ready. I’m ready, fuck , Hannibal, please.” 

Hannibal nips at his thighs, grinning at the way they tremble under his ministrations, in anticipation for what is to come. 

“Is that you begging me?”

“It’s me demanding , you dumb fuck.”

“Language, dear Will.” 

“Oh, just you wait,” Will says back breathlessly. His head falls back to the pillows while Hannibal uncaps the lube and strokes his cock with it. He nudges closer, pressing gently against Will’s inviting opening. Will’s head thrashes as if he’s already inside.

“Relax, Will.” 

"I am! ”

Hannibal takes his sweet ass time entering him. Every centimetre is bittersweet agony as Will fights between wanting to draw away and draw Hannibal closer all at the same time. It’s a foreign feeling, to say the least. But, his body is clenching and almost tugging at Hannibal in a way he can’t control.

When Hannibal bottoms out, he waits a minute for Will to adjust. He does need this time. Hannibal feels impossible large within him, brushing up against a sensitive spot inside him that has him taking in short breaths and curling his fingers into the bed covers. It would be awkward if not for the way Hannibal looks completely undone, ready to snap and claim and take at the slightest of provocations. Will almost wants him to. 

Will uses his limited strength to lean up and kiss him. Hannibal returns the kiss with a wet, open mouth, prodding and exploring. Curious as always. His movement shifts him inside of Will and sparks fly up his spine, phantom sensations finding their way into his throat and drawing a groan from him he can’t control. 

The pain has subsided as Hannibal rocks gently, and pain-stakingly slow. It’s still slightly uncomfortable, more new than anything. But, when Hannibal begins to draw back and thrust back inside, Will feels each thrust in his toes all the way to his temples.

“There, there ,” Will mutters a mantra, eyes closed, clawing at Hannibal for more. He hears a dry chuckle in his ear as Hannibal picks up the pace, thrusting over and over into a spot inside Will that makes him tremble, on the verge of falling apart. 

“Will, I couldn’t wish for anything more,” Hannibal states hoarsely after a few more thrusts filled with broken moans and panting. 

Will lets out a strangled sound from the particularly sharp thrust that accompanies this admission. He digs his heels into Hannibal’s back, drawing him closer yet. 

“I could.”

Hannibal pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes. He seems almost hurt.

“What would you wish for, Will?”

“For you to, ah god , not make love to me and to fuck me already.” 

Hannibal smirks, and kisses him, snapping his hips at a new pace that has Will shouting and drawing blood from his own lip. He feels Hannibal’s hands on his hips, bruising and intrusive. He can feel teeth at his neck, biting, claiming. 

When Hannibal reaches a hand down to pump his cock at the same torturous pace he’s slamming into him, Will thinks, yes I couldn’t wish for anything more than this . 

Will comes screaming, and arching his back against Hannibal’s body. Hannibal uses the opportunity to suck hungrily at his neck and chase his own orgasm. He comes inside Will a few deep thrusts later, stilling and shaking in Will’s arms until they both slump and roll off of each other. Will rolls back seconds later, an arm thrown around Hannibal’s chest as he proceeds to kiss Hannibal pecs lovingly. The hair on his sternum tickles his lips. 

“Do you remember what you told me at the bluff?” Will says once he’s certain his voice has regained its strength. He still sounds a bit like an under the weather frog. 

“Yes.” Hannibal sounds worse.

“This is all I ever wanted for you,” Will repeats the words Hannibal had said. “Well, this is my version of that.”

Hannibal turns his head, and the look in his eyes is loaded with enough adoration to incapacitate Will with a mere glance. 

“Being here with you, living in this way, together. It was my core desire. I was frightened that I never wanted anything more than a life with you.”

“Being what we are meant to be,” Hannibal adds.

“Yes.” 

Hannibal reaches down with a hand to curl around Will’s neck and pull him close. He kisses his lips, and then his forehead, over his eyelids, back to his lips. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers. Will smiles, pressing his forehead against Hannibal’s and intertwines their fingers. He doesn’t know where they’ll be in ten years, or even one. He does know that he’s happier than he’s ever been. Than he ever will be.