Work Text:
The idea is to remain in a state of constant departure while always arriving.
Hannibal looks so content sitting there at their kitchen table. He's taken up puzzles, Sudoku and crosswords, (For the challenge, he told Will when he first asked. But Will knows it's in an effort to stay sharp as old age approaches) and he's doing one now. The sweater he wears is thick and over-sized, sweatpants much the same. Casual. Comfortable.
From the stairs, Will memorizes the image. He knows he'll need it, though he also knows it won't be enough.
His weight shifts and the step creaks beneath him. Hannibal smiles but doesn't look up. He's found a word, it would seem. He circles it and sets the book aside.
"Coffee?"
Will nods and chooses the seat farthest from Hannibal's. He's forming sentences in his mind, trying to articulate and anticipate.
"Is something wrong?"
A mug is set before Will, steaming. He wraps his already clammy hands around it, welcoming the burn. Hannibal touches him lightly at the shoulder. When he's ignored he retreats back to his puzzle, willing to give Will the time he needs in silence.
But the silence is not complete. The faucet is leaky, the cabin is old and creaking. Several of the windows are missing glass and are boarded up. Through them, Will can hear the naked branches of winter deadened trees shifting in the northern wind.
These natural sounds are interrupted as Hannibal moves in his chair.
It's the last morning they share for a very long time.
* * *
Will buys an air mattress for his new house. It'll be the only furniture for a while. He doesn't plan on guests so there's really no need.
For these few weeks alone, Will has been living off what little money he managed to save up in the past four years of odd jobs. Hannibal was so willing to supply them with the funds they needed, he seldom cashed a paycheck. They ended up in a neat stack at the corner of a drawer, forgotten.
But Hannibal isn't here now and Will will have to get a job. Something more than temporary but less than permanent. Low profile but profitable. He makes a note to start looking the next day, as well as to go grocery shopping.
There's something else he wants to add to the list. Something he's been putting off since he departed. It won't be easy, he warns himself. Dread draws his shoulders in tight.
* * *
Will slams the truck's door harder than necessary. Despite the heavy winter coat, he's shivering uncontrollably. He wraps his arms up around himself, praying the heat of the vehicle brings him some comfort.
It doesn't.
What brought him comfort was Hannibal's low voice on the other end of the phone giving a generic greeting before realizing who it was calling. Then that comfort was crippled by a painful silence in which Will could feel Hannibal's anger building like a storm.
He hadn't known what to say, how to explain himself or his actions. How do you tell someone something you yourself don't understand? How do explain your doing something you don't want to do?
Because he hadn't wanted to leave and he didn't want to stay away. When Hannibal asked when - not if - he was coming home, Will had wanted to have an answer. But everything he'd planned to say was forgotten the moment the call connected and he was left floundering guilty in what Hannibal was calling selfishness.
"It's not," Will had promised in a voice so small he hardly recognized it as his own. He doubts the words even as the truck's heat seeps in through his clothes, calming him minutely. Isn't it selfish to withhold himself like this? No, no, it's not, he reassures himself. Because Hannibal needs this just as much as he does.
Will gives another look out the windshield, at the payphone, at the dirt road, at the moon. It's giving off a glow that makes him feel separate from himself. As if he's only half present, the other half at the top of a cliff embracing Hannibal before the fall.
He collapses onto his mattress, eager to burrow in under the mess of sheets after hours of cold commute. There's a sad moment when he remembers the nights that he or Hannibal would seek the other out for the warmth of their body. He misses that heat and the weight of Hannibal's arms, enveloping him as he sleeps.
He'll just have to learn to live without.
* * *
Will can't help but crack a smile at how foolish he looks. The apron hangs unevenly over his plaid button up, his name tag askew. He's never been a barista, not even as a younger man. But the culture seems to suit him, beards and knit, boots and flannel.
The rest of the staff likes him without prompting, kindly inviting him out within his first week. He accepts on a whim and comes home grinning. There's a simplicity to their company and he credits it to their easy understanding of being easily misunderstood.
His life settles into an almost healthy pattern. A morning run, a shower and dressing, work, drinks with his new friends (He has friends?) or straight home for an evening of mindless time killing. (He's taken up television by suggestion of his companions. He finds he's prone to binge watching.)
Once a month he calls Hannibal. Never the same day of the week as last, never the same time. He doesn't want to risk rejection. If Hannibal knows it's him, he might not pick up. His words, always burning in the third degree, Will can weather. His cold shoulder, he could not.
"How are you?"
Hannibal scoffs at the question every time, giving half answers and never returning it. Will knows this is because he is still far from fine. Will knows this is because Hannibal couldn't bear it if he was doing too well.
He still hasn't managed to explain it to Hannibal, not completely. After that night on the cliff, with the dragon, Hannibal was so convinced that Will's becoming was complete. That his acceptance of all he'd been denying was enough. It wasn't. It took Will four awkward years of growing pains to understand that himself.
Now Will softens as Hannibal hardens. He understands what his partner (partners, they are still) is going through, his empathy finally proving useful. And for all the cruel things Hannibal has taken to saying (since bloodless wounds are the worst he can inflict at such a distance), Will meets him with increasingly tender ones. Things he might have said if he'd found a way to continue to exist in their cabin, in their little pocket of time.
"There is such a thing of loving someone so much that you need to give them time to let them breathe."
He can hear Hannibal crying on the other end of the phone, frustrated in ways he's never been before. Will talks him through it, making promises he fully intends to keep.
"I'll come back to you."
* * *
When Hannibal stops picking up, Will assumes it's because he's moved. Four years - six now, he reminds himself - the FBI has bigger, better cases to solve. Even TattleCrime has moved on, only publishing an occasional #tbt.
Fact of the matter is, Will doesn't know what's happened. He doesn't know if Hannibal's moved or been captured or killed. He doesn't know what his life became after he left and he doesn't know what it is now.
In practiced denial, this is only evident in the way he neglects himself. He stops exercising, eating, sleeping. In solitude he is static. Staring into space, willing his mind to go blank. It refuses, playing out scenario after worst case scenario. Old habits die hard and always come back with a vengeance. He's living at the bottom of a bottle, barely lucid enough to keep his job.
He asks himself again and again whether or not he is ready. He curses himself again and again for not being ready sooner.
* * *
Before the uncertainty, Will would often ask himself if casual sex was off the table. Not having discussed, he couldn't be sure if Hannibal would refrain from it.
Yes, he could.
But he considered it all the same, never following through. Any offer he was given, any chance he might have had reflected in his mind as Hannibal with someone new. He'd witness the two of them in all manner of compromising positions. It would turn his stomach.
Now, he thinks of that possibility, of someone new, in a different light. He no longer imagines the relationship to be casual. He imagines Hannibal settling down with this person, cooking for them, loving them.
Will bears no claim to Hannibal beyond that of their past and promised future. He wonders if that might not be enough.
* * *
The cabin is an empty husk. Will regards it how he would human remains. What they had here ended with his leaving. He should've know it was too much to ask that it be waiting for him when he got back.
Hannibal's bed frame is rotted and rusted. The springs creak as Will eases himself onto it. They pinch his jeans, just barely missing skin. He pulls his knees up to his chest and bows his head in mourning.
* * *
There are plenty of things Will cannot bring himself to do. Knocking on that door is one of them. So, with a pocket full of euros, he brides a boy to do it for him. He will watch through the glassless window of a cafe across the street.
The buildings are all white, lined up tall beside each other along the sidewalk. In this residential area there are no tourists, only locals milling about. Will feels out of place but ignores it.
The boy knocks with childish eagerness, exciting to complete his task. When there's no answer, he knocks harder, determined. The door opens. The boy remembers what he's meant to ask and asks it. The door closes, the boy returns.
"No!" The boy gives Will an incomplete grin, his front teeth missing. "Lui disse, No, solo a me."
Will sends him away with a tip and pays his small bill.
Standing just outside the cafe, he knows he can't leave without trying. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He crosses to the door and knocks before he can stop himself.
* * *
Will expects blood. He expects to find himself laying on a kitchen floor, wounded. He expects the pain he's inflicted to be returned in kind.
He does not expect tea, just how he likes it. Hannibal fixes it wordlessly, making his own with a touch of something alcoholic. Will doesn't dare ask when he isn't offered.
They sit in silence in a kitchen too small for Hannibal's tastes. Will wants to ask why he's here in this tiny two story so far from the sea. He reminds himself that when Hannibal spoke of a house by the sea, it was intended for the both of them. It was with him in mind.
He wants to ask so many questions and yet, he feels he's surrendered the right. Instead, he waits.
"You can have my bed, if you like. I'll sleep on the pull out."
The first words in six years, murmured over an empty mug. Hannibal rises and rinses it before disappearing out an opening in the thin wall. His voice is a coarse whisper.
"Goodnight."
* * *
The pull out bed nearly takes up the entire living room. Hannibal's socked feet brush the screen of the dated TV pressed up near the wall. Will kneels beside it, watching him sleep the whole night through.
* * *
Hannibal's eyes flutter open, groggy. They meet Will's and in that moment of half consciousness, Hannibal smiles. His arm stretches, reaches, for Will. He doesn't dare take the offered hand, knowing Hannibal doesn't mean to give it.
The moment ends as Hannibal recoils, his entire body jerking backward. Will nearly winces, averting his eyes as Hannibal stands and ties up his long hair.
"I'll make a coffee run."
"No, let me." Will hurries to stand on legs made numb from a night of kneeling. Hannibal looks at him blocking his path. He reaches into his pajama pocket and picks out some loose euros. Will refuses.
* * *
"You said you'd never forgive me."
Hannibal shows no signs of having heard him. He is focused on peeling potatoes. Their skins pile in the sink, a few flitting to the floor in uncharacteristic carelessness.
"Is this that?"
There is dirt on his hands and the white flesh of the potato. Hannibal washes both and, at last, speaks.
"Did I say that?"
"Yes." Will leans in as if meaning to catch the words. "Yes, you did. On the phone."
Moving to an old wooden cutting board, Hannibal takes up a dull knife.
"This," he sighs, "this is denial."
"Denying me what I denied you? Only in closer quarters?"
"It's not you I'm denying. Not in the way you mean." Hannibal presses down hard, leaving a pale line in the wood. "I am denying your presence."
"I don't understand."
"That which is not present," he tightens his grip on the knife's handle, "cannot be taken."
* * *
In closer quarters, Will remembers his own words as he strips in the hallway. With each article he discards, a bit of his fear and doubt goes with. When all are removed, he presses a hand to the bathroom door. Already ajar, it gives. Steam rolls out like fog. Will steps through it, feeling the moisture on his skin.
There is a majesty to Hannibal's back. His shoulders are mountains, the Verger brand is charred earth, the dip of his spine is like the crease between waves. It is a landscape, one now draped in the extra inches of his pale hair.
Will announces his approach in heavy footfalls over tile. Hannibal stiffens briefly but goes on. His face remains to the wall, his feet planted firmly on the slip-proof mat.
Wetting himself under what he can reach of the spray, Will notes how Hannibal does not shy from touch now.
He begins with a palm full of shampoo and the ends of Hannibal's hair. As his fingers brush his back to gather the locks, Hannibal visibly shivers. Will works the soap into the strands, pausing only to replenish. By the time his fingers are at his scalp, Hannibal is trembling.
* * *
"I looked for you in the papers," Will says one morning as Hannibal enters. Coffee and pastries (from across the street) are waiting.
"I wasn't in any."
Will nudges a plain croissant towards Hannibal, determined to have him eat something. "Didn't leave any bodies to be found?"
"There were none worth sharing." He glares at the pastry, sipping his cappuccino in defiance.
"Why do you say that?"
"They were all too savage." He licks some froth from his upper lip. He misses some caught in his mustache. "I was no longer making art. Rather - "
Hannibal stops as Will's thumb wipes the foam away. He can't help but slip two fingers beneath Hannibal's chin, holding him as that same thumb moves damp across his lower lip.
"I waited." Will murmurs. "I thought I might . . . practice. I had chances. People passing through, people no one would have missed. I couldn't."
A hand touches too soft to the inside of Will's wrist, then seizes it too hard to force him away. "I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. Too much time has passed, I am too old. Too tired. If you want to continue, you'll have to do so without me."
The table shifts as he stands, his half finished cappuccino spilling. Will watches the liquid spread. The front door slams just as it reaches the surface's edge.
* * *
Will folds his clothes this time, leaving them in a neat line against the hallway wall. The bathroom is empty now, and dark. He doesn't turn on the light as he enters, searching blind through the drawers until he finds what he needs.
* * *
Hannibal repeats the mistake of smiling at Will when he first wakes. This time Will is nearer, within reach. His clumsy fingers brush along the old scar of his cheek, pressing into the dents left by the sutures.
Again, he recoils in full, his back hitting the wall in his attempt to retreat.
Will follows, pushing the sheets aside. The morning air chills his bare body and he seeks warmth (just as he used to). Front to front, Will fits himself to the gaps. His face to the hollow of Hannibal's neck, his arm to the dip in his waist, his leg to the space between his thighs. When he stills there's scarcely room to breath.
Yet Hannibal is breathing heavily, gasping for air. His body trembles as it has every time they've shared physical intimacy since Will's return. His hands clutch at Will's ribs, to push or to pull, neither can tell.
"What do you want from me?" Hannibal's voice is low and broken and unbearably sad.
Will shifts to take his face in his hands. Holding his gaze, he presses a soft kiss to his chin. A small gasp escapes Hannibal puffing humid on the bridge of Will's nose. He smiles and kisses him there again.
With wordless touches, Will manages to get Hannibal out of his clothes. Then there's only skin and Hannibal seems certain he wants to be closer. He clutches at Will, fighting the sheets that still tangle at their legs. Will allows himself to held too tightly, holding tigher still.
He was half hard when he entered. Now his erection is leaking between them, pressing into Hannibal's belly. Realization hits and summonds up a much needier groan from Hannibal, a creature of new desire taking hold. It drags sharp teeth along Will's collar bone, breathes deeply at the pulse point of his throat, it kneads up the taut muscle of his thighs.
Only when Hannibal lulls in his desperation does Will reach between them. Hannibal's cock is hot and heavy but not yet hard. With steady strokes, Will helps to get him there. Hannibal's beard bristles against his shoulder as he hides his face and muffles his moans.
"On your back," Will instructs softly.
They shuffle to the center of the pull out, fighting the covers further back. Will straddles Hannibal's hips, taking the opportunity to run his hands along the softness of his belly. Near his navel he curls his fingers, digging his nails in and feeling the muscles beneath contracting, strong.
"Too old," Will scoffs, quietly. "Too tired."
Hannibal feels something slick on his skin. Lube mats the hair of his thighs, dripping from Will obscenely. Sliding a hand between their legs, Hannibal draws fingers up to the Will's hole. The ring of muscle tightens around nothing when grazed, already ready.
Will waits until Hannibal is finished to ease himself down. The fullness is overwhelming and while Will is sure he'll appreciate Hannibal's considerable size once he's used to it, the thickness and length are almost uncomfortable.
"You don't have to," Hannibal murmurs, though his face betrays the pleasure he's feeling. Will doesn't want to take that from him. Besides, he's survived greater discomforts than this.
Will tries a thrust, barely moving his hips. Hannibal groans and reaches weakly, unsure where he wants his hands. Will guides them to his waist and with great effort, begins to move.
The first few test him but then his body gives, relaxing. Years of celibacy make him clumsy but he manages to find an angle and speed for them both. His hands move from Hannibal's abs, to his chest, to the sheets at his sides. Their faces are close enough that their breath is shared, foreheads touching sweaty.
Hannibal finishes first with a shutter. Will clenches around him, drawing it out, fucking him through it. He doesn't move right away, allowing Hannibal to go soft inside him. As it happens, come leaks out. Will runs his fingers through it. Then he smears it on his lips.
Their first kiss, only ten years late. Will offers his sticky mouth, his hands threading through Hannibal's undone hair. He smiles as Hannibal tastes him (the way their flavors merge into one, there's nothing better, there's really nothing better), licking into his mouth and then taking his bottom lip between his teeth. He bites until it breaks, sucking at the wound as blood blooms.
When they part, Will rolls to side. They both gasp at the separation, at the loss. Though his orgasm has left his body heavy, Hannibal follows, propping himself up on his side. Will lays supine, his still hard cock leaking between his legs.
He watches blearily as Hannibal appraises him, as he cups his balls and teases him cruelly. Will fists the sheets. A hand wraps tight around the base of his cock and he breaks.
"Hannibal."
He breaths the name, straining upward. He wants a kiss and Hannibal gives him one. It's almost chaste; the soft press of lips to lips. He's torn away when his climax hits. His back arches, pressing his head painfully into the pillow. Then he slumps, heaving.
Hannibal is content to let him breathe.
* * *
They doze, not ready to move just yet. Will allows sleep to take him while Hannibal struggles at the edge of unconsciousness. He doesn't want to fall asleep. He doesn't want to wake up alone.
* * *
Will is sitting up, legs pretzeled beneath the filthy covers. He chews absentmindedly at the end of a short pencil while glaring at a Sudoku puzzle.
"I've never understood these." He says, hearing the change in Hannibal's breathing. When there's no response, he glances down. Hannibal looks back strangely.
"What?" Self consciousness flares. "Is there something on my - "
The outline of Hannibal's hand moves beneath the sheet. He presses it firmly to Will's knee. The pads of his fingers trace the indents of bone just beneath the skin. Will watches until a sound draws his attention back to Hannibal's face.
He's crying, (again,) sniffling. As if this knee is the end all, be all of everything. It takes Will a moment to realize what's happening and why, what's going through Hannibal's mind.
"Come here."
He opens his arms and Hannibal pushes himself up. His head rests at Will's shoulder, his arms clutching the covers. Will's encircle him and hug tight.
"I'm not going to leave. Not again, not again," he murmurs, pressing kisses to Hannibal's crown. "Not unless you ask me. And maybe not even then."
* * *
"Were there others?" Will asks, almost too softly to be heard over the sound of the shower. His fingers flex against the smooth wall as Hannibal crooks his just right. He's supposed to be cleaning him, not getting him off.
He does both.
"Do you really have to ask?" He murmurs as he holds Will up.
"I thought you might find someone new. I thought you found - ah!"
It's too much, Hannibal knows it's too much. But he's still feeling a little bit high and the threat of Will leaving again seems so far away. He's here, he's stayed.
"Did you go back?"
"Yes, I - ah!" Will's legs spasm, his hands curling weakly at the arm around his waist.
"What did you do?"
"I only, I only went to your room. I visited you there. It felt as though you were still there."
* * *
They stand together on the beach. Low tide laps at the frozen sand. It's hard beneath their feet, making it impossible to leave footprints. Hannibal insists they hold hands. Will doesn't mind.
"Do you remember it?" Hannibal asks, leading him along. "Surviving?"
"I remember," Will blinks as a drizzle of rain lands just beneath his eye. "I remember the currents. And wrapping my body around yours. I remember the moment I couldn't hold on any longer."
"But nothing of the shore?"
He shakes his head. "Only the sea."
As the clouds continue to gather, rain patters down in a staccato rhythm. Will hasn't paid any attention to where Hannibal is leading him. As he draws his eyes away from the horizon he sees they're alone in a small alcove eclipsed by the steep indents of the cliffs.
Hannibal releases his hand and walks on. Will can tell he's choosing the placement, imagining and measuring it in his mind. When he's sure, he lays down with his feet in the surf.
"Where was I?"
"Just about there." Hannibal points up and to his right.
Will stands on the frigid earth, straining to remember. But he can't and, he decides, he doesn't care to. When he lays down, it's beside Hannibal. He curls up as he would in their bed (they have moved to the bed now, the pull out sofa once again a sofa), Hannibal allowing him an outstretched arm to pillow his head.
"Is that what you think of when you think of the sea?"
Hannibal nods, closing his eyes as the rain picks up. Will squints, fascinated to watch how it runs down the severe angles of Hannibal's face. He watches until their clothes are soaked through.
The touch of Will's lips makes Hannibal want to open his eyes despite natural instinct. He tries, he does, but then it stops feeling necessary. Will works his mouth open, tracing his uneven teeth. Their tongues touch and Will's recedes in an invitation. Hannibal lifts his head, his hand coming up to cup the curve of Will's skull.
Now, when Hannibal thinks of the sea, he thinks of that afternoon.
* * *
The sofa and television set are out on the curb. It's unusual and sloppy but they'll be gone before anyone has time to look into it. At least, Will hopes they will be.
He imagines this must be how Hannibal felt in the spring of their relationship. Uncertain and just a little bit scared. He cannot predict, in this moment, how Hannibal will react. He can't decide if he's ruined everything.
The front door opens and Will's body goes rigid, eyes shutting. He's damp with sweat and probably stinks of fear. Hannibal takes his time changing his shoes to slippers. He shuffles slowly up the hall, pausing at the kitchen's threshold.
"Is something wrong?"
Will opens his eyes and sees his own fear reflected back on him. They are both worried for the same reason. Only one has reason to be.
"I've done something. I . . . it seemed like a good idea at the time."
Hannibal's tone already holds forgiveness. "What have you done?"
He only points in the direction of the living room. Hannibal goes to look.
* * *
Will expected him to return. When he doesn't, he follows.
The floor is covered in plastic, lengths of it that curve up the walls. Their seams are held together with layered duct tape. At the center of the space is a chair, tied to it is a man. He is conscious. His gag keeps him from speaking. Helpless, he struggles against his bonds.
Will stares at Hannibal's back. He finds himself memorizing it as he'd memorized the image of him in the kitchen back when all this began.
"You don't have to." Will steps closer but doesn't dare touch him. "You can go. I'll clean this up. I can manage, I - "
"How were you planning on doing it?"
A beat passes before he finds the words. "I thought you might help me through it."
Hannibal hasn't taken his eyes off the man and Will can't see his expression. His voice gives no indicators, placid and emotionless. Will's worry grows.
"I-I have something else. Either way, I need to show you."
The walk back to the kitchen feels like a funeral march. Will leads the procession, all the while wringing his hands. He hurries to retrieve a folder from the counter, laying it open as Hannibal sits.
"It's in the south of France. By the sea, you can see the ocean from the bedroom." Will spreads out the enclosed images of the cottage. Spotting one in particular, he nudges it forward. "The kitchen is nice. Kind of reminds me of the one you had in Baltimore. I . . . I thought we could . . . If you don't want me to come with you, you can go. I'll - "
Hannibal places a hand on Will's. His palm is warm on Will's skin, tender. He's trying to soothe him and Will needs to know why. Is he softening a blow? Is he saying goodbye?
"I keep a set of knives in the back of the closet. It's in the shoe box beneath my summer things. Would you fetch it for me?"
* * *
They dismantle him. Piece by piece, keeping him alive as long as possible. He's already in halves by the time the life drains out of him. Will watches it go with wide eyes as Hannibal works.
It is a performance. And for the first time, the stage is inhabited by two. Will is torn, eager to watch his lover in his natural element but also to participate and bloody his hands. So he takes turns and Hannibal doesn't seem to mind. He is content to be observed or to step aside.
Will may never fully comprehend the significance of the gesture. Of Hannibal's willingness to place his blade in the hand of another and to trust him with it. For all his empathetic understanding, Will may never truly understand what it means.
He's even allowed final cut. With a short, curved blade (not unlike the one that made the scar on his belly), Will gets down to the heart. Through a gaping wound, he reaches. With the soft organ still warm in his hands, he presents it.
Hannibal's adoration brims, teeming, as he begins to laugh.
Will laughs too. "Too much?"
"I skinned and bent a man into one of these for you, once." Hannibal dips a finger into the severed aorta. "To finally have it returned, I could never get enough."
"I'm sorry it's taken so long." Will's joy falters. "You've had it, though. My heart, me, for years."
"Perhaps I have. Perhaps one day, I'll convince myself it could be true."
* * *
The plastic is slick with blood making it hard for them to find traction. Hannibal's back slides with each push of Will's hand, rubbing raw. Will manages to keep him anchored within reach, holding him in place.
He's careful with Hannibal, more concerned for his pleasure than his own. With two lubed fingers eased inside him, Will alternates between fucking him slowly and massaging his prostate. It frustrates Hannibal, makes him impatient and needy. Still, he doesn't ask for more.
A third digit touches to Hannibal's rim like a question. He manages to open one eye and nod permission before Will's middle finger presses upward hard and his head falls back. The addition stretches him almost painfully but he swallows any noise of discomfort. He wants Will inside him despite it. He would want Will inside him if it meant he'd have to tear.
But Will is too gentle to cause injury. Hannibal has been opened beautiful by the time Will removes his fingers. It's then that Hannibal is unable to keep from keening softly, like a wounded animal. The emptiness is unbearable.
Will is generous with the lube, finishing off the bottle and tossing it aside. It lands in a mess of gore, wedged between skinless muscle and exposed bone.
All his efforts are not for naught. Hannibal takes him easily, one solid push and he's in to the hilt. Will can feel his heartbeat, can feel the trembling of his muscles. He knows if he moves now, Hannibal will come. He waits, for both their sakes. They want it to last.
Several minutes pass, Hannibal going still beneath him. Will can see the flaring of his nostrils as he tries to get ahold of himself. His lips part more than once, trying to speak but being unable or not knowing what to say.
Will's thighs are going stiff, his own knees sliding over the plastic. When Hannibal finally manages, Move, you can move, Will can't help but sigh in relief. He hooks Hannibal's knees in the crooks of his elbows, folding them upward until they're at his shoulders. Will's wet curls hang heavy around his face, tickling Hannibal's skin as he leans down for a soft kiss.
Their lips have barely parted when Will draws back and thrusts forward. Hannibal's body writhes in the loveliest way, as if trying to shy from the sensation while seeking more. Will repeats, harder. Again and again, leaving an interval between the jolt of his hips.
Hannibal's mouth is moving in voiceless whispers. It forms words in languages Will doesn't know, sentences he's too scared to speak. All of devotion, of longing, of love. All immense and crushing as the weight of the sea. And Hannibal can't help but wonder, in some far removed way, if perhaps that's where he is. At the bottom of the ocean, dying by the wrath of the lamb.
Will's thrusts grow shallow and short spaced. His desperation has peaked and he can't help himself. He releases Hannibal's legs, freeing his arms. He plants his hands firmly on the floor for leverage. Ankles hook behind him, keeping him close.
He can feel Hannibal's climax approaching. His own has his balls drawn up tight, has his cock twitching each time it enters that tight heat. He presses a kiss to Hannibal's tear-streaked cheek, dragging his lips down to tug at his earlobe.
"Together", he whispers, "together."
Hannibal can only nod as he's pushed over the edge. Again, Will is there to fall with him.
* * *
"Do you think we'll always be like this with each other now?" Will murmurs as he toys with Hannibal's damp bangs. "Delicate."
"You have no need to be delicate with me."
"Neither do you, with me. And yet." His sigh ripples Hannibal's beard. "I almost miss you trying to kill me."
"I could, again, if you'd like." Hannibal traces the line of Will's abdominal scar. There's humor in his voice. "Maybe finish what I started."
"Funny." Will smacks his hand away.
"You know you don't miss it. How we used to be, that's why you left. You needed to change, needed me to change." A pause. "I only worry now because this might not have been the change you wanted."
"I like you like this." Will tugs at a lock of his hair, looping it around his finger. "But I don't want you to think you can't act more yourself. Or that you can't be rough with me."
Hannibal considers rolling them over and playing rough but he can't seem to make himself move.
"Do you remember how you were?" Will's mind sits in the waiting room of Hannibal's practice, staring at the door. "Back when we were simply having conversations?"
"I remember how you were." Hannibal's opens it, pleased to see he's come.
"And do you like it? The change?"
Hannibal doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.
* * *
The little boy watches from the cafe as they emerge. He still has the money the shorter of the two gave him. He has nothing to spend it on, not yet.
They have a single suitcase between them. They are dressed strangely, unlike any other day (the boy's been watching them for months now, he would know). Suits with pinstripes, three piece and expensive. The older can't stop looking at the other man. Even the little boy can recognize love.
They lock the door and exchange a few words, most likely deciding if they've forgotten anything. The older man smiles at something said, taking the handle of the suitcase and nodding.
They walk away and they never come back. The boy waits but he never sees them again. His curiosity gets the best of him and weeks after their departure, he manages to pick the lock.
He's never quite the same after that.