Work Text:
Hannibal pretends to sleep.
It's not unusual for Will to rise first. On days like this, with no social or professional obligations, Hannibal enjoys a few extra, hedonistic minutes wrapped in skin-warm sheets. They both know he wakes when Will moves, if not before, it's merely a question of when he opens his eyes.
Sometimes Will surprises him with a press of lips, the brush of his hand, an early morning luxury that inevitably leads to many more minutes and far greater hedonism.
This morning he's up to something else, and so Hannibal keeps his eyes closed, supporting him, as ever. Will's fingers linger thoughtfully over each of his, touch lacking any of the undercurrent that would coax him to reach back. Eventually he eases one of Hannibal's fingers up and there's a ruffle of sheets that wafts the scent of laundry detergent and Will's shampoo to him.
Warm metal encircles his ring finger, sliding down to settle easily at the base. He inhales a little too deeply, can sense Will's fox-edged smile in response.
Hannibal keeps his eyes closed as Will draws away, through the soft click of the door, the receding sound of footsteps on the stairs.
When he does open his eyes, it's to a landscape of sheets, sky blue walls beyond. The ring is, unsurprisingly, a plain gold band. He turns it, watching it catch the light and spill it across their little world like a sun.
There's almost certainly an engraving beneath, a promise pressed to his skin. He won't take it off to look though, not yet.
A month ago, on a weekend trip to Vienna, Hannibal had proposed, again. They'd been in a private booth at the opera, hidden in the curtain shadows for Will's sake.
The time before had been by the river, crossing the little bridge with Passau's lights the only eyes to see as he'd drawn Will close and offered him marriage.
He'd been denied then, and all the times before.
Since his becoming, Will delights in denying him, casting him out and reeling him in. A push and pull that Will uses to remind himself where his threads in their woven edges are.
Hannibal has taken his rejections with equanimity, confident he'll acquiesce eventually. Their bond is already far deeper than any marriage vow. If Will never agrees, Hannibal will still be content.
But the hunger to tie Will to him was not fully sated at Will's rebirth, nor when they moved to sexual intimacy. Every time their ties are tightened he finds there's still an ease in the knots, space to draw closer. He suspects it will never be fully satisfied until every bond, every possible symbol of connection has been consumed.
He smiles now, running his thumb over the ring's smooth surface, savoring the pleasure of success for long minutes.
Eventually he rises to dress and make his way down in search of Will.
Their current home perches at the top of a hill just beyond the edges of Passau. In their months here they've paid little attention to the land, letting it grow to a cacophony of rustling grasses and wildflowers that cling to the knees of their pants like peasants begging to passing lords.
On sunny mornings he often finds Will standing the front windows, taking in the birds and insects that inhabit their land, keeping eager watch for a passing fox or the neighbor's dog. Starving for all the little lives that he once gorged himself on. The flash of melancholy in Will's eyes when he turns to Hannibal on those mornings rustles something low in his stomach, a nausea he can't name.
They move often, still. They'll move in a few months. He hasn't suggested it yet, but as he makes his way down the narrow stairs, he thinks again that it's time they settled a while. Perhaps today is the day to propose someplace more permanent, someplace Will might keep a dog, or two.
Today the living room is empty and he finds his love in their small kitchen, head bent as he stirs eggs in a pan.
Their next home, Hannibal thinks, will have a more adequate kitchen. This one strains to support his most basic demands, but had been a compromise after their Barcelona apartment had suffocated Will with its lack of wild spaces.
"Good morning." He greets, sliding a hand along Will's stomach and curling in to press a kiss to his shoulder, the cotton t-shirt warm against his lips.
"Morning."
Will doesn't look at him, though his body relaxes into Hannibal's hold.
This is not the Will he expected. He'd anticipated the blush of tentativeness, the aftertaste of shame that so often lingers after he's given in to some desire of Hannibal's. His gentle Will.
Instead, it is his darkly playful fisherman that waits for him.
The game isn't over then, there is something more — A hook waiting to pierce him. Hannibal smiles.
Hannibal lingers there, observing the scramble over Will's shoulder, even as he feels the steady beat of his heart against his hand. Will doesn't object when Hannibal reaches for the pan, just slides away to pour the coffee while he takes over the stove.
It's almost shameful how long it takes him to notice. They are mostly through a leisurely breakfast before his eyes catch on Will's hands where they wrap around his mug and note the lack of ring there.
When he looks up to Will's face there's banked laughter behind blue eyes and he knows he's been caught.
Sitting back, Hannibal sets his own cup down with barely a sound against the wooden table. He folds his napkin and sets it aside, shifts his fork to rest against his knife.
The fabric of his slacks drags against his ring as he brushes his hands down his thighs. It's a new sensation, a shift in the weight and movement of his body. Not unwelcome, but unanticipated.
Folding his hands atop his thigh, fingers of his right hand brushing the cool metal on his left, he looks up again to where Will still watches him from behind his mug. Like a house cat, Hannibal thinks, ducked behind a door to pounce. Will would not appreciate the comparison. The thought draws the edges of Hannibal's lips up.
"I appreciate the ring," He says. "Though you didn't ask me."
"No, I didn't."
"Rather bold, don't you think, to presume I'd agree."
Will sets his cup down, slouches back in his seat. "Not so bold, given our history, I'd say the odds were in my favor."
"I might have changed my mind." He chides.
"A risk I was willing to take. Have you?"
"You know I haven't." Glancing down, Hannibal adjusts his cup, pushing it back to its proper setting. "Where is yours? I'd like to do the honors."
He can feel the hook in the pause that follows, latching on just beneath his breast.
"There's only the one." Will tilts his head, exposes his neck even as he pulls at the line.
"I'll get you one. Would you prefer matching, or something coordinated?"
"I haven't said yes."
And there, the hook ripped sharply free, tearing a bright, glorious burst of pain through his chest.
Hannibal breathes in, lets the pain disperse through his veins and quicken his blood. "The ring would imply otherwise."
"You offered yourself as my husband. I accepted the offer. I haven't agreed to give myself."
"It's conventionally considered an equal exchange." He tries, though they both know the game is lost.
Smirking, Will answers sardonically. "And we've always followed convention."
"You expect I'll keep asking?"
"I expect you to do as you always do." Will stands and tosses his napkin to the table. The corner tumbles over his plate to soak in the dregs of his breakfast. It's only a step for him to stand beside Hannibal.
Reaching out, he tilts Hannibal's chin up on two fingers to press an open kiss against his lips. Into the humid space as they part he demands. "Convince me."
Hannibal tracks his departure in his peripheral, waits until only Will's lingering scent remains aa witness.
Alone he raises his hand to touch still wet lips, prodding internally at the edges of the wound left, bright and beautifully sore. Hannibal is awed anew, as ever, at the glory of this god he has bound himself to.
-End-