nothing sweeter than my baby (so full of love i could barely eat)

The first revelation: a simple embrace ends in Hannibal succumbing to an almost child-like sort of desperation, clinging on with no sign of letting go.

The second revelation: Hannibal whimpers into their very first kiss, breath warm and shattering all at once, nearly a cry against Will’s mouth.

The final revelation: loving—breath-trembling, authentic loving—bears no resemblance to touching a stranger or an expectant wife.

His ears are still ringing minutes later, replaying Hannibal’s confession in the kitchen.

Today, Will set every ounce of anger aside. Done overthinking whether they were worse off with each other—because they both know they were, but better for it, too.

Together.

Here, somewhere Hannibal once planned on bringing them before starting a new life together—with Abigail. There were little tells all throughout the house: a purple mug, cranberry nail polish in the bathroom’s medicine cabinet, makeup on a cherrywood vanity inside her bedroom, because who else would they have belonged to?

He’d snooped while Hannibal tinkered in the wine cellar. Found things that made his throat dry up. Nestled in the hallway closet, a fishing pole wrapped in ribbon, along with lures and fishing line and sinkers. New fishing gear, too. Expensive. And in the master bedroom: something old tucked far back into the first drawer of the dresser—one of his old vests, a rich forest green. In the past, there’d been a rip in the side from when the fabric snagged on a broken, low-hanging branch. His fingers traced along the stitched border, a careful caress.

From experience, a lonely dog would sometimes steal an item from someone they found comfort in. To bury inside their nest. To scent throughout the night.

He knew Hannibal must’ve been excited (always an eager gifter) to bring him here and surprise him with more than one gift. Abigail. The fishing gear. Lastly, one small piece of his old life before stepping into a new one.

The kitchen smelled more fragrant upon Will’s return. Garlic minced on a cutting board. An onion peeled, ready to be chopped. Hand soap resting on the windowsill: a light scent—maybe peach rinds and vanilla. Facing the window above the sink, Hannibal poured wine, freshly uncorked pinot noir, into two empty glasses.

Leaning back against the countertop, Will’s gaze soon settled, content on watching Hannibal’s old instincts kick in. To make a meal. To be a provider, even with limited ingredients. He’d missed this: seeing Hannibal flutter around a kitchen.

Early on in the process, Hannibal seemed to startle easily while standing at the kitchen sink, fingers fumbling around the looping handles of a stock pot, simply because the ends of Will’s own fingertips unintentionally snagged on the wide, gaping rip in the prison-issued uniform, where the once-white fabric resembled fresh rust, blood-soaked and torn around the edges.

Will swallowed thickly, brushing over the sizeable gash marring Hannibal’s side. Must’ve happened when the transport van crashed.

God, he’s pale.

His ribcage freshly bruised—deep blue blotches already blooming in full. His lungs were nearly shuddering underneath sun-sapped skin. Too careful. Too conscious.

The sight wrenched away any word bound to slip off Will’s tongue. His gaze rose a few inches, settling on the notable slippage of Hannibal’s chin—almost lowered on a gasp. Long since clattering into the sink, forgotten by both of them, the pot began overflowing, water running over the rim in steady splashes. A frown settled in the curve of Will’s lips. He didn’t race to shut off the faucet—not when Hannibal’s reaction became priority.

Will’s fingers stayed there, warm and gentle, resting over the wound. He cleared his throat, concern coloring the edges of his tone when asking, “Why didn’t you tell me?” Pulling open a nearby drawer, Will reached inside for a dish towel, soaking a corner under warm water for a handful of seconds before ringing out the excess.

Hannibal’s breath hitched twice: so soft, so unlike himself. Disconcerting. His skin continued trembling under the weight of another’s fingertips. Hands clutching the counter. Eyelids wrinkling closed. “I didn’t believe it would be of any concern to you.”

A spear through Will’s chest, lodging deeper by the second, because Hannibal’s voice sounded too thin, too small, shaken up by this simple touch. He stepped another centimeter closer, kneecap grazing the side of Hannibal’s leg.

“I care about you, even when I shouldn’t.” His eyes remained on Hannibal’s face, searching, watching every feature flinch, subtle but undeniable—a sting needing soothing. His thumb rubbed over the corner of split skin: dried, flaking blood already crusted into the tiny crevices. He briught the rag closer between them, paying no mind to the droplets scattering across the floor. “I don’t enjoy the thought of you being hurt by anyone else. Not anymore.” His fingers slowly slipped away and in their place rested the wet cloth, pressing warmth into hour-old blood and fragile, fraying pink underneath.

Hissing through clenched teeth, Hannibal tensed, instinctively starting to recoil, but Will’s hand latched onto his hip, wrapping around the cartilage and bone. Yes, a smidge rough—but entirely necessary.

Someone gasped—and it wasn’t Will. His eyes were focused on the wound, watching the congealed mess melting into the fibers of the cloth, slowly sloughing off Hannibal’s skin reddening from the circulating friction. There was, for a long moment, nothing Will could think to say. Hannibal’s stilted breathing coupled with the quiet rasp of the rag rattled inside Will’s skull.

This must’ve been the first time in ages Hannibal’s been on the receiving end of a non-rough touch, something gentle, close to affectionate. This all must’ve been quite a lot of stimulation. Will’s hands on him—moving in soft strokes around the tender wound—holding him by the hip. Unquestionable.

Mind wandering, Will wondered what he’d see when he finally looked up, the bloodied rag slowing through one final swipe.

Maybe Hannibal, rigid as stone, stood at the kitchen sink. His jaw clenched tight—but nothing else out of place.

Hanging limp between Will’s fingers and smelling of copper, the rag landed inside the kitchen basin—a quiet, wet thud.

Will’s arm drew back slowly, fingers brushing past the torn fabric. Then, he finally turned around, bracing—for what? He wasn’t certain, but expectation ended up being far from reality. His breath stopped short, eyes steadily widening.

Pale as fresh snow—trembling, too, Hannibal’s knuckles were still curled around the edge of the counter. Lashes fluttering intermittently. A nervous twitch. Looked to be barely breathing, chest stuttering around an exhale, mind on edge, waiting for something inevitable.

Will stepped closer, remembering the feeling of coming home to his dogs—to living things with beating hearts—to unconditional love and the warmth of their wriggling bodies after two months of separation. Hannibal experienced nothing close to that warmth since stepping out of the van—no warm greeting… absolutely nothing of the sort. He must’ve been craving a sliver of affection—namely, touch that wouldn’t inflict an ache.

Will’s arm rose, fingers tugging Hannibal by the elbow. “Get over here.” He meant to say something kinder, but guiding Hannibal into a blind embrace was nothing short of foreign territory.

Hannibal’s mouth gaped every step of the way, air rushing out once close enough to settle against Will. His chin knocked into the crook of Will’s shoulder, expression unreadable. Hidden. Head soon oriented by gentle fingers.

There were arms, a real, firm warmth, skin and muscle and bone all working together for one single purpose—winding around Hannibal's middle, curling inward—minute curvings of Will’s elbows, drawing closer and closer—careful, so as not to squeeze too tightly or knock against the wound right underneath Hannibal’s bruised ribcage.

Nothing more tender than the natural bending of the neck, coarse stubble shadowing Hannibal’s shoulder. Moving with the natural ease of a willow curling protectively over a flower bed freshly beaten into the earth.

Gentling.

“Hi,” Will breathed, voice soft against Hannibal’s ear.

Lungs shuddering, Hannibal sucked in too sharp of a breath, because this must’ve been a dream: standing chest to chest for the first time without any barriers—being embraced. He’d never imagined Will’s voice curling off the tongue in such a manner. Nor ever believed Will’s tone could sound so warm, so full of relief and concern. For him. In one single word.

Palm cradling Hannibal’s nape, Will leaned in and coaxed a tender, sob-worthy kiss against the outer shell. “Hi, sweetheart—it’s good to see you.”

Despite mustering bone-trembling effort to remain stable and upright, Hannibal’s knees swiftly buckled in on themselves. For a single moment, the earth seemed out of reach, vanishing as fast as Hannibal’s balance gave out—so sudden, a stomach-dropping sensation. His frame never crumpled or folded forward onto the tiled floor. He was not caught by a lightning-fast arm either. Instead, Hannibal’s collapsing frame was cradled even closer against a firm chest, being supported underneath the arms, right above the ribcage.

Even when frantic fingernails slipped down cotton and muscle, refusing to cling on, Will’s grasp never faltered nor struggled in bearing the brunt of dead weight. Even when the world spun far too fast, the warmth emanating from those strong, steadying fingers remained close, seeping into Hannibal’s aching muscles.

His Will. Holding. Lifting.

Lovingly.

As though doing so was the easiest thing in the world. As though doing so would not cause unnecessary strain. As though doing so would never be a second thought, only sheer instinct.

Here—Hannibal seemed softer.

In the middle.

Against Will’s palms.

No longer firm lines and decades of built up muscle mass. Tone-less, a capable body softened over time, endless days and even longer nights spent wandering aimlessly inside a cage.

During that particular moment, Will quickly came to realize he needed to be the one to wrap Hannibal’s arms around his own waist, encouraging reciprocation. Hands gentle in their weight, signifying touch in return was allowed. Eventually, tentative fingers settled over Will’s shoulders, unmoving, as if afraid establishing physical contact was merely a test or some sort of ruse.

“Will,” Hannibal rasped, “I have missed you.”

The unfamiliar thickness of those words—Will’s name, especially—in Hannibal’s mouth a poignant reminder.

English is nowhere near Hannibal’s second language.

Hannibal whispered them cautiously between staggering breaths, a clumsy curling of the tongue, testing their shape and fit inside a mouth that should not have struggled, a mouth that—up until then, had always been razor-sharp in surety, consistent and clear—but over the last three years spent in isolation, must’ve softened considerably around the edges.

Will, absorbing the moment and weight of Hannibal’s confession, could only tighten their one-sided embrace. He already knew by the longing living inside Hannibal’s gaze over the course of today, but hearing him voice those words aloud, quiet and unsteady, stunned Will. Amidst these previous years of living separate lives, he could usually convince himself the distance was necessary—not a choice of cruelty or a source of punishment. Yet deep down, he knew better all along, and long before receiving the first letter. Hannibal’s attempt for attention, even a scarce moment of acknowledgement. Unfortunately, as more and more time spanned between them, the bitter-as-whiskey truth often found itself creeping up Will’s throat throughout the night, especially when sleep would not come.

They missed each other.

He knew in the car. He knew during the duration of their hour-long drive to reach this destination. Even now, while cradling Hannibal’s frame in the kitchen. His thumb traced over the soft, thinning threads near Hannibal’s nape, a gentle back and forth. “I know, and I…” His voice cracked around an uneven note, too rough to enunciate, breath creaking inward. He paused, stroking warmth into Hannibal’s shoulder blades, slow and steady circulations.

How long ago was the last time anyone missed Hannibal, and considered sharing those warm-throated words out loud?

I missed you.

Or even returned the sentiment.

I missed you, too.

Probably not since childhood. Probably not since Paris—after being adopted by an uncle. Have Hannibal’s ears only ever known the phrases “Ilguosi tavęs,” and “Tu m’as manqué,” or the English version as well?

Or have they only come to know the English opposite?

I’m not going to miss you.

Years prior, Will sank the knife in. Left it there to rust—to twist even deeper as time went on, absent month after absent month.

There’d been more than enough time for Will’s mind to steep in regret. Far too much time spent reflecting, pushing down a swell of emotion he could never truly ignore—it clung to his insides, as notoriously stubborn as the binding silk of a spider’s web, because longing formed a pit in the space between his ribs, spreading and steadily thickening one year after the next. Like a rip in the soul requiring patch work, thin needle and sturdy thread to bind every split seam back together.

He decided to meet Hannibal somewhere near a midpoint—not English, not perfect French, but an offering of sentiment all the same.

Understanding.

Acknowledgment.

Naked truth.

No metaphors. No weaving of words into something complicated, only a three-year longing bare on the breath, finally being layed to rest between them.

“Je m’ennuie de tois aussi,” Will whispered, breath warming along the side of Hannibal’s scarcely visible face.

Time swiftly came to a wind down. Hannibal’s knees wobbled, nearly buckled again. He gasped, a shuddering intake of air, so close to Will’s ear. Louder than the rustling of wind. Quieter than a branch splintering apart under a boot. Pressed himself closer one cautious breath at a time as though needing explicit permission to do so—to sink against Will’s chest—to touch in return.

Following the heart-clenching realization Hannibal’s distinct lack of movement would not resolve on its own, Will brought their bodies closer together. Made sure these next words came out softer, more certain, more confident. “Je m’ennuie de tois aussi, Hannibal.” He kept Hannibal upright, steady through another full-body tremor. His voice remained low and measured, encouraging even. “You can hug me back, you know.”

Hannibal, breathing shallow and fingers careful in their meager fistful of fabric, made a small noise, wet and weak in the throat, and clung on in an instant, alarmingly child-like, as if this would be the only chance—one sole offering of affection. His nails curled in towards Will’s shoulder blades, a skin-biting desperation.

No longer one-sided in their embrace, Will continued holding him close and keeping them both upright, palms cradling the uneven rise and fall of Hannibal’s ribcage.

No one could’ve prepared Will for any of this. Let alone Hannibal’s reaction: the sudden, breathless eruption—a soft near-whine, the clutching, the desperate nuzzle, Hannibal’s cheek rubbing against the creasing cotton on Will’s shoulder.

Neither of them could’ve known how long they stood in the kitchen—arms tight, Will’s voice soothing against Hannibal’s ear, their two wine glasses set aside on the counter. Full and glossy on the surface and brimming red. Forgotten.

Maybe five minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe longer. For however long, the world around them quieted, calmed itself down in tandem.

The living room smells stale.

Un-lived in, not quite in need of a thorough cleaning—no, a sweeping. To rid the stubborn, powdery build up of dust clinging onto every surface: velvet red loveseat, countertops, floors, windowsills.

During Hannibal’s shower, Will resorted to cracking open a few windows for better airflow—and the center of the room is where they now stand—tips of their shoes grazing, almost chest to chest—right under a vibrant patch of sunlight filtering in through thick, curling tendrils of gold, gleaming warm across the floorboards.

Long after a moment of consideration, regarding whether or not the beating heart a mere arm’s length away is capable of being startled into stuttering, Will stops focusing on the long-winded dialogue—the almost nervous chatter flowing from a mouth that’s surely not spoken this much in years—ignoring something about a creek and a rock and a ripple—both hands raising in caution, splaying gentle and sure against smooth, too pale cheeks—thumb veering downward, falling to rest against the corner of that suddenly stumbling mouth, and strokes one small, tentative circle into the supple pinknes—feeling the tremble of a breath rushing out, humid and shaking against one thumb—watching the steady widening of amber eyes, before calmly catching that gaze, glimmering sweet with surprise—then choosing to sweep the edge of that thumb, warm and worn with a callous and knowing where it wants to touch, right over that soft, slackening lower lip—more than once, truthfully, because the skin there is so damn soft, addictively soft, the only way a mouth can be—tracing upward, over the outer edge of that parting mouth—making a decision to lean in without overthinking, gradual inch by gradual inch, until the edges of their noses and chins are brushing against one another—and finally, in one gentle press, kisses him, lips shaping over a mouth frozen from shock, slow-moving and unbearable in its gentleness—as a first kiss should be—no teeth, no tongue, only Will’s scruff rasping against Hannibal’s chin, and two mouths learning each other.

God, Hannibal’s resounding whimper, a throat-creaking collapsing of breath, is one of the most precious noises Will’s ears have ever heard. Airy. Thin. Frail. For Will, and Will alone—no one else. His voice softer than imaginable. Nose flaring out these shaky, uneven breaths, attempting a steady rhythm—but failing in such an endearing way. The fingers of one hand slide lower over warm skin, curving around the side of Hannibal’s neck, cradling as though in need of protection. Will’s thumb settles to rest over the fluttering pulse point, where blood is thrumming under the skin—quite fast, or at least faster than Will’s expecting.

This kiss remains a gentle thing of its very own. Unrushed. Undemanding in nature, because after all, it is still a fragile beginning of many firsts. The first instance their lips have known each other’s softness and unique shape. Hannibal’s are slightly chapped from enduring the chilled climate of the cell, and they catch dryly against the smooth, steady slide of Will’s mouth. His jaw, surprisingly enough, seems prone to trembling, unstable even when being cradled by another’s palm, especially through kissing.

For Will, becoming lost in the sudden warmth and wetness (the responsive tremble overtaking Hannibal’s lips) is incredibly easy. Dangerous, even. There is so much left unsaid between them—so much more Will needs to say, and should ask about. Not a single profound phrase—namely, the biting ends of unasked questions—floods his mind, though, because there is currently only one pressing matter occupying space inside his brain.

Hannibal, who returns the kiss in the same fumbling manner an inexperienced boy would.

Tense arms rendered immobile, unfit for bending near the elbows as of right now, seemingly unaware of what to do as if reaching out may not be allowed, or even a consideration. His mouth, damp and quivering, seems out of practice, moving too slow while shaping over another’s. Hesitant in where to settle, landing a few centimeters past Will’s cupid’s bow—and through a sharp, impatient little breath, clumsily inches back down. Indecisive. Then changing course on a whim, speeding up until reaching a frantic pace—breathing ticking up more than one notch, shaking upward from an uneven chest, curling out as a stifling cloud between them, lips sliding messily against Will’s. Fearing their kissing may end. Fearing Will may draw back. For remaining sloppy and uncertain.

Under any other circumstance, calling Hannibal a boy would be absurd, but at the very moment doing so seems quite fitting. This is no longer the man Will’s come to know over the length of their tumultuous relationship. No, beneath the soap and shampoo—both smelling of something of sweet mandarin—beneath a cashmere sweater and wool slacks, this is undoubtedly Hannibal as nothing more than a boy, nervous and trembling from the sheer act of wanting—genuinely wanting, for the very first time.

Will’s eager, breathtaking boy, so soft against the mouth, chin falling open a few unsteady inches, a thin whine straining itself out from a shuddering set of lungs. Here, when drawing Hannibal closer, there is no time for overthinking—no, there is only instinct and a painstaking want for more: one gentle, coaxing pressure of a palm sliding around Hannibal’s nape. His slick, searing tongue sliding shyly over Will’s, unaware of which direction may be best, desperately needing guidance: the gentle tangle of another tongue, relearning the proper technique for kissing through the same method a boy must learn.

The repetitive closing of distance, breath mingling, teeth clinking, a tender swell of warmth akin to the thick fog of morning, unearths an essence, an underlying sweetness. Remnants of sugar and chamomile tea clinging onto the surface of Hannibal’s soft palate.

Likely from this afternoon, prior to being loaded into the transport van. A vision easily seen. Hannibal, sitting at the desk in front of the glass panel, fingers cradling the warm width of styrofoam cup. Quite a disappointing substitution for a glass of wine. Needing something stronger to numb the swarm of nervousness filling the space below his ribcage. Never asking, though, because there was no point.

His tongue too, tastes sweeter—a hint of something sharper arising with each meeting—as if Will’s tongue is beginning to uncover a three year-old longing trapped underneath—a rich, mouth-melting warmth on Hannibal’s tongue—restless in its slow, cautious curling. He cannot seem to settle: breath puffing out quicker and harsher, every quiet, voice-cracking whimper devastating enough Will cannot quit now, one palm cupping a burning cheek, fingers reaching up and threading through a fistful of short strands near Hannibal’s nape, as soft as silk between Will’s knuckles.

Focusing on anything besides Hannibal’s imperfect kisses and these soft, needy sounds requires every shred of discipline to not lose himself even more—in the warmth of a clumsy, forgetful mouth, in the undeniable need brimming off Hannibal, in Hannibal's responsive, endless whimpering, but after a moment of reorienting, tongue reluctantly retreating, Will ends up regaining control over their next kiss—their third, a more insistent press of lips over lips—steering them somewhere between gentler meetings of their mouths.

The pace calms. The pressure softens. The frantic edge slowly, yet surely fades into something more manageable.

Given time, Will’s lungs begin burning—and he realizes he’s barely sucked in a breath, swallowing each sweet gasp stirring from Hannibal’s chest as if they’re the very air themselves. Far too soon, separation becomes necessary.

To breathe in fresher air.

To rest one forehead against another.

To soothe knuckles over one of Hannibal’s reddening cheeks.

Underneath the sunlight, Hannibal’s silhouette glows softer now: lashes cautious in their gradual rise, panting hot and heavy into the small space between them, eyes searching every inch of Will’s face, unblinking—as though this does not quite feel real—but like something born from a dream, a dream long since hidden away, buried deep in the recesses of Hannibal’s mind, locked behind a wood-rotting door and a rusting handle.

How many nights has he dreamed of this? Of finally, after everything, being Will’s? Only to wake up in a sterile, chilly cell—all alone—except for the accompanying pang of realization?

Truthfully, Will does not want to know—not just yet—not right now, when Hannibal’s fingers are twitching as if aching to reach out. He knows enough, without needing to ask. For now, words aren’t necessary—only touch, only steady hands sliding down on their own before clutching Hannibal’s waist, only Will’s mouth pressing against the corner of Hannibal’s—featherlight, yet purposeful, relaying without words: I’m here, still here—and I still want this—still want you. His eyes catch the flutter of Hannibal’s lashes. His ears catch another sharp intake of breath—another fragile gasp, shuddering so close between them. Here, Will lingers, kissing slow and gentle, because slow-steeping tenderness is what Hannibal needs—nothing rushed, nothing done half-assed, or performed out of carelessness.

His tearful, touch-starved boy, barely brave enough to reach out in return, but no less craving everything being offered.

Touches. Kisses. Intimacy as a real-world reminder. They are together right now, and until nightfall, no one else is coming.

They’ve got time, and Will doesn’t dare waste another second—can’t think of anything else that would better consume their time. Hell, they should probably sit down and talk, thoroughly talk everything out, tend to old, gaping wounds yet to be closed—but their bodies and mouths have already spoken for them.

Hannibal’s dearly missed Will.

And Will, Hannibal.

Soon and with a small, startled gasp, Hannibal lifts easily in Will’s arms—entire frame shaking, fingers scrambling for purchase, arms clumsy when winding around Will’s shoulders, chest heaving up in helplessness, eyes widening an inch in alarm, bottoms of both thighs warm—so very warm—in Will’s grasp. Eyes gleaming, Hannibal blinks slow and uneven, fresh tears not quite spilling over, but coming close. Lips shiny from being kissed, petal-soft and parting for air, as vibrant as a spry rose. His lower jaw creaks twice in a row around a wordless noise, speechless yet seeking assurance.

Looking for the very first time since knowing each other uncertain of what to say, what to do or even expect. Forehead wrinkling with a crease. Gaze not quite remaining on Will’s. Flickering up toward the ceiling or across the room. He doesn’t dare speak, blood rushing under both cheeks—turning each one a sweet, cherry-red—because being close to another person after spending numerous years in isolation must be a dizzying experience. He does not mean to move so soon, shifting instinctively in Will’s arms.

The inevitable is occurring: a gradual pulse, right up against Will’s abdomen.

In the same moment, their breathing patterns falter once again, catching suddenly, both sharp on the exhale.

Will, choking on air because that is most certainly, without a doubt, Hannibal’s cock stirring in interest, thickening inch by inch.

Hannibal, whining out something small and shocked. Hips rolling once. Helpless, seeking closeness. Lashes, wetter than they were minutes ago, fluttering shut so quickly a silent tear spills from both corners, sliding down blush-bright skin.

Heat simmers right below Will’s navel, something molten sparking towards the ribs. Blunt nails are digging into each of Will’s shoulder blades, clawing at cloth—anything, really—resulting from an abrupt, sporadic thrust. He’s never seen Hannibal lose control in this manner, inadvertently seeking pleasure, but there is something so fragile in such a movement: one single, frantic, muscle-quivering search for friction coming on so strong, as sudden as a boulder bearing the brunt of a violent wave. No lead up. No gentle wind down. In simple terms, a body solely needing—but everyone knows, regarding Hannibal Lecter, nothing is ever simple.

There is no ease in breathing right now for either of them, chests seized by shock.

Will’s fingers—just barely refraining from shaking—flex around trembling thighs, correcting their grasp, rushing in their tightening so Hannibal doesn’t slip onto the floor. In the next moment, a second, shimmering tear breaches a lash-line rimmed in red, eventually cresting over a clenched corner. Hannibal seems to be one of those pretty criers. Flushing skin. Fresh tears clustering each lash. Angelic in every stage. For Will, instinct soon sets in at the sight. He does not mull over the possible consequences. No, simply moves in a manner of motion which feels right—and most of all, natural. His neck creaks through a crane. His mouth, aiming to catch the swiftly sliding tear, presses over scorching skin—a cheek blooming redder by the second.

Gasping once more, Hannibal flinches—shoulders jerking taut, eyelids creasing as if screaming too much, too much—from the contact.

Unexpected. Unfamiliar.

For them both.

For a long-winding moment, both men remain as they are. Frozen. Like moving—a single twitch of any muscle, or any sudden shift—would squash this small, precious bud growing between them, because at this point in time—stale air a sharp reminder—it is only a seedling. Fragile. Easily ground down into nothing. In need of tending, blooming only when the time and climate agree, when the sun shines just right.

Will’s mouth does not retreat—no, it stays there—certain of its resting place. Lips gentle in their puckering, and to a degree—quite loud, even though in this instance and most aspects of life, motion of the mouth encapsulates softness. He does not pull away—cannot even consider doing so. Kissing, soft and gentle, right underneath Hannibal’s eye socket, where bone of a cheek begins a regal arch.

Personally, Will’s never been compelled to do such a thing, something so incredibly intimate—lips seeping up someone else’s salt-flecked sorrow—whenever Molly cried. Not once, because she would usually lock herself in their bathroom on the anniversary of her late husband’s death, undress and take a long soak in their bath, downing a glass or two of wine until the tears ceased falling. Probably knew any offering of comfort, even if well-meaning, would seem unnatural, painstakingly awkward.

Here in the moment, there is a very stark contrast in the way comforting someone else comes easier. No second-guessing. No mulling over what’s the best course of action. No sense in being timid, because Hannibal’s love and obvious need is clear as day. No longer a thing to be uncertain about.

Gradually, Hannibal’s been stiffening, clothed cock now firmer against Will’s shirt, curving closer. Insistent. Overcome by a single-minded desire. To ache. To leak. To spill. Every new pulse occurring faster than the previous one. Each limb locking up. Hannibal’s trying not to move again, but eventually ends up leaning in: cheek nuzzling Will’s mouth—skin soft, slippery from fallen tears, sinking into such a meager form of affection as though nothing more has ever grazed that cheek, or anywhere near Hannibal’s face, until today.

Heart-aching—a fourth revelation.

In an offering of a parting kiss, Will’s lips remain there for quite a while, resting against blood-boiling skin, pressing tenderness where embarrassment simmers just beneath the surface. Pulling back is a tedious, regretful event. His thumbs are gentle in their contact, rubbing slow, soothing circles into Hannibal’s upper thighs, caressing them over fabric that rasps under touch as though in warning of what lies beneath—something softer than cotton, only capable of breaking underneath Will’s fingers—and no one else’s—not even God’s.

For a brief second, Hannibal’s lashes tremble, these soft, almost wisps, as if wanting to rise and open up only enough to witness whatever may occur.

Yet ultimately refrain.

As though fearful Will’s fingers may loosen on purpose. Let him slip free without ever attempting to catch him. Let him crumple on the floor. Leave him there, a mess of sprawling limbs and straining desire. Leave him untouched, unloved.

God, Will could never.

“Everything’s all right, sugar.”

His voice comes out lower than a scrape of metal along concrete, a quiet eruption from the mouth, nearly inaudible, vowels curling through a long-since-stifled twang. Endearment rolling off the tongue as easily as breathing comes. Fondness sprouts between Will’s ribs when Hannibal sucks in a strangled lungful of air, cheeks warming even more. “You understand?” He asks, waiting until Hannibal nods—stilted, unsteady. Their temples slightly brushing, warm skin against warm skin, curls rustling over short, silvering strands.

He soon finds, while watching the motion unfold, shyness looks sweet on Hannibal: lashes low on the cheeks, chin dipping jerkily and rubbing against Will’s scruff, another shaking breath spilling forth right against Will’s cheek and ear. His palms—weathered on the inside from constant work outdoors—are rapidly beading with perspiration, warm and slick, bearing Hannibal’s full weight.

Now they are—in some tender closing of distance, like fate’s a thread binding them together—resting temple to temple and nearly cheek to cheek. The sight and sensation sends a sudden flutter through Will’s ribcage, something warm and restless and alive. In the small space between them, a single word resonates, being whispered so quietly, where shiver-inducing lips graze the lobe of one beet-red ear. “Good.” Finally, Will steps forward. The floorboards creak, wood whining underfoot. “I’ll get you somewhere comfortable.”

Locating the master bedroom is a simple process, relievingly enough. He continues sure-footed throughout the house, turning two corners and then another. Places a kiss against Hannibal’s jawline or ear every so often on the silent journey there.

Hannibal, who is damn near squirming at this point. Uncomfortable. Hardening even further. Using every ounce of restraint to stifle a consistent urge, an urgent need to thrust forward, and instead remain in control. Polite. Proper. Even when thinking becomes warped by the body’s brain-stunting fog of arising arousal. His cheek is burning up against Will’s mouth. His breath coming shorter and thinner. Panting out a whimper, voice unrecognizable. Hoarse. Fraying.

Hair-raising against Will’s ears.

He can barely cope with the living image of Hannibal behaving so much like a boy—only a boy—breathless and craving friction right there, between the thighs—immediately—as if being stiff, swelling cock spurting out tiny, sweltering bursts of pre-come, is a foreign sensation, entirely brand new.

“Gonna take care of you.” A promise mouthing over Hannibal’s ear.

A commitment Will can easily envision: laying him down on the bed after undressing, straddling thighs that can do nothing but tremble and spread in their own manner of asking, mouth mapping over his bare torso, reaching down and wrapping warm—Hell, maybe even shaking—fingers around the length of him, stroking slow enough to wrench out every beading of pre-come, then opening him up with those same slick fingers, and eventually, sliding inside.

The hallway seems never ending. Long. Narrow.

Will’s footsteps remain steady until they don’t.

Breath shuddering, Hannibal’s legs squeeze around Will, restless and quaking. His fingernails engraving skin-breaking crescents into Will’s shoulder blades. His knees are nearly climbing, digging deep into endless rows of ribs. Painful, stunting Will’s airflow. His ass and thighs rise momentarily, lifting clumsily off their perch of sweat-slick palms. His erection, pitiful in its squelching, grinds messily against Will’s stomach—not simply once—but circling through three sharp, frame-jolting thrusts.

Dear God, the whimpering.

Deafening against Will’s ears.

For a moment, Will’s brain blanks in shock, left shoulder slamming into a nearby door frame. Their bedroom door. His breathing is coming faster now, strained past its limits, because the prospect of Hannibal falling ass-first onto the floor is a near thing.

Hannibal could, Will feels fairly certain, more than likely come this way.

Fully clothed. Humping Will’s abdomen without thought or intention, solely because there is a nearby opportunity for friction. His only form of touch in so, so long. Even when lacking the intimate curl of someone else’s fingers, the rough, repetitive glide of fabric—slacks dragging back and forth over the swelling—the stiff, soul-deep aching—must feel startlingly similar—not the welcome friction of fingers, no, but damn near close enough.

“Please,” Hannibal begs, voice as brittle as a leaf weathering the cruel winds of winter.

Or, the longer Will spends ruminating, resembling a boy barely capable of wording such a need, but it’s there—right there, please—a brewing, full-body-ache.

Having expectations of what engaging in intimacy would be like with Hannibal is trivial, but the neediness, these small, full-chested, rasping cries shouldn’t be originating from someone like Hannibal. A man in mid-fifties. A killer. Previously the bane of Will’s existence. Unforgettable. Even when living states or countries apart. Now restlessly shifting, seeking touch where thighs spread, letting loose something small and trembling: another slick, searing pearl of pre-come—a voice-cracking wail wrenching free.

Will—at a complete loss for words—mulls over what to say. Grasping Hannibal’s thighs even more securely. His nails nearly penetrating porous, wrinkling wool. Holding firm and steady.

In spite of the clutching, Hannibal’s writhing continues. Another lewd squelch. Another devastating whimper. Another humid gasp, shuddering against Will’s face. Another voice-shaking plea. God, he sounds even closer to tears, closer to coming, bordering the precipice of spilling all over himself and making a mess. Desperate to stop—fingers and thighs quivering around Will’s shoulders and waistline. His next thrust comes in the form of some smaller, weakening circulation.

Hips rocking into a state of unsteadiness: a pitiful, back and forth tremble of Hannibal’s body.

Trying to quit.

Trying to be good.

Trying to last long enough for Will.

Trying not to seem so much like a boy who is rapidly losing himself within the first meager, blissful moments of friction.

Trying not to make a sound, but failing once again, voice shattering around a barely-choked-back sob. Hoarser than a whimper waterlogged inside the lungs. Humid against Will’s skin.

Nearing the point of losing composure himself, Will can only swallow. Breathing in sharply through the unanticipated shock. Throat drier than a dust storm. He settles a tender kiss directly below Hannibal’s ear, where a bright red flush is spanning lower and lower, disappearing into the neckline of Hannibal’s gray sweater. Heaving off the doorframe, only one phrase comes to mind. Everything else sounds too much like a scolding.

‘Settle down’ seems more fitting for a dog wound up with too much energy.

Nowhere near gentle enough.

Nowhere near as comforting as: “Easy now, darlin’, we’re almost there, and then I’m gonna set you down. Help you out of these clothes,” being murmured against Hannibal’s ear. Will’s feet pass over the threshold, moving carefully so as not to trip. “You won’t need to lift a finger. Just let me…” His words die down—not sharply—but slowly, as full view of their bedroom comes into view.

Being inside the room with Hannibal is much different than entering alone, stirring up an emotion Will dares not name.

There are roman shades—neutral flaxen—curtaining both windows. Drawn low for privacy—but sunlight still seeps through the sheer fabric—stretching golden across their, quite frankly, unnecessarily enormous bed—styled in ornate shades of deep navy and striking sapphire.

Every color carefully chosen. Hannibal wanted everything perfect, calming for Will, especially this space in particular.

A chest-clencher.

Then, simply because, another kiss closes soft over Hannibal’s ear—apologetic. No need for words.

In the center of the room, a sleek bench borders the end of their bed, wood layered with a chocolate brown cushion on top—and through gentle maneuvering, Will begins easing Hannibal down.

Hannibal’s breathing remains shaky, thighs and arms unwinding on their own.

Naturally, Will’s palms remain close, where warmth unfurls from Hannibal, touching because he can, because Hannibal remains unsteady even when sitting on something solid, because three years have passed since Hannibal’s felt the easy brush of someone else’s fingertips.

No amount of preparation could lessen the impact, the shock a stone hurtling toward the acidic pit of Will’s stomach, when eventually, Hannibal’s face finally raises, slow and careful—eyes still sparkling with unshed tears, cheeks still flushing, chest still stuttering around uneven breaths, mouth still half-open for either a kiss or an inhale, palms flat and motionless on the bench, erection still straining against a cage of fabric. God, looking so much like a boy in the first stages of wanting, thighs already spreading for Will, trembling apart inch by inch.

The tether between them does not bend nor does it snap apart in a clean break.

Will’s fingers continue cradling Hannibal’s waist, because there is no consideration to ever let go, to separate. He wouldn’t dare. Not now. Not ever again.

A phrase enters Will’s mind. Something far too tender to give voice to. His fingers twitch, wanting to rise and cup Hannibal’s cheek. He’s seen beautiful things: paintings, dogs, fish, people—but nothing on this earth compares to Hannibal, unconventionally angular. Severe in simply being, but so lovely to look at, especially right now.

Blushing. Panting. Waiting.

For something to unfold. For Will to wrap gentle fingers around the reins, and lead them elsewhere. Forever curious as to how Will may react.

Toeing off each shoe, Will’s decision is already made. Has been for quite some time.

He steps forward, kneeling down in the minimal space between Hannibal’s thighs. His kneecaps resting flush against the carpet, pants rasping along the fibers living deep within the floor. Hears it again—that sound, Hannibal’s lungs coaxing out something thinner than air, almost soundless but there, breath unwinding too fast to reel back in. For a moment, words abandon him, because suddenly being eye-level with Hannibal’s concealed erection is quite a mind-spinner of a sight—a revelation, too. He’s never imagined Hannibal in such a state: voice capable of soft-throated whimperings, shallow breathing, unable to say anything other than ‘please,’ cock straining, ass and thighs nearly lifting off the cushion.

But imagination is far from reality. Looking up ends in another revelation.

He’s no doubt nervous: knuckles blanching white through their ruthless clench around the edge of the bench, fingernails scraping wood, lower lip being bitten raw, wilting lashes clasping tight over silent-spilling tears, chest hitching around another devastating sound.

Numerous years they’ve known each other, and up until this point in their relationship, closer than they’ve ever been to one another, inside a room warmed over by sunlight and smelling of dust, lost time along with missed chances, Will’s never been privy to the sight of Hannibal’s teeth before, but the top four are these endearingly crooked, imperfect treasures. He thinks about kissing them one by one, about running a thumb pad over them to test their sharpness, learning their unique curve. His fingers tighten around Hannibal’s waist by a fraction.

“Gonna undress you now,” Will murmurs, voice ringing out softly in the room—much softer than the uneven exhalations stirring from Hannibal’s ribcage.

Another breath. Another shudder racing down Hannibal’s spine. Another tremble seizing Hannibal’s thighs.

Bending forward, slow and easy, Will presses a kiss against Hannibal’s kneecap. Feeling a responsive trembling of muscle under cloth. “You don’t need to be nervous.”

Do not need to be—but can be. Must be.

Will’s fingers begin sliding further down, over a hip bone, over the edge of thigh, sloping down the contour of a kneecap, pausing at the slender curve of ankle to slide Hannibal’s left shoe off. He removes it through a fair amount of firmness, balancing Hannibal’s achilles heel in one hand and working the first foot free with the other. Finds himself frowning at the paleness of Hannibal’s skin. Leaves the first foot to settle on the carpet—already moving onto the other. Then sets Hannibal’s shoes and crumpled socks aside.

In Will’s mind, undressing Hannibal seems like the most daunting task on earth. Being able to rest curious eyes over skin never previously seen in all the time they’ve known each other. Being granted the opportunity of tracing fingers over skin starving for gentleness. Learning the true warmth and texture of Hannibal’s body. Learning what sounds or physical reactions may come from different forms of affection—a kiss, a stroke, a suckle, a swipe of a tongue, a twist of a nipple.

For a long moment, Will does nothing but breathe and stare at the strained cloth between Hannibal’s legs. He’s so stiff the mere act of aching must be unbearable now—and Will’s never really thought about it until today. Hannibal, in a state of arousal. How that might look or sound—but there’s a startling amount of softness to him: the small breaths he tries to keep as even as possible instead of unsteady and trembling, the minuscule twitching of his thighs and fingers—as though he craves nothing more than to reach out and cling on, and feels uncertain about whether or not both thighs being spread apart in front of Will is acceptable—as though he has begun second-guessing himself, debating on closing them entirely—but ultimately cannot because of Will, kneeling in the scant space between them.

His palms clasp right over Hannibal’s waistline—again. There is something coming, Will can sense it in Hannibal’s body language.

The sudden tension in his jaw—falling open before snapping shut, only to slip open once again—needing to speak but not quite ready. He’s sucking in a shallow breath, chest stuttering and fingers clenching tighter as if bracing for an inevitable. Or a consequence.

Will does not dare move a muscle or rush to know—to ask outright. Hands remaining where they’re at, cradling Hannibal’s waist. Thumbs stroking small, encouraging circles into every inch of reachable, warm skin underneath Hannibal’s sweater.

“I am… afraid,” Hannibal whispers, voice tight and shaking, “of what may happen once you touch me.”

A crease soon settles between Will’s brows. His fingers slowing to a stop. They’re simply resting there now, right below where Hannibal’s clothed ribcage is beginning to strain around another breath. Realization sets in with a quickness, and suddenly, Will understands what Hannibal’s been bracing for. His stomach sinks, swiftly, because Hannibal’s not expecting understanding but cruelty.

“You really think,” Will starts to say, stern yet soft, “I’d laugh at you for that—that I wouldn’t hold those words close to my heart?”

For all Hannibal tries to regain a steady sense of voice, each word comes out softer than the last—so quiet Will can barely catch them all, but they land right where they should. “You enjoy when I’m off-kilter.”

“This is different,” Will counters—but does not deny what’s been said because it is—was—true to some degree. They both know. His palm rises, settling against Hannibal’s warming cheek. He barely manages to suppress a faint smile, lips rising at the corners, when Hannibal nuzzles closer. “Never thought you’d beg me for anything.” His eyes linger on the quivering strands of Hannibal’s eyelashes. He thumbs just underneath there, where a bead of wetness emerges for a countless time. “If I said I didn’t enjoy seeing this side of you, something only meant for me, I’d be lying to the both of us, and I don’t want to live through another lie with you, especially not when this might be the only chance where I have you.”

Hannibal’s breath catches again, a weak creak winding through each vocal cord on its way up. His cheeks, already a vibrant pink, deepen even further into stark scarlet.

“I’d never make a mockery of you needing me,” Will says softly, sure as any truth, “after going so long without, sweetheart.” Again, Hannibal makes that same soft-throated sound. A borderline whimper. Piercing straight through Will’s ribs—whose thumb keeps moving in gentle swirls, rubbing across Hannibal’s cheekbone over and over, these soothing, consistent circulations. “Right now you seem so unlike your usual self, softer in your wanting… for me, and I don’t want that to stop.” The observation. The confession. Both unwinding with an inexplicable ease. “You can be soft around me,” he encourages, the barely-there, sweetening notes of a long-fought back drawl creeping in, cannot seem to fight the further softening of himself—voice and breath—before the statement is there, fitting between them, snug and warm as fingers clasped around a heart. “You ain’t gonna scare me off like this, cher.”

And seeing tension, even if only a small amount, instantly receding from Hannibal’s shoulders confirms Will’s suspicion. He likes this side of Will, too—the side that caters instead of stomps down everything in its path—the side that can reveal itself, too, its openness for softness.

Hannibal’s mouth, a sweet, bright-as-berries state of red, trembles again—voice, too, smaller than Will’s ever known it capable of being. “I have never been anyone’s… not in any way you might’ve assumed.” His confession, a shock, makes Will’s breath stop short. “Except for my aunt, when I was younger—but…” Framing the bench—bones and cartilage curling tighter—Hannibal’s knuckles begin creaking from their force to remain as rigid as stone. He slides a few inches along the lacquered wood, body pressing back-first against Will’s palm as if aching to retreat—as if afraid this moment may be revealing too much.

His past. His ache for softness. His life before ever knowing Will.

Will’s chest clenches, fingers curling in close, preventing Hannibal from moving back any further. Too many questions are swirling inside Will’s mind. The first one comes out as sharp as leather cracking down on skin. “How young?” Then Hannibal flinches, eyelids wrinkling, nose scrunching, breathing seizing for a single beat—and Will’s tone softens once again. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t make it sound any better than it was.”

Again—that familiar sound unearths itself—rising through rough, straining notes. A noise Will finds skull-rattling. Another one of those devastating whimpers. Lost between breath and clenching teeth.

Under the bench, not-so-subtle scratching occurs over and over, Hannibal’s nails digging what must be another inch deeper each time. If not already splitting at their blunt ends, they’ll be bloodied and torn by the end of this conversation. Will doesn’t dare rush this step towards a life-altering inevitable, no—simply cradles Hannibal’s cheek and waist—both soft, both warming as seconds stretch on. This is not a time for pressure but for patience. He’ll wait as long as necessary until Hannibal is ready to voice such an answer.

Time passes. Maybe a matter of moments. Or a matter of minutes. Will cannot be too certain, but eventually, something comes from waiting—being as patient as necessary.

Hannibal’s chin, through a subconscious movement, tips down toward the floor, eyelids unwilling to raise, the wrinkling skin trapped in a clench. His lashes, though, are still trembling, a glimmering wetness clinging to each sparse end. He doesn’t blink—barely breathing out the next words, rasping quietly against the tender inside of Will’s palm. “Young enough in age to not fully understand. My first time being…”

A pause. Abrupt—because English is not Hannibal’s mother tongue. Will is reminded by the way his mouth shapes itself around something foreign, breath cutting off in the middle as if he suddenly realizes Will cannot understand. The change in his voice, curling clumsily around multiple stilted syllables, as if never even said aloud during childhood (because whatever underlying meaning must be inappropriate in a child’s eyes), strikes straight through Will’s chest. The pronounced lilt—how his accent has begun evolving into something surprisingly childlike, and immediately starts fraying. Like he has not given himself permission to speak nor think in what (at least Will assumes) may be Lithuanian in quite some time. Decades, Will can only guess. His voice sounding one croak away from crumbling into dust by the next breath. Like the syllables have become clogged—sticking wrong where they tremble against his teeth.

Will catches fragments.

Suž—adin—tas.

These short, faintly stunted, uncertain puffs of breath from Hannibal’s lungs. Then silence, creeping in almost insidiously. Will sees his mouth falter—suddenly snapping shut—his brain tangling up inside itself, desperately searching for English.

Don’t rush, Will nearly suggests aloud—but cannot speak, tongue too great in weight, thick and useless. He waits for Hannibal’s mouth to coax open again, seconds after a reverberating, far too rough swallow.

“Hard, consciously instead of while asleep.” Hannibal’s kneecaps brush against Will’s ribs—fighting to close. “I couldn’t sleep after a night terror—so she laid down with me. I had never been so close to anyone—and when she was holding me against her chest, I slowly felt myself start to ache against her thigh—she said she could help me settle. But…”

Inside Will’s chest a suffocating sensation surfaces, pressurized and flinch-worthy in speed, an unbearable strain of breath, a long-winded burning. Will’s never thought to consider nor imagine what Hannibal’s childhood (let alone Hannibal’s first time, something that would be—for anyone—an incredible vulnerability) could’ve consisted of.

Envisioning Hannibal as anything younger than now or the previous handful of years they’ve known each other feels impossible.

Hannibal as a boy?

No.

Will’s mind refuses to craft an image.

Drier than soot, Will’s throat begins clamping up. His next words seem to stick together. “But what?” He asks, palm drifting from Hannibal’s cheek until each finger, gentle in where they’ve all settled into place, begins a mindless rhythm, rubbing warmth into Hannibal’s sides. “You can tell me.”

Long-stretching silence, a stifling kind of quiet, encompasses the room until Hannibal eventually swallows, leaning further back into Will’s palms, seeking their warmth and weight, a subconscious shift. To remind himself Will is not an unreachable figment—but real, warm, here, cradling his lower back with too much care woven into the weight of each palm.

“I think—” Hannibal begins but falters, voice thinning out into a whisper. His lashes—they are trembling, wetness crowding the corners of both closed eyes. “I was too messy in—inside her hand.”

Christ—he sounds so unlike himself. Less of a man, more of a child.

Will cannot breathe, chest tightening to an agonizing degree—his fingers now, too, they are moving without thought, wrapping tighter around the edges of Hannibal’s middle. No words come. Not a single one. Will keeps staring up at Hannibal’s lips, the way both tremble around a breath, the way the bottom one looks a bit mangled as if it’s been caught in a trap and teethed down to near nothing in an effort to conceal sounds no one was ever supposed to witness.

No one—Will thinks through a focus-defining blink—except for me. No one else.

“I tried to be good.” Hannibal’s voice emerges, shrunken from shame, nails scraping across the wood—back and forth. A nervous tick, some unstoppable urge unearthing itself again and again. “But she said I no longer deserved to finish—and… no one could love me like that—that it was an abnormality—that I must need a doctor.”

Breathing for Will remains an impossible feat.

Thinking of him. Younger. Probably around twelve or so. In an examination chair, bare-bodied. To be assessed by some backwoods doctor: someone rough but thorough and reliable. To not arouse questions. Thinking of him, both arms folded against his hairless chest, being restrained by a child-sized straight jacket, bony knees yanked apart and slender ankles forced into stirrups. Then (without warning or a measure of care), being forced into opening up, teeth pried apart by cold metal—being forced into swallowing around an intrusion: a small, blue pill—being forced to ache and swell in front of onlookers.

Doctor. Aunt.

Adults.

For how long had he sat there before them both, bearing the unfamiliar burden of such aching, cheeks and groin a blistering red? For how long had his fingernails sunk into himself, curling into his shoulders for a sense of comfort or instilling a sharp enough sting to distract himself from an overbearing discomfort?

A discomfort he could not escape. Ankles cuffed where they rested. Legs unable to close. Lower lip bitten down to rawness. Hairless chest flushed, blotches of red spreading further down, where arousal blossomed as fierce as restless flames. Gathering just underneath endless notches of spine and between both quivering thighs. No chance of escape. No time to grasp what was unfolding inside himself, only mounting heat and insatiable want and salt-laced wetness streaming out through humiliating rivulets, tender slit exposed by his peeled-back foreskin. No chance of relief (only agony), but maybe denied release was for the better: a mercy.

For half an hour? For hours on end?

Following the diagnosis (overactive cowper’s glands), had shame clung to him like a second skin, sweltering enough to make self-pleasure an indigestible consideration? Later on that very same day, had he ended up crying face-first into a pillow, one hand trembling around himself but too sore to truly squeeze or stroke, or had he stared numb and unblinking at the ceiling, thighs squeezed shut, hands braced against his chest, cradling his own shoulders?

Will dreads discovering. The half-conjured images are nauseating enough.

Maybe all three of those half-blurred images, merely fractions of color and shadow, are both honest and unforgiving in their memory, authentic enough to sink paint-like into a once bare, shell-white canvas inside Will’s mind, all an entryway offering Will an opportunity to step feet-first into what he must be feeling today while sitting tense along the bench, hard and aching in front of the singular person who matters most in his world.

Maybe he’s entirely unaware he’s allowed Will in quite so far—to see these subconscious responses: legs fighting to close, nails clawing at what they can reach, eyelids shut as a form of self-protection.

“For so long, I have never let anyone touch me—but Will, I—”

His voice, already past the point of shaking, collapses in on itself—and that’s all it takes for Will to surge forward and press their foreheads together.

“I understand, I do.” Will’s hands, both of them now, frame Hannibal’s face—because it’s begun crumpling second by second, turning a fierce shade of beet-red. Now nose to nose, it’s impossible to miss another frail-throated whimper—a near sob—careening up Hannibal’s throat and into the warm air between them. “You don’t have to ask. You’ve already got me, sweetheart.” He kisses along the tension-filled line of Hannibal’s left eyebrow—a soft, lingering press of lips. “There is nothing I wouldn’t give you tonight.”

In this state, unseeing, shaking up from a taut spine, Hannibal is unfamiliar—unfamiliar but trying to remain grounded, even when failing to reign in what’s already begun unspooling. The entirety of himself: soaked cheeks a ceaseless singe against Will’s palms.

For one fragile moment, there is a period where neither one moves until Will eliminates any remaining space between their bodies. Leaning in another inch closer, kissing Hannibal’s soft-slacked, trembling lips. They remain pliant and stunned. Frozen—as if Hannibal’s brain is only beginning to process Will’s previous statement. His breath puffs against Will’s mouth—a small, frantic burst of warmth—a tremor stemming from the lungs, Will soon understands, because being kissed is not a forgotten technique, no—it’s a foreign concept for Hannibal, who kisses back with the resurfacing clumsiness of a boy.

Just—at its core—he is all boy. Lacking experience but seeking belonging by means of closeness, even when clumsy, even if each attempt ends in a sloppier smear against someone else’s mouth. Imprecise and shy-mouthed but eager, releasing these lung-shuddering, earth-shattering whines each time Will suckles on his cupid’s bow. He’s not yet reaching out in return, clinging onto the bench for stability—as if reciprocating touch may be deemed off limits.

Will can understand as much. Even if the thought of Hannibal being so uncertain dredges up an incomprehensible ache.

He’s probably nervous, naturally overthinking every response, afraid of being too much—of appearing too much like a boy. He is, though, evolving into one as quick as sand settles into cuts. No warning—just a rain down of fragments into a tender, bleeding gap between what is old and what is newborn, what is long forgotten and what is burrowing its way up from the skin, clawing free without conscious thought—only with the instinct of being safe enough to do so.

Hannibal’s become one in Will’s eyes: an eager, breath-taking boy, trying to impress Will, trying not to seem so desperate, trying not to thrust up against the air with a barely fought back whine, inexperienced body seeking friction but powerless against the innate urge to move—to rut against what isn’t truly there. Will knows—every time the bench creaks under Hannibal’s shifting weight, a whine follows forth. Will knows, every time, without even looking. His slacks are rasping against the sides of Will’s legs, soon slipping into a predictable rhythm, cheeks steadily growing warmer, breathing turning unsteady, lungs panting a breathless, pitiful noise into Will’s mouth.

He sounds so much like a boy, needy and thin-breathed, endless whimpers rising in volume throughout their next few kisses. His thighs are trembling, rising off the bench in small, eager lurches. Needing more but unwilling to ask for anything else—because this is Will being kind. Generous. In more ways than one. Giving him something he has rarely ever sought after.

Will’s mouth slows and soon lowers near a warm patch of skin, settling one last kiss against the corner of Hannibal’s own mouth—the small, wet crease of pink—too tender to ignore. Pulling back by an inch, Will blinks both eyes open and soon, Hannibal’s lashes are rising in tandem, fluttering through timid twitches.

A blink. A breath.

Their eyes meet and it is as if the outside world—everything around them, the dust, amber fissures of sunlight scrawling across the walls and ceiling—finally settles into the background, once and for all. This faint glimmer of emotion—maybe hope, maybe apprehension—veiling Hannibal’s eyes, soft and shimmering like rubies left to rust in the deep pockets of the earth, sets something off in Will. A need to remain close even though their foreheads are resting as close as can be. Hannibal’s eyes flutter. A small wisp born out of shyness. As if being so close is simply too much.

Will does not prod or remark on the matter—doesn’t need to.

He’ll steep in this soft aching intertwining with longing. He’ll respond in kind, tracing the line of Hannibal’s jaw with curved knuckles, gentle in its rhythm, soothing in its pressure, warmth seeping into bone—into each other. His thumb strokes tiny circles into the uneven blotches swarming Hannibal’s cheeks. He musters enough strength to pull back completely—savoring each shaking exhale puffing from Hannibal’s shining mouth, slack and ruby-red.

“Your sweater,” Will instructs after a stabilizing breath, staring into Hannibal’s glassy-eyed gaze.

A nod—shaking through the rise.

A smile creeps up the corners of Will’s mouth, small and fond.

Lifting off Hannibal’s sweater occurs slower than one might expect. Will doesn’t plan on rushing through any part of this—even the tedious moments such as these—because Hannibal’s first time is meant to be precious. Full of care. Through gentle coaxing, Hannibal’s arms raise enough until Will can pull each sleeve, along with the charcoal-edged hem, up and over Hannibal’s shoulders.

In the corner of the room, Hannibal’s sweater lands on the cushion of a nearby chair. Unfolded. Unimportant.

Will, momentary nearing a loss for words, can only stare, eyes roaming up and down Hannibal’s torso. He’s endearingly soft around the middle, a revelation Will, truthfully, never expected to come across. His chest, a near forest of silver and graying ringlets, each tightly-wound strand spiraling up from the sternum, looks softer than silk. To Will’s surprise, Hannibal’s eyes begin straying elsewhere. Half-lidded. His arms remaining an inch in the air as if considering reaching for the buttons on Will’s shirt—before they lower. Trembling. Stilted. Will’s fingers settle on Hannibal’s bare shoulders.

He thinks of them again: those words.

Having invaded Will’s mind minutes ago, they could, right here before them both, spill out so easily. Will tastes them now, tongue-fresh, and knows each one would come out sweetened and thickened by affection, clouding Hannibal’s ears in much-deserved softness. His own, too. He should say them—now—because what other option is there when facing the breath-stealing reality of Hannibal appearing so open, trusting and wanting, though endearingly shier than should be possible?

Lashes fluttering, Hannibal shivers. His palms flattened along the bench, remaining frozen in time. Lost on what to do other than gasp every other second once Will’s fingers begin roaming, passing over skin untouched for years on end. The small crook between each elbow: circled gently by a thumb pad. The endless rows of ribs, danced upon by callous-dappled fingertips. The pronounced softness swelling over each hip bone, cherished by hands warmer from multitasking. He shifts against Will’s palms again—automatic—instinct kicking in. To keep close. To remain tethered—skin against skin.

This is a moment for kneeling, Will realizes, since Hannibal’s eyes are closing once again.

Hannibal must notice the shift, even without seeing. How their kneecaps knock against one another through the movement. A distinct creak resounding from Will’s knees—the joints cracking through the bend. A sudden onslaught of warmth—steady, rhythmic breaths mere inches from Hannibal’s navel. He nearly ceases breathing right then and there, lungs lurching on a sharp breath, ribs stark underneath a rippling sheet of skin.

After some consideration, relief floods Will’s insides for not having spoken those words aloud just yet. Letting them form right now, or moments prior would’ve been too soon, overpowering. This much attention is already quite a lot for someone who has spent these last three years in isolation. He’ll reveal them when the timing feels right.

Will’s hands tighten a fraction, squeezing gently around Hannibal’s middle. “You don’t have to be nervous, sweetheart,” he murmurs—because nothing else seems quite fitting. “I promised I’d take care of you, and I mean that with my whole being.” His fingers drift toward Hannibal’s belt buckle, a slow and measured movement made in caution. “You’re doing so good for me already.”

Hannibal’s breath catches around the edges—something thin and ear-piercing winding out. Hips rising a meager inch off the bench—the belt bumping into Will’s knuckles. Thrusting only once—eager, breathless, borderline frantic—sudden enough to send Will into momentary shock.

This is what he must’ve been like as a boy: wanting to be wanted, restless between the legs.

Hannibal is still that boy.

Eager. Breathless. Bashful.

Finally emerging after spending decades trapped in dormancy. He might be the softest thing Will’s ever laid eyes on and chosen to love. For real—not with some pre-planned purpose. Like with Molly. How it never could’ve been with her nor anyone else.

This right here—Hannibal, struggling not to squirm in discomfort—is one of the most genuine experiences Will’s never let himself dream of having. Someone becoming lost to urgency. For him—his attention, touch, and voice. Someone capable of pushing back but instead offering Will control.

Needing Will. His control. His patience. His understanding of both what this is and what this’ll come to be.

There is no one else on earth Will prefers. No one, only Hannibal, bare-chested, breathless, already blushing because Will sees everything. Knows the perfect placement for each word. How to craft them into splintering Hannibal’s resolve. Gentle but efficient.

“Do you like that, sweetheart, when I call you good?” Will asks, even if the question seems unnecessary. Heart warming when Hannibal, after a beat of caution, offers a tentative nod. He’s been unlooping Hannibal’s belt over the last couple of seconds—the strip of leather sliding out in one fluid tug, landing somewhere out of sight.

Now—in Will’s line of sight—the strain of Hannibal’s erection becomes even more apparent. Hardness curving up against wool stretched too thin and wide. He—without intention, it seems—cannot stop seeking out the scarce pressure of Will’s fingers. Hips rocking up in small, abortive increments—a restlessness coaxing them forward. His clothed crotch keeps brushing against the backs of Will’s knuckles. He’s so warm—everywhere. Heat seeping through the fabric as much as the fibers allow. Each movement knocks Will’s fingers off center of their target—the smooth, black-as-ink button.

He’s not trying to be difficult. He’s untouched—simply put. His body rebelling against logic and consequence.

For a long moment, Will ponders over whether to pull back—just to tease before sliding free the button—until something unravels from the depths of Hannibal’s larynx: raw—rough—ragged—but it’s the smallest tremor to ever enter Will’s ears.

Far too small. Far too close to a noise a child or someone lacking any experience might make.

“P-Please.”

Had Hannibal (either in Lithuanian or French) begged the very same, naked and straining in the examination chair? Had Hannibal not spoken a single time?

Looking up is not necessary for Will. He knows Hannibal’s flush must be spanning further, across breastbone instead of only Hannibal’s neck and cheeks now, knows knows Hannibal’s ribcage must be burning for one stabilizing breath. Remembers being a boy himself, and wanting another person’s touch so badly. Thinks back to how being stiff—swollen and leaking pathetically around a too-sensitive slit—felt unbearable. Downright torturous. Will tells himself seeing Hannibal already fraying apart shouldn’t be surprising, shouldn’t make breathing impossible, but after one single-second glance upward, every ounce of air is wrenched from Will’s lungs.

Because this is Hannibal as nothing more than a boy—aching for what must feel like the first time in so long—craving reassurance, a moment of softness throughout the nerve-wracking unknown—without being able to ask or voice any further fears aloud, only a whispering plea.

Fingers beginning to tremble, Will pauses on working the button free. Moves on instinct. Finds himself leaning in close again, lips pressing warmth into Hannibal’s soft, quivering belly. Floored by the sharp, responsive whimper rushing through Hannibal’s lungs.

Doesn’t contemplate pulling away even after a thigh accidentally slams into Will’s chin—because Hannibal’s unanticipated thrust occurs at a moment’s notice—far too fast to brace for or stop entirely. Pain flares fierce through Will’s jaw—a sharp clink of teeth, a scrap of flesh peeling underneath the force—but even then the thought of retreating seems impossible. He can’t find the strength—wouldn’t ever want to.

“Lie back for me,” Will requests, voice a gentle murmur. Hoarser but gentle. His words are mumbled right up against too-pale skin trembling in response. His boy’s precious underbelly, deserving of a second kiss, slower this time, soothing over contracting muscles.

His belly flinching and pitching closer, Hannibal’s voice trembles again—frail, uneven, wetter around the end-note—another weak, trembling gasp taking root in Will’s chest and burrowing through bone. He’s unraveling even faster, shaking now because of someone else’s mouth, resting right there for the very first time. Light stimulation but enough to unravel—to shudder in the wake of.

Will knows what should be done.

Hands gentle in their coaxing, Hannibal is guided back a few inches toward the mattress. His breathing twining thin around a whimper. His limbs shaking through their attempt to follow instructions—to be good. He utters something soon after, voice peeling off vocal cords caged in tension, the briefest eruption of breath, so small the statement barely reaches Will’s ears.

French—though clipped. Frantic in its edge but not quite so rushed it renders Will unable to parse its meaning.

Rubbing soothing circles into Hannibal’s sides, into skin that still seems so rife with a tremble, Will softens even further. How can one not when uncertainty thickens Hannibal’s tone to such an extent it has become unrecognizable? Will’s gaze follows the nervous clench of Hannibal’s fingers twisting into the duvet—clutching its thickness—searching for a grounding point.

“You’re all right, sweetheart,” Will is quick to soothe. “I know you didn’t mean to. I doubt it’ll even bruise.” He ends up kneeling there on the carpet for a short stretch of time, waiting for Hannibal’s breathing to begin settling before reaching for the button once more.

Gaze burning a pattern across the ceiling, Hannibal’s eyes flicker back and forth, restless but unwilling to watch the undressing unfold. His own eventful baring, entire body tense below the spine, tight-muscled and trembling, chest caving in on a small cry of relief as soon as Will unclasps the button, dragging the zipper down next, a careful, coaxing pull. His fists tighten within the blanket, clenching. Hips almost bucking up, shaking in their effort to remain steady and unresponsive, but the urge to move comes on too strong. He swallows down a whine, body overcome by a sudden tremor. Nearly seizes through the instinct to thrust upward toward a sense of freedom, where stiff fabric can no longer cling, each abdominal muscle straining.

From this angle, Will’s eyes catch the faint glimmer of tears trickling down Hannibal’s temples. Inducing a pang through Will’s chest. It slices between both ribs, sharp and sudden. “I know, darlin’, I’m almost done. Then you’ll feel so much better.” His fingers fumble around two layers of fabric—wool and silk—fast-working in their mission of peeling back both waistbands in one swift tug.

Finally, relief comes in the form of each garment slipping away from sweat-slick skin after some steady coaxing. Hannibal’s lower body stutters up, trembling through an unstable rise. Will’s boy—trying desperately to help in some small manner. Even when aching—terribly. Even when barely able to catch a single breath. Even with eyes closed in what must be a resemblance of fear—fear of being seen—by Will. His body sags against the bench, chin slipping around a whine of relief, spine crumpling into the bed, weak-limbed and shaking and flushing from cheeks to groin. His cock, already a vibrant, ruby-red, is shrouded by what appear to be recently trimmed ringlets, surrounding skin borderline raw from fresh catchings of a razor blade.

Will’s brain quickly short-circuits, both eyes zeroing in, staring at the stark patches of scarlet skin—and then stall on one small but noticeable bald spot near the inner crease of Hannibal’s right thigh, inflamed compared to the pale calm of the other.

Oh—Will thinks, breathless—he wanted to feel put together. Maybe even pretty: soft-skinned and neat. For himself. For Will.

On the off chance of being loved.

In the shower—underneath a steady stream of heat—his soap-slicked hand must’ve been shaking. From rising nerves. From envisioning what their evening could possibly become. From the unmooring thought of being touched—not as a means of quieting him down—but an awakening—some soft, new beginning. From sheer want—the craving of approval and the deep-rooted desire of being more than enough instead of far too messy.

Leaving boyhood behind—but even now, he seems the furthest thing from man, bare-skinned and frail-breathed before Will.

Feet slipping along the bench.

Thighs bending on instinct, desiring but refraining from collapsing fully inward—so shy when shifting.

Hands frozen along the bunched fabric of the bed.

His burning cheek pressing into the blanket.

Face almost buried—but in view.

His chest rising fast and shallow—ribs peeking just underneath pink-as-petal skin.

His stomach streaked by pre-come.

His shaft, as swollen and stiff as can be, curving against a precious underbelly.

He’s leaking so much slick, silent beadings welling up one after another, left leg almost jerking back in surprise when a kiss presses into skin and bone surrounding one shin. He breathes out sharply, a sound Will’s come to cherish.

“There’s my boy,” Will’s voice rings out softly, a sweet sort of quiet, “so pretty for me.”

Hannibal whimpers as another translucent, slick swell unearths itself from underneath peach-soft foreskin. His cock pulses, a frantic, skin-deep spasm occurring right in front of Will’s eyes. Pale thighs quaking in earnest as they spread a couple tentative inches apart—a slow-moving series of motions.

Him being shy yet seeking praise is enough to make Will’s pulse quicken.

Him, older than Will, but bearing a boy’s mindset.

This unbearable, shy-bodied version Will never knew existed. Losing himself to the sight, Will rises on unsteady knees—meaning to begin undressing himself, fingers pausing a shirt button.

He’s never looked so vulnerable.

Legs spread open—shaking where both knees remain at rest in a curve. For Will.

Hiding cheek-first against the bed. From Will.

Hips shifting restlessly—small, uneven, uncontainable twitches. For Will.

His cock slick and shining and pulsing. For Will.

His eyelashes encrusted in salt and ruin. From Will alone.

His mouth open and trembling. For air or a kiss.

His voice rasping around a wordless noise of desperation. For Will.

To receive affection after living decades without. To be loved as carefully as a boy deserves. To reach a sense of ecstasy. From someone else’s touch. To let loose whatever longing has been cramped inside his chest for so many days and so many nights. To be small just this once, even if not in shape but in breathing and feeling and not quite knowing. To be cradled by hands capable of unraveling and mending him all in one evening. To be stroked for the first time, with consideration, and not turned away for being far too messy. To leak against someone else’s fingers, eager as a boy on the verge of climax. To stutter up into Will’s fist again and again, frantic and frail-breathed, biting back a wail because the sensation feels so foreign but long-since craved. To maybe even be opened up by a gentle set of fingers. To possibly have someone inside him, making sure he can keep breathing through mounting overwhelm. To sob freely against Will’s neck—because no one has ever seen him want and made it okay. To be kissed—anywhere—when losing himself in needing someone else. To be Will’s boy.

Light—creeping in through a window—gleams across Hannibal’s chest. His pale skin awash in a veil of amber and gold. He squirms momentarily under the warmth, another revelation unfolding before Will. Hannibal’s been deprived of that, too—the simple warmth of the sun on bare skin. He settles one inch to the left, where a gathering of sunlight is more prominent. Hair shining where it leans more silver than gray in some areas. His sweaty chest and tear-stained cheekbone, too. All reflecting every bright point.

Silence has fallen and pressed itself against every wall of their bedroom, and eventually, Hannibal, sounding so much younger it makes Will ache, speaks up. His voice trembling and thickening around Will’s name as if believing Will might’ve stepped away but being far too afraid to risk a glance.

“I’m right here, baby.” Will doesn’t intend for that particular endearment to come out, or for the words to come out as soft as they do—but taking them back is not an option. Hannibal, much to Will’s relief, seems to settle a fair amount. “I’ll be there in a second. Promise.”

He considers, when undressing, shirt, pants, boxers, socks—what else there may be to say. Or whether those few sentences were enough.

I was just looking at you, he knows he could also include, watching you remember what sunlight feels like against your skin, and the way your guard lowers when it's just you and me. Thinking of how soft you’ve become in the last thirty or so minutes. That surprising part of you no one else gets to see. Thinking of you as mine—my beautiful, beautiful boy.

Maybe for anyone except them, those thoughts would not seem too revealing to share out loud—but he refrains from saying anything else, climbing onto the bed because Hannibal needs him. Is aching for him between open, trembling thighs. Like a nervous, shy-breathed, blush-sweet boy.

Under a brand new weight, endless springs creak as Will’s palms and knees press against velvet-soft bedding. Purposely settling down in slow-measured movements, because how long has it been since Hannibal shared such an intimate space with someone else, or experienced warmth from another body in this manner? Probably not in ages. Probably only one time—with an aunt—as a lonesome boy. Probably never with Alana. No, Hannibal likely remained clothed below the waist the entire time to keep the mess contained—to be solely a giver and nothing else—to not seem so out of place in an obvious sense—to keep the abnormality obscured.

Hiding is no longer necessary. He can want outright with the desperation of a boy, can beg Will for anything, can be messy, slide through Will’s fist with barely-choked-cries of overwhelm, can come far too quickly, can curl into Will’s side and stay there forever. He can be Will’s boy without ever second guessing or fear of rejection or needing to retain composure when everything must feel so new and disorienting.

Will, seeing him in such a life-altering light.

Will, accepting every part of him, even the shame-shelved mess dripping onto the bed.

Will, treating him with a dignity he’s never been offered before by anyone else.

Will, instilling certainty and reassurance into every moment.

Will, understanding this is him as a boy instead of a man, and taking the lead.

Love. Fondness. Two emotions settling velvet-soft and certain between Will’s ribs. How could someone not feel that spark through their bloodstream when being needed by another? Terribly. Desperately. In a way no one else has ever thought to care for or foster? In a way that seems earth-shattering? For Hannibal, Will plans on being that person—that gentle someone.

Will cannot stop staring—at the rain-soft sheen gleaming across Hannibal’s belly. How a silent stream, translucent, tiny bursts of slick, smelling of salt and sweet-musk, continue sinking and puddling even further around every change of breath. Each inhalation coming shallower than the last, shrinking and thinning simply because Will is close. Their bare knees brush and Will’s fingertips spread out softly against Hannibal’s cheek, cradling warmth where it seeps into a callous-clustered palm. Lips parted and petal-soft as they graze Will’s wrist, Hannibal’s next exhale evolves into a mere tremble.

Heat blossoms as an earthy prickle in Will’s gut. He doesn’t know what to name the sensation: love, lust, and anything in between. For this boy, breathless and wanting right next to him, nuzzling deeper into his hand with the caution of a stray.

Hannibal’s body is still shaking—still full of too much untended need—still searching for a source of release through these small, abortive, upward arches. He’s so soft like this—in the face, where each brow furrows in discomfort, where each cheek bleeds itself of warmth and self-consciousness, where each chin-quiver makes a couple teeth clink together as if a word is about to emerge, unbound by a broken breath. Maybe a plea. Maybe Will’s name. Maybe something else.

He is too shy to say. Will knows, eyeing the contraction of Hannibal’s throat. His deafening swallow.

Again, for the second time, their bedroom is drenched in silence. An even more weighted, suffocating quiet Will dares not be the first to break.

“Are you certain?” Hannibal asks—a gut-wrenching whisper. “I—”

Hesitance doesn’t belong in Hannibal’s voice but it’s there right now, undeniable—and Will can’t stand the sound—the underlying reason.

Leaning in once again seems easier than breathing. His lips brush the center of Hannibal’s forehead, soft and lingering over the tense lines of worry. His thumb rises, tracing Hannibal’s cheekbone. “Never been more certain of anything in my life.”

In response, Hannibal’s breath stutters against Will’s forearm, warm and far too precious. His fingers clenching tighter. Head tipping closer as if wanting to nuzzle against Will’s collarbones—but refraining from doing so. Like he’s desperate to hide but cannot find a substantial place. Like he’s one breath away from breaking, voice catching wrong—too rough, too close to tearful.

“I am scared of disappointing you,” Hannibal whispers. “I am too much—like this—the way the thought of you makes me tremble but want so earnestly, more than I have ever wanted for anything. I have never been able to control the extent of my want, much less in extension of you.”

God—he sounds so small, boyish and terrified of being viewed as disgusting. Will doesn’t want to imagine him any younger—trying not to make such a mess only to end up failing—but Will ends up imagining for just a moment.

One moment too long—because the thought is damn near devastating—did he ever try in the months of their shared dinners, before imprisonment, when he believed they’d run away together? Maybe. A possibility Will cannot bear. Envisioning him any younger, particularly decades younger, feeling even more abnormal and isolated (this time for a bodily function—for aching freely—for sliding too easily between an adult’s fingers—leaking so much for the very first time only to be scolded in the same timeframe) ignites a surge of protectiveness in Will.

“There is nothing wrong with wanting—needing me the way you do.” Will’s timber is gentle yet firm. He kisses Hannibal’s jaw with a slow-suckling tenderness. “I don’t need you to be perfect.” Lips press against Hannibal’s skin, across every fine point of barely-there stubble, pausing near the reddening shell of an ear. Will’s fingers slide to the base of Hannibal’s skull. A gentle cradle of warmth. A protective measure before either of them even realizes. This feels right, being overbearing—controlling—even though it remains gentle enough Hannibal could pull away if the urge strikes. “I want you to feel like,” he says right against Hannibal’s ear, tone softening even more, “you can be my boy.”

A whimper trills from Hannibal’s lungs. His cock, soaked around the tip, twitches violently, spine arching off the bed by the barest inch, thrusting up against nothing. His lashes tremble as though afraid of inching open.

Will kisses Hannibal’s earlobe. “Is that what you want, sweet boy? To be my boy tonight?” His own ears ring with Hannibal’s tearful gasp—it curls out as something fragile and steeped in too much hope. “Let me make you feel good?”

Hannibal nods, a frantic motion making one cheek rasp against the scruff bordering Will’s chin. He wants this—to be only a boy in Will’s presence—they both know there’s no real need for Will to ask. His eyes are wrenching open, wet and wide and unblinking. His gaze remains glazed over even after a blink. Doesn’t even look fully there, but if Hannibal—as a coping mechanism—slips into a much younger mindset, Will doubts it could change anything.

He can be Will’s boy either way, depending upon circumstance.

Will’s untouched, aching boy, craving any sliver of affection.

Letting him become small in mind seems unsettling, because of what’s looming over the edge of nightfall, but also necessary. Letting him drift and find his way back to Will—to here, this safe space as something else—softer, no longer wound quite so tight, no longer on the verge of a barely veiled sob stretched far too thin inside a too tight chest.

He may end up regressing—might not—but whether or not such a situation unfolds, Hannibal undoubtedly still needs this: tenderness, someone else’s focus and guidance, an opportunity to learn it’s okay to want this much, even now.

Decades beyond boyhood.

Will knows taking things slow is key in preventing overwhelm. Even if Will feels desperate to see more of this version of Hannibal. Doe-eyed. Trembling. Leaking steadily between both thighs, cock stiff throughout the root.

Hannibal’s fingers flinch where they clutch fistfuls of bedding, but neither wrist rises nor even bends. He is staring, too—right at Will—the embodiment of a creature lost, mouth slack and useless, bottom lip begging for the tender brush of a thumb. Will’s elbow creaks as it moves, arm inching back, fingers finding their familiar place on Hannibal’s face and chin—to run a slightly roughened thumb pad over that pliant, slick stretch of pink—the soft wetness where life shudders forth. Gently, a tender sweep, never dipping inside. The motion spurs an airless sound from Hannibal’s lungs as if no one has ever considered offering such attention—rubbing right there where breath can only come faster—a shaking, thin-breathed panting. He trembles, overcome by a full-body shiver—still leaking—still seeking friction through barely-restrained rises, clumsy and lacking rhythm. All because of Will—because being tended to in such a manner creates overwhelm. For a boy. For a virgin unused to any semblance of affection. His gaze remains restless, flicking up Will’s chest—and then down, cautiously—toward Will’s cock, half-hard and resting against one thigh.

Looking—but not reacting in the same vein as Will. Like permission needs to be expressed aloud. Like being punished is a real possibility. Like Will could ever have the heart to stop him from reaching out with hands that tremble from uncertainty in where they should settle. Like this isn’t one of the most heart-wrenching sights Will has ever seen: him, wanting and aching but not confident enough to respond with any familiar sense of self. Like his mind has been wiped clean when it comes to touch. Like he has scarcely felt the warmth of someone generous and genuine.

For Will, the evidence of such a notion is a chest-clencher, splintering cruelly between the ribs.

Anger—or something close enough—flares behind Will’s sternum—because someone instilled such apprehension into Hannibal from a young age. Made him fearful to want outright. Made his desperation into disgust for himself—a source of shame.

Is the underlying reason his nape burns fierce against Will’s other palm the second it settles there.

Will, leaning forward, kisses the small slant of Hannibal’s mouth, moving slow enough to almost—almost—suckle there. His thumb remaining steady on Hannibal’s lower lip, sliding smoother across the flesh, dampening as saliva swells to the surface. His palm a gentle weight on a too warm neck—other thumb stroking through thinner strands near the base of Hannibal’s skull.

The noise Hannibal makes. The cautious stumble of Hannibal’s tongue flicking right over Will’s fingertip. The breathiness. The arousal beading as quiet as rain on wrinkling bedding, overflowing from underneath Hannibal’s foreskin. The culmination stirs instinct into Will.

Another kiss lands—this time on Hannibal’s cheek, where blush-red skin scorches Will’s lips. In a gentle meeting of skin against skin, Will’s forehead settles over Hannibal’s, nose brushing nose, their breaths mingling, thickening into a cloud of warmth.

“Do you like being my boy?” Even to himself, he sounds on the verge of breathlessness, voice rougher than it was minutes ago. Locking eyes with Hannibal, glassy-eyed and breathless, brings Will’s voice around two octaves lower. He doesn’t think before speaking, not after receiving a near frantic nod in response, Hannibal’s eager whine enough confirmation to ask what craves an answer. “Did you think about me in your cell, alone at night or in the morning, already hard, already leaking, wishing you could be my boy?” During a second clumsier nod, Hannibal’s bottom lip, so slick and so soft, slips away from Will’s thumb, but Will’s grasp steadies Hannibal’s chin, keeping this small point of their bodies together. Heat coils tight in Will’s groin. He swallows around a rising sense of dryness, voice stretching thin. Needing to know. “Did you ever touch yourself while you were in there, imagining being my boy?”

The thought makes Will’s cock stiffen, steady pulse after steady pulse. Thinking of him locked up and alone, wet and aching and rubbing himself raw, rutting into his own trembling fist, convincing himself the warm, relentless friction stemmed from Will.

Hannibal’s response comes slower than any previous answer. Head shaking—not frantic but timid. Eyelids flinching shut against a memory. “C-Couldn’t. My arms.”

Christ—Hannibal’s voice is frayed so thin. More childlike than it should be. Prompting Will to consider, really consider until everything clicks into place. His arms compressed until morning—as they were during face-to-face visitations.

Will, one stomach-dropping moment later, comes to the unsettling realization Hannibal’s mindset must’ve shifted within the briefest past second or so—because Hannibal’s next words enter the world as something more fragile than a cracking sheet of ice over a winter lake—on the verge of splitting apart and exposing what’s underneath—a voice far too small to belong to a man, waif in both words and lung capacity.

“Needed you, Tėtis.” Hannibal’s breath breaks, rough and uneven, entire body twitching—only once—a single tremor as though remembering. “So bad—needed you right there—but they wouldn’t let me reach myself.”

They. The orderlies. Alana.

Left momentarily speechless, Will eventually breathes out an endearment—it croaks out rough and unsteady. For a second time today.

Baby.

Because nothing else fits quite the same. Leaping easily from Will’s tongue.

This soft-throated creature right here has become Will’s baby and nothing less in under one minute, outright aching for him, bare cock soaked throughout the entire shaft, belly quivering as muscles sink and rise, navel shining underneath a thin sheen of pre-come.

How often, over these past three years, did Hannibal try to ignore the natural ache of longing?

How often did Hannibal end up slipping into a state of regression, burying whimpers into bedsheets, struggling to thrust up against any slim chance of stimulation but finding none—only a cruel wisp of chilled air?

How many pairs of underwear did Hannibal ruin by simply throbbing against the fabric?

How often did Hannibal feel like an unlovable boy again—making a mess—not receiving an ounce of relief or reassurance?

How many times did someone look through the security cameras and see Will’s boy—restless, restrained—on the verge of tears.

Once would be far too many. There certainly must’ve been more.

“Baby,” Will rasps again, soft and ruined, thumb rising off Hannibal’s lip—it lands under a red-rimmed lash line, sweeping away a warm cluster of tears. His lips find Hannibal’s nose. Pressing a kiss there. Lingering for a quiet moment. His beloved boy is so incredibly stiff, knees spread apart but bound by tension—fighting once again to creep closed as if afraid of being seen—but Will, ever so gently and through a single-minded motion, cups a palm over one of Hannibal’s knees before both can merge together. Unable to conceal what is there. His baby’s unignorable need.

“Tėtis,” Hannibal whispers. The foreign word shaking free. Thinning as it unwinds from a pair of lungs verging on collapse. His fingers and eyelashes flexing where they refuse to rise. His shining, tear-sprinkled cheeks flushing a fiercer shade of blood-boiling red. The combination of sight and sound are undoing Will entirely. Making every second of Hannibal’s rapid unraveling unbearable. There is (as more and more untranslatable words tremble out into the air between them) so much shame, so much unresolved fear of rejection, inside the unstable crest that’s overtaken Hannibal’s voice.

His boy seems so fragile, as though one wrong word spoken too soon may end in Hannibal crumbling. The word Tėtis is unfamiliar, but Will can thread enough moments together to make an assumption about what it could mean.

Will—as Hannibal’s protector. Maybe parental. Maybe not. As he comes to terms with that possibility, nothing akin to disgust swirls inside his stomach—because there was a point in Hannibal’s life where family once meant safety and being seen before ever reaching the point of shame and betrayal.

If Hannibal craves as similar a setting as one lived through in the past (even without fully knowing nor asking), Will could never say no. He wants, simply, to be Will’s boy. In every sense of meaning. In every glance. In every touch. In every possible way Will may allow and choose to indulge.

Like as of right this moment: experiencing being kissed, soft and lingering, on the nose again, experiencing a caress on the cheek by someone else’s warm thumb, experiencing being spoken to in a soft tone as means of reassurance (an offering of encouragement to reach out—that doing so is okay), experiencing gentle, unrushed, velvet-soft swirls of someone else’s fingers stroking over one kneecap, slowly traveling towards one trembling inner thigh, experiencing unconditional love as a boy.

Snowfall inspires endless tremors throughout a body, and Will has seen, around four years ago, his boy tremble within the cold while wrapped up in a coat when they were sharing glances around a crime scene—but his boy has never shaken as much as today. Laying right here beside Will, all bare-skin and a garden of trembling bones, hands creeping in closer and cautiously (so very cautiously) curling around Will’s tanned waistline (barely even squeezing but doing their best to take hold of someone else, even as apprehension blends through the bones of each finger), hips clearly craving a rise, thighs too shy to truly spread on their own, chest stuttering on its next inhale, nipples firming against the breath of the room, cock twitching—rose-red, peach-soft, blood-thrumming—against a slick-shining belly, amber eyes shadowed by lashes unwilling to offer the faintest flicker of movement, cheeks burning bright, mouth open around tiny, shuddering breaths.

Does not want to witness what could be—the reality of being wanted. Does not want to beg—but tries.

Desperately, Hannibal offers a tremble of breath. “W-Will.”

Clarity sinks through Will’s veins. Heart, too. Listening to every fragile bend encapsulating those syllables feels earth-shattering. This is Hannibal trying as both boy and man, attempting to resurface for Will. To break clean through what must be a brain-clouding experience, a sense of being smaller than ever but pushing himself to be older and put together, not afraid nor overwhelmed. To be stronger than his mere heart and mind can currently handle.

Their noses graze, a brush of cartilage and skin and warmth. Simply learning what it means to breathe together. Simply feeling, one forehead and nose against another.

Will reaches then as if this, reaching, simply reaching, becomes the easiest act of all in a single lifetime, the free fingers of his other hand falling gently to frame Hannibal’s side: cradling the curving bone of one hip, where warming skin leans into a landscape of further softening, the most precious belly belonging to the softest boy Will has ever known, so treasurable Will’s eyes cannot stray from where they currently rest: over that pale, sloping hill, over the rose-dusk strain of need angling directly above—the natural mourning of a body never given permission to weep in the safety of someone else—until today, bared across this shared bed.

Their bed. Will’s—and his boy’s.

“You don’t have to come up,” Will reassures, stroking warmth into soft as silk skin through the edge of one thumb. “I’d love nothing more than to have you like this.” His neck arches through a bend, lowering one meager inch, mouth pressing against one pebble-sized swell of shimmering, salt-laced warmth before another can slip further down Hannibal’s cheek. He catches the tear—tasting, devouring—and loves, simply loves. All of this. “Letting me take care of you. Letting me see you. All of you. My precious boy.” Trembling, Hannibal breathes out something soft and choked, a whimper catching between teeth, and shifts one centimeter closer. Lips certain in their descent, soft and welling with warmth, rise up to rest featherlight over Hannibal’s brow bone. “You can be smaller than you’ve ever allowed yourself to be, sweetheart, right here with me.”

You can be my boy.

You already are.

Hannibal’s fingernails dig deeper, frantic in their search for reassurance.

Will, already here—real enough to breathe sharply through the rising sting. In one hand, he cradles the restless center of a slow-thrusting hip bone. Doesn’t let go. Doesn’t impede his boy throughout the inevitable, a whine-inducing arch against room-temperature air. Doesn’t ever stop rubbing a thumb over the small curve of that restless hip connecting to a snow-white leg. He understands, feels the clamminess resulting from skin gliding against, over and over.

Because of two words.

My boy.

Will forces down a swallow. Throat drying up. The words come softly, building in strength and confidence. “My precious, beautiful boy.”

Hair-raising in volume, but oh so lovely to listen to—Hannibal, once again, whimpers, features contracting as if receiving a knife through the chest. His untouched, out of view cock—the scarcely stretched back foreskin, the unseen slit, the entire swollen length—flinches—brimming over, an urgent, translucent burst of slick sliding down Hannibal’s shaft and inner thigh. Leading right to Will, nailbed of an index finger drowning underneath that singular, sweltering droplet. His left inner thigh, sweaty and warm against Will’s palm, spasms just a fraction, nearly collapsing right then and there, fighting to close.

No longer suspending over a near free-fall into uncertainty, Hannibal begins slipping easily. His soul unraveling in the same manner a child seeks comfort from the nearest person within vicinity, clutching back with trembling fingers and sweaty palms.

In so many ways (all of which should be dizzying but are not)—being needed is a blessing, being clung to and clawed at by a set of shaking fingers, being sought out as a provider of comfort and understanding—and Will has never adored him more. The most heart-wrenching version of him—his boy, younger in mind, currently fighting not to curl into Will’s chest and press closer. There is nothing off-putting about being ached for by such a version, because he has (within the span of one afternoon) quickly become the center of Will’s focus once more. Nothing on earth has ever felt as natural as this: creating a space capable of handling his newfound softening, a neediness no one else has ever been lucky enough to see nor cherish.

“Can I see my pretty boy?” Will asks softly, breathlessness creeping in as swift as branch-break. His bracing palm the sole reason Hannibal’s thighs are not yet closed. “Right where he’s aching—where he needs me the most?”

Born from decades-long dormant shame, Hannibal’s left leg starts spreading with all the caution in the world, tedious centimeter by tedious centimeter.

The motion so shy-bodied Will cannot speak for a moment, fingers retaining a comforting weight along Hannibal’s side. Touching Hannibal—as a pink-cheeked, soft-bellied boy—is going to ruin Will. This he knows—himself, every molecule making up his entire being.

Can already sense a fracture forming inside a single rib bone, a restrained recklessness on the cusp of spilling out because his boy needs him in the same way a boy craves the guidance of someone older. More certain. More gentle. Deciding what should transpire next.

God.

Never before has Will ever seen Hannibal so unbelievably soft—melting in the face of praise and tender touch—on the verge of ruin: tear-clinging lashes twitching as if afraid to rise even after so long, cheeks and chest burning a fiercer red. He doesn’t even need to beg—but is: begging through soft, breathless, tearful whimpers devoid of speech, begging through seeking, small, uncontrollable, forward-aiming thrusts.

Asking for Will’s focus. Asking for Will to never stray. Asking—through sharp, restless stutters of the body—for friction. As nothing more than sheer boy. Leaking. Pulsing. Aching. To a devastating degree.

For one sole moment, Will’s mind spins. From indecision.

For a single second, he considers asking his boy what he wants—but ends up pressing small, imperfect kisses—tiny, consistent treasures of the mouth—along his boy’s jawline in measured movements. Letting his boy experience neck-kisses in the next moment, barely-there suckles. Letting his boy shudder out a gasp—rustling a few curls near one ear. Letting his boy bend closer, restless hips rutting against air and nothing more, shaking body so close but searching. Each southbound kiss retains a steady pattern. Even when his boy whimpers heart-wrenchingly soft against his cheek. There is no rush in loving his boy. Not tonight. Nor ever.

This version of Hannibal—barely breathing, chest stuttering through each resounding gasp—renders Will speechless. For one second only.

“You’re being such a brave boy,” Will murmurs against Hannibal’s collarbone, pressing a tender kiss there. Letting the warmth unfurl completely unrushed. Letting the praise seep into every pore—praise for this breathless, beautiful boy, this whimpering, writhing wreck.

A version belonging solely to Will. Entirely Will’s.

Momentarily, Will debates over simplicity. He could, as one might expect, curl warm fingers and a snug palm around Hannibal’s cock. Natural. Predictable. For simplicity’s sake, he could, but a stomach-twisting softness has begun beckoning him even more, and through each careful, thoughtful, intimate graze of limbs shifting, both of their kneecaps meet again, knocking gently into each other’s, as Will rearranges their bodies.

His thigh, warm and weighted, falling to rest over Hannibal’s.

Hannibal’s leg, bending at the knee, curving under Will’s.

Their groins—wreathed in curls and radiating endless warmth—so close.

His lips—in that short passage of time—never slow nor cease in where they land over the thrumming pulse point of Hannibal’s neck, a repeated bestowing of affection bound by promise-laced warmth, an unspoken mouth translating reassurance.

I won’t stray—not from us—not from this—never ever from my precious, beautiful boy.

“Tėtis.” Hannibal squirms, creeping one shy arm-length closer, breathless and unseeing.

In more ways than one, truthfully one of the softest, most trusting sights Will’s ever been blessed with the privilege of experiencing. In real time—on a bed made for the sole intention of being shared—of their bodies binding together. If not for the last time—but the very first occasion of its kind. Maybe their last chance for a long time—but not the singular time. No, Will plans on saving them both, keeping Hannibal safe from whatever awaits them later on in the evening. He dips down again, cherishing that pulse beating beneath, frantic and ceaseless as if it must’ve sprouted wings within seconds of receiving the first kiss, and is prepared to take flight, to land inside Will’s mouth and seek eternal shelter. His scruff rasping over Hannibal’s skin each time.

“Does my boy like being kissed right here?” Will’s lips curl into a smile, faint and private, against Hannibal’s pulse point. He nips there, teeth easing down as a light scrape—sharp enough to tease but not break skin.

Hannibal’s resounding whine fills the room. His full-body tremor forcing the mattress to respond in kind, even if fainter in volume. He nods, frantic and frail-breathed underneath Will. His cock keeps pulsing in visible, uncontrollable flinches. Hips rising in their restlessness, too—rolling forward in search of friction, across fresh damp seeping into their duvet. His own spreading mess of sweat and pre-come, darkening the fabric below into a rich shade of indigo.

Will’s head rises high enough to reach the tremble overtaking Hannibal’s jaw. He kisses there along the teeth-rattling bone—gentler, longer—tasting another tear of overwhelm, recognizing when enough indeed becomes enough—even more than.

Hands cradle the softness bordering Hannibal’s belly. His fingers firm and sure, Will draws Hannibal closer. Heart rate skipping in anticipation, because they’re close enough now Hannibal’s river-rising slick runs over Will’s inner thigh as a molten, pitiful eruption of need. Will’s breath catches, eyes flicking between his boy’s shining, neglected cock and his boy’s creasing forehead.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Will encourages, chest clenching around a lung-tightening moan—because oh, Jesus—Hannibal is dripping, rain-like against Will’s cock when their groins finally meet, slotting snug and warm against one another.

A curse croaks from Will, fraying into the small space between them. His throat far too dry to say anything more. Hannibal, in comparison, cannot seem to quiet down, squirming in shock.

First, a thrust—sharp, imprecise—right into the generous cradle of Will’s crotch. Hannibal’s chest stutters, chin falling slack around a frail-breathed moan, steadily cresting into a sob of both relief and overwhelm, two hitches of air mirroring one another because for so long, being able to grind against a firm, real pressure was never a privilege within the last three years.

God, Will cannot resist kissing the line of tension returning to Hannibal’s left brow bone. His boy is rapidly freezing up, retaining so much tension everywhere as if fearing punishment—for seeking out friction, craving a closeness so utterly foreign. “You can keep moving, baby.” He guides Hannibal closer after one moment of minimal retreating, angling their cocks against one another again.

Hannibal’s breath shudders right against Will’s mouth, rising up as a lung-straining tremor too tearful to stifle. Then, a second, squelching thrust. He is trembling even more, smearing overflowing need into Will’s skin, pubic hair, and thighs. His fingernails sink into Will’s ribcage, clinging on far too tight, but the skin-stinging aftershocks are entirely worth seeing Hannibal in such a state. Blushing. Whining. Panting out short-lived, rasping moans. Voice catching every other second. The sounds of a boy experiencing a pleasure so brand new breathing becomes impossible. His shaking body, ceaseless in every instinctual bend, bows closer and closer after each destabilizing arch, moving with the frantic, unrefined pace of a boy. He is—in Will’s reeling mind—so incredibly precious right at this moment (of fire-building friction rising between them), sobbing out an ear-splintering wail resembling Tėtis. His restless, over-responsive body sliding, messy and imperfect, against Will. His slick-warm belly rubbing over Will’s each time their bodies meet as one. Never fully parting.

He must already be so close, closer than a man should be, but expectant of a boy.

Will knows—knew the instant their cocks came to rest so perfectly against one another—but Will doesn’t mind. His lips land on Hannibal’s trembling ones, muffling another whimper spurring from Hannibal’s lungs. The kiss remains soft and gentle, non-overwhelming because Will’s boy, already nearing the edge, needs a source of stability. His fingers, as their kiss continues as a chaste brushing of lips over lips, stroke along Hannibal’s sides—making sure to keep in mind Hannibal's wound. His forehead falls to rest against Hannibal’s—their noses bumping, their breathless panting warming each other’s faces, their lashes fluttering.

Hannibal’s—they are soon wrenching closed against a never-ending swell of tears.

Will’s—they fight to remain open, intent on seeing Hannibal. His breathless, beautiful boy writhing in earnest for the first time. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he breathes, his own hips surging forward, sharp enough in their circling to wrench forth a fresh whine from Hannibal’s petal-soft, kiss-flushed lips. “Does this feel good—being messy?”

Nodding, Hannibal clutches even tighter, fingers clasping around Will. Holding on for dear life. Leaking even faster, cock pulsing incessantly against Will, over and over. He soon grows even more restless, slick shaft squelching in tiny, sharpening circulations against Will, increasing in speed, faltering in rhythm. He is unbelievably close—Will knows—when a chest-lurching sob breaks loose—when Hannibal’s lips can no longer close in enough time to bite back another sound.

Deafening against Will’s ears.

No—skin-crawling, fear wrapping around each vocal cord, strangling them one by one. “Tėtis, I—” Hannibal rasps, nails clawing deeper into Will’s skin. His frantic movements are steadily mounting into ceaseless, sporadic tremors. His entire frame shaking—fiercer, faster—sets Will on edge. Head shaking, Hannibal chokes on a sudden, gut-wrenching sob. “I c-can’t, Tėtis. No bad. No bad.”

Broken English.

But clear enough Will’s stomach sinks, nearly revolting against itself.

I can’t come, or else something bad may happen.

And Will? Fills in so many blanks.

The hand of an aunt. The examination chair. The doctor. The small, blue pill made for men—never for boys.

Unfortunately, the human brain fills in blanks people do not seek answers to—and this, Will isn’t at all ready for.

Thinking of him in a straight jacket, strapped to an examination chair, shaking body struggling against so much pent up desperation. Thinking of him sobbing for relief. Thinking of him gasping out a strangled cry when his tender foreskin caught on a button. Thinking of his natural reaction: knees attempting their best to bend, body curling closer in its search for friction. Thinking of his short-lived, hip-creaking, upward grind. Thinking of him being scolded by rough hands and a stern voice—having his knees yanked back down—having his neglected cock struck by a wooden paddle (one sharp, slit-splintering smack).

Will keeps both hands on his shaking boy’s hips, fingers curling firm but gentle, rubbing mindless circles over sweat-slick skin. Their movements slow in pace and pressure—because Hannibal as a scared boy is one of Will’s most unimaginable considerations—but this unanticipated reality is rapidly unfolding.

Hannibal—desperate but absolutely terrified of reaching climax in front of someone.

Will, verging on losing composure, blinks past the stinging onslaught of fresh tears as their foreheads remain at rest against one another, close and warm and safe.

Will’s voice comes out as nothing more than grit: rougher but just as gentle as before, lips settling a kiss across his precious boy’s red nose—the closest component to soothing Will can think of. “No—not bad, baby—not bad at all.” His rasping whisper settles in the quiet. His nose nuzzles against Hannibal’s. “Good. The best boy I know and adore—and you can want more, sweetheart. Is that what my beautiful boy wants—but he’s feeling afraid?”

Hannibal’s voice cracks on a tearful whimper, cock offering a responsive pulse so close Will can feel the accompanying emergence of pre-come. His inner thigh effortlessly absorbs the searing moisture, and soon Hannibal nods, so shy and stunted the answer barely brings about any movement—but Will understands.

“No bad? Promise?” Hannibal mumbles, tongue stumbling through English. His tone resembling such a childlike quality Will forgets to breathe for a moment.

Will’s throat clicks. “No bad, sweetheart.” His thumb wipes through a cluster of tears weighing down Hannibal’s lashes. “Only good. Only us—and no one else.” His knuckles stroke along Hannibal’s damp cheek—the movement tender, unhurried. Leaning in close, Will captures Hannibal’s rose-sweet lips in a slow-stoking kiss. Tasting salt and breath, and sweetest of all, simply boy. He brings their bodies closer once more until their groins are inches apart. “You can finish, baby. Like a good, deserving boy.”

There is a sudden breathlessness building up inside Hannibal. Will can see. The sharp gasp. The lower lip being bitten by a set of endearing, crooked canines. The reddening cheeks. The eyelids squeezing against silent overwhelm. The small-bodied movement of a nervous, seeking boy. The fingers clinging on tighter. The shy forward roll of both hips—shaking as each one lines up against Will’s. The weak-chested cry cresting from his lungs. The never-ending, searing warmth of him, cock squelching as he begins melting into Will.

Four breath-stealing thrusts later, Will knows neither of them are going to last long at all—but that is more than okay. All they need. All his precious, panting, leaking boy needs. Grinding into Will like a too-young creature in its very first rut. Humping, frantic and limb-locking. Desire coiling tighter inside both their navels. Because Hannibal, sobbing into the seam of Will’s mouth—not returning their kiss, only struggling for air—clinging onto Will, leaking so much slick their cocks are entrapped in a web of humid heat and dizzying friction—is all Will needs.

Fuck, Will loves him so much. “That’s my good boy—so good, sweetheart.” He cups Hannibal’s ass between broad palms and calloused fingers, coaxing their cocks even closer. Thrusting forward with just as much urgency.

“Tėtis,” Hannibal gasps through a sob, shaking and sliding so much Will can, even through fierce clutching, barely keep their bodies in alignment—but Hannibal continues pressing closer, more insistent, even though the sweat-sprinkled ringlets of both their cocks are already matting and tangling around one another. Heels slipping down the bed each time they nearly part—but Hannibal returns just as fast. Hips slamming into Will’s again and again, circling in restless, unrefined swivels. Only seeking closeness and Tėtis—not perfection. He is pulsing, frantic and swollen against Will, smearing endless slick in between them by sheer accident, a boy unaccustomed to feeling so much from someone else.

Will hears that familiar tremor overtaking Hannibal’s tone again. Hates what it means—where it stems from. He doesn’t slow down when matching Hannibal thrust for thrust, smearing through their man-made mess of want. He doesn’t stop kissing the regal, tear-damp crest of Hannibal’s cheekbone. “I know you’re close. Let yourself come, baby, you don’t need to stop.” Another kiss. His lips land against Hannibal’s cheek again, off center but sweet. “You don’t need to be anything other than my boy right now. My beautiful, precious boy who I am so proud of and have missed so very much.”

The build up toward Hannibal’s climax occurs in a matter of seconds. The moment blending in with a kiss upon Hannibal’s temple. His brows crease. His lips strain around a weak, wailing sob for Tėtis, as if coming in someone else’s presence could be world-ending. He never stops shaking nor releasing some of the most devastating whimpers (steadily scaling up in volume), frame curling against Will as the peak crests, release splashing across both their bellies.

Normally, around this point in time whenever he and Molly were intimate, Will could come soon after. Or he would have already been in the midst of losing himself.

Today? No chance.

Not for lack of movement.

He feels an entirely foreign desperation but not one of needing relief. He is—even now—needed. Holding Hannibal through each uprooting tremor becomes priority. His boy, breathless and trembling and panting, curls as close as can be, cock rubbing in sporadic motions against Will’s own, as if stopping seems impossible, crying out against Will’s neck.

For Tėtis—because his panicking boy can no longer breathe, clinging on as if afraid someone else (rougher, meaner, sterner) may enter the room. Leading Will into thinking more of those uncomfortable possibilities.

Hannibal, coming after receiving the scolding—stimulation—one skin-splitting second of friction. How that would leave a boy careening over the edge faster than thought—and exactly what—dreads Will, to consider furthermore—became of such an aftermath?

He does not spare a second more. He cannot.

“Hannibal,” Will breathes, voice rough and strained. His cock keeps twitching, restless against Hannibal’s softening shaft. He is so close, unable to tamp down a combination of a curse and a thrust. He tries to fight the inevitable, cradling Hannibal’s sweat-damp nape—but comes undone in under a minute, muffling a groan against Hannibal’s scalp. He eases through the tear-inducing overwhelm, arm sliding around Hannibal’s lower back.

Hannibal. His precious, unmoored boy releasing soft-throated sobs, smearing the spreading mess between them, knees flexing as if aching to rise closer but cannot, fingers curling further into Will’s shoulder blades.

“No bad, sweetheart. Never bad,” Will says, soft and shaking against Hannibal’s ear, rubbing a palm up Hannibal’s curving spine. Hand moving in soothing, careful circles until, eventually, coming across an uneven area—raised skin, scarred and unexpectedly rough in contrast to the smoothness of everywhere else.

Hannibal flinches and burrows closer as if seeking shelter underneath Will’s skin. He lets out another wail, weak and raw, against Will’s neck.

So Will’s palm raises—rushing to settle along Hannibal’s scalp. He begins running gentle fingers through soft silver and sleek grey, strands twining easily. Is lost on what brought this on, but does not dare allow a scant amount of distance form between them—not between him and his boy.

“Take a breath, cher.”

Hannibal, shaking as fierce before, sucks in a strangled gasp. His throat so dry the sound rings out as a resounding rasp. Hips beginning to slow—but still circling. He shudders—body spurring into overwhelm, whining through another full-body tremor, and soon, Will starts to understand.

The urgency. The desire of releasing every last drop—of seeking friction even when oversensitivity has already begun setting in.

Oh, Will feels his heart crack in half—a clean split. “Did you think someone would come in and wrap something around you?” He asks, throat clamping up.

A hiccup. A silent nod—so shy Will might just cry.

“Squeezed me so tight, Tėtis.”

Inside the examination chair?

Inside the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane?

Will dreads either scenario: a cock ring forced around Hannibal’s shaft. But in regards to the examination chair? Hannibal, as a boy, starting to come untouched only to be forced into aching again?

Will swallows against a sloshing stream of bile, fingers retaining their soothing pace, languid and thorough, as they roam over Hannibal’s scalp. “I wouldn’t let that happen here—not to my boy. I’ll always protect you, even now when you feel nervous or scared because of certain memories.”

Through one cautious shift of muscle—right under Will’s chin—Hannibal peers up, soft-eyed.

Will moves slow enough—his elbow creaking, his hand dipping—before his palm settles, edge of one thumb tracing over Hannibal’s cheek. A smile—before he can even blink—spreads across his face—full of relief. “How’s my boy?”

Rubbing his cheek against Will’s palm, Hannibal releases a quiet, tension-filled breath. “Don’t,” he begins, shaking his head in confusion. “Don’t know.” The mess between their bodies is in the first stages of drying, forming flakes along every bare inch of skin, every intimate crevice. Thighs. Belly. Groin. Bless him, Hannibal shifts against Will, a sharp whine trilling out when a come-encrusted ringlet snags where the tendril has coiled into Will’s. He flinches, features twisting up.

Will kisses Hannibal’s forehead, soft and soothing. “Bath?”

Later on, depending upon when Hannibal surfaces, he’ll ask about Hannibal’s back and more, but for the time being, having his boy, the keeper of his beating heart, this close is enough.

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