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“For we are simple, you and I,
We do what others do,
Linger and toil and laugh and die,
And love the whole night through.”
- James Elroy Flecker
---
Will Graham has never been the type to say the words, ‘I love you’.
Yet, he loves as a wildfire loves the woods. Quiet, yet present. An all-encompassing blaze of feeling. There isn’t a day that goes by where Hannibal won’t find himself grateful to be at the receiving end of that love. It wasn’t always the case for them. Time has been gracious in her healing. Previous pains aside, Hannibal remembers the year he and Will spent recovering from the near-fatal injuries they both sustained from the cliff fall. The two of them never spoke let alone touched each other. They were no more, no less than a pair of wedded ghosts. Inhabiting a space rather than living in it.
Hannibal knows he could’ve let himself resent Will for pulling him close to his heart just to push him away again afterwards. However, resentment is the last thing that Hannibal’s mind supplies at every honeyed thought of his beloved. Will had spent that year agonising over whether he should hold onto the husk of his long-dead moral compass or burn it. One day, he’d claimed victory—Will had kissed Hannibal for the first time after coming home from a long day at the docks and Hannibal, just like that, was swept away in the raging flames of reciprocated adoration. Their bond, a young phoenix. Born from the ashes of his and Will’s dead forest of a life.
And here, together, they remain.
Hannibal is sitting outside at the beach when Will approaches him from behind, soft footsteps muffled by the sand. He feels the weight of a blanket being placed upon his shoulders and smiles to himself. Sweet boy.
“How’s the sketch coming along?” Will crouches beside Hannibal, watching the waves dance across the stage of the shore. The moon hangs above the sea like a spotlight.
“Swimmingly,” Hannibal answers, throwing a fond glance in Will’s direction. He smells like peppermint tea. The particular kind that Will makes in the late evenings. A stray eyelash rests upon Will’s cheek, and Hannibal sweeps it away before he’s even realised that drawing the view in front of their beach house is no longer his priority. “You know, you are quite the good luck charm, dear Will. The moment you appear, all is well within the world. Or within my world, perhaps. The difference between the two is minute.” He doesn’t have to see it happen to know Will’s rolling his eyes. Joy bubbles in Hannibal’s ribs.
“Shut up.” Will huffs, an airy warmth radiating from the chuckle that follows. The nighttime chill is no match for that jovial tone. “You’ve been sitting out here for hours, that’s all. Wanted to make sure that the high tide didn’t up and take you away from me.”
“You speak as though the arms of the ocean hold any comparison to yours.” says Hannibal as if it’s obvious. It is.
“Hannibal.”
“That is my name, I believe.”
“What will I do with you?” Will reaches over and fixes the blanket upon Hannibal’s shoulders before he can make any further remarks. “Come to bed soon, you romantic bastard. Regardless of what you say, true love won’t keep you from freezing to death out here.”
“Oh, but I’d beg to—” There’s a plush pair of lips set upon his for what feels like an eternity but only lasts a few seconds. The pencil perched in Hannibal’s hand slips in his distracted grasp. “—differ. I won’t be long.”
“Right. Whatever you say, Doctor.” Will’s beaming. Utterly pleased with himself. Hannibal can’t find any reason to complain. He simply repeats the phrase and laces it with all the fondness his bleeding heart can muster.
“Whatever you say, my darling.”
—
By the time Will shuffles out of their bedroom the next morning, Hannibal’s already set out their breakfast on the dining table. Will looks divine in his rumpled t-shirt and boxers, lithe body backlit by the tangerine sun. His hands are already wrapped around a coffee cup before Hannibal can say so much as hello.
“Good morning, Will. I trust you slept well?”
“Wish I were still sleeping,” Will mumbles between sips of black coffee. They migrate to the table in tandem, Hannibal filling his plate and looking over at Will in silent expectation. His beloved blinks a few times before continuing, eyebrows raised. “Can’t without you, though.” Placing down his fork, Hannibal all but purrs in answer. Fondness buzzes beneath his ribs and Will’s left staring at his omelette, fingers drumming against the wood of the tabletop.
“Have you heard of Parnassianism, Will?” The man in question lifts his gaze, head turning to face Hannibal. Wide eyes, blue like the waves. The fading scar upon his forehead, the line of the horizon. “After the Romantic era, Parnassianism was rooted in the notion of ‘art for art’s sake’. A call to abandon the excessive sentimentality of the former in favour of precise workmanship and objectivity.”
“Ah, I see. What is art but an expression of the inner self? The result of one’s—” Will pauses to think, taking another sip of coffee. Hannibal leans back, observing the gears click within Will’s well-oiled machine of a brain. “—innate desire to communicate, to connect with someone else?”
“That is a sentiment I find myself resonating with,” Hannibal nods, happy to hear Will offer his thoughts so readily compared to before. Their mornings together almost always happen this way—the two of them talking over the breakfast table before Will leaves for the docks and Hannibal to his study. He wouldn’t miss it for the world. “However, I mentioned Parnassianism because of a particular poet whose works I enjoy. James Elroy Flecker. He was most inspired by their style.”
“He sure sounds familiar,” Will nods, speaking in between bites of omelette. The shape of his collarbones partially hidden beneath the thin fabric of his shirt and the slide of his swallowing throat make it difficult to look elsewhere. Wringing his hands, Hannibal eats his breakfast, relishing in the smooth grit of Will’s voice. “His works were quoted in some Agatha Christie novels, I think. Read a few of those in college.” A young, softer-faced Will Graham visits Hannibal’s mind, curled up in his dorm with a novel in hand. To this day, Will still holds a preference for murder mystery novels. In fact, if he were to glance over at their shared bookshelf, Hannibal would find several of Christie’s works in seconds. It’s intriguing how the old life haunts the new.
“Waking up this morning, a poem of his came to mind when I saw you asleep beside me.” Rising from his seat, Will takes both Hannibal’s plate and his own over to the sink, a hand skimming against Hannibal’s shoulder on the way past. Hannibal follows suit, clearing away the leftovers into the fridge. “The dawn has always been kind to you, Will. Her rays kissed your face as a wash of paint covers a canvas. Hence the Parnassians came to mind. You, my heart. Art for the sake of art.” Laughter, gentle with quiet shock, shakes from Will’s mouth, head buried in his hands.
“How does this come so easy to you? I...I don’t get it, Hannibal.” Moving to stand in front of him, Hannibal takes both of Will’s hands in his. Waits for Will to come around. His shoulders sag, eyebrows knitting together.
“What’s wrong? Is it too much?” Hannibal asks, knuckles sweeping over Will’s palms. Shaking his head in answer, Will exhales. A long and slow breath, weighed down by a foreign heaviness. Insecurity’s ashes, it would seem.
“I can’t...I hate that I struggle so much to say those things back to you.” His deep frown pulls at Hannibal’s conscience, wishing to remove the sadness from him.
“Oh, Will.” Hannibal places a kiss upon both of Will’s palms, just to find himself lodged in a sudden embrace. He rests his temple on top of Will’s head, arms wrapping around his neck as tightly as Will’s are around Hannibal’s waist. “I speak to you like this because I want you to hear just how my devotion for you knows no bounds. Darling, be yourself. You don’t have to say anything in the manner I do for me to know that my love is reciprocated. Every action of yours reassures me of that fact.” All he gets in response is a quiet ‘okay’. It’s almost time for Will to leave for work and he must realise this because Will extracts himself from Hannibal’s arms in a rush, cursing under his breath. Minutes later, Will emerges from the hallway fully dressed, smelling of fresh aftershave and mint toothpaste.
“Alright,” says Will, leaning over to press a kiss to Hannibal’s cheek. The spring in his step has returned, “Christ, I have to go. Thanks for breakfast. Don’t deserve you. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“That you will. Whatever you say, my darling.” Hannibal passes Will his lunch from the fridge, which earns him another grateful kiss. By the time Will steps through the front door, Hannibal stokes the glowing coals of Will’s affection in his chest with the shy words of his beloved.
“Whatever you say, angel.”
—
That night, Hannibal brings in a pot of peppermint tea and two cups on a tray while Will sits on their bed, poring through Hannibal’s sketchbook. Outside their window, the ocean roars her greeting. The ambience is cosy, Hannibal decides, the waves offset by the palm trees whistling in the breeze. It’s easy, existing alongside Will. Too easy, one could say. He’s never felt this at peace any time before he and Will met. Will’s tired grin in response to Hannibal passing him a cup of tea is enough to set sparks alight in Hannibal’s gut.
“For we are simple, you and I. We do what others do,” He mutters, reminded of that particular verse in Elroy Flecker’s poem. Perhaps, he should cite it to Will one night and see if he’ll remember their earlier conversation regarding Parnassianism. ‘You, my heart. Art for the sake of art.’
“Linger and toil. And laugh and die,” Will hasn’t even lifted his eyes from his cup. Hannibal freezes, “And love the whole night through.”