i look at you with tender feeling

by cervviidae

Summary:

They’re so young like this. Not in age, but in experience. Untouched. Unpracticed. And together. That’s what matters. Will doesn’t feel ashamed of the mess or the trembling or the way he keeps losing control. Because Hannibal’s just as lost. Just as hungry. Just as new.

- or -

Will and Hannibal are both virgins. <3

Notes:

virgin hannigram won the most votes on twitter so here they are <3 i honestly love this series so much, they’re so cute and silly and yearning it makes me crazy!! i hope you guys like this one—i made it extra sugary sweet just for you 🍓

Bring an overnight bag, if you want.

 

Will stands by the counter like he’s been nailed there, phone still in his hand, screen gone dark but warm from the touch. He hasn’t hit send yet. His thumb just sits there on the edge of it, not moving, like the decision hasn’t fully worked its way through his body yet. His pulse beats steady through his palm, loud and dry.

 

The dogs are shifting around his ankles, restless in that subtle, knowing way they get when something changes in the air. One of them huffs out a long, almost human sigh, the kind that sinks down deep into the floorboards. Will glances down. They’ve been fed, loved, sheltered. Still, they carry something lean in their bodies. Survival, maybe. Same as him.

 

He watches the way one of them noses at his foot, gentle. Then lays down and curls her spine against the cabinet like she’s pressing up against him without touching. They always do that. They’re the only living things that’ve seen him raw. Really raw. Not just tired or quiet, but broken. Sick with memory. Bad dreams. Rage. They’ve watched him throw up from adrenaline, scratch until he bleeds, cry for no good reason. And they never leave. Never judge. Just lean into him, patient and warm and wild.

 

They’re the only living things he’s ever let all the way in.

 

Which makes this harder.

 

He’s just letting it happen. Choosing to. Opening up his little fortress of silence and dogs and half-buried compulsions. Leaving the safety of being alone in his own bed, a mattress that dips to his shape, and turning into someone else’s space. For a night. Someone else’s quiet. Someone else’s rhythm.

 

And not just anyone’s. Hannibal’s.

 

He doesn’t know what made him write it like that—just, if you want. Like Hannibal would ever do something he didn’t want to do. Like Hannibal would need to be convinced. Like this was a normal thing to say, a casual thing. Just a bag, just a night, just one more inch closer to something.

 

He wanted this. He still does.

 

He wants Hannibal to come here. To sleep here. That’s all he asked. He didn’t say anything more than that. He didn’t promise anything, didn’t imply anything either, at least not out loud. But now that it’s said, now that it’s done, it feels bold. Presumptuous, even. Like he leapt over something delicate and might’ve scared the thing off.

 

He don’t know what Hannibal expects. But he knows what he hopes.

 

He hopes he didn’t ruin it by asking.

 

He wants to see what Hannibal’s like in his world. What he looks like on the porch steps at night. What he sounds like brushing his teeth in Will’s too-small bathroom. What it’s like to see him in flannel sleep pants or, hell, nothing at all. Not even to do anything. Just to be here. To exist next to Will in the space he’s built for himself. To see if he fits.

 

Will’s already been fitting himself into Hannibal’s world for a while now. He’s sat beside him at the opera, at the theater, at dinner tables. But now he wants Hannibal here. In Wolf Trap. Where the heat rattles the walls and the floorboards creak like they’re trying to tell you something. Where everything is too much and not enough all at once. Will wants to see if Hannibal can live inside that.

 

He’s asking for closeness. Real closeness. He wants Hannibal to stay, not just to seduce him, not to consume him, not to conquer him, but to be with him. In it. Whatever it is becoming. And maybe that’s more intimate than anything else.

 

He thinks about what it means to ask someone to sleep beside you. To really sleep beside you. The kind of sleep where you snore or talk or thrash, the kind where you wake up sweaty or cold or full of dreams. The kind where you might not wake up gentle. Will’s never trusted someone enough for that.

 

Until now.

 

He trusts Hannibal. With a lot. Maybe with too much. But it’s not blind trust. It’s careful. Earned. Slow. And whatever Hannibal brings in that bag—whatever expectation, whatever hope—Will knows he can say no. Or yes. Or not yet. Or please. 

 

It doesn’t have to be anything more than sleep. It can be quiet. It can be gentle. Normal people do this all the time. Stay over. Sleep together. Let themselves be seen in the weak hours of the night, mouth slack, body twisted in the sheets, nightmares dragging through the ribs like a current. He’s never done it. Not once.

 

Not because he thought someone might hurt him. It’s not that simple.

 

He’s afraid they’ll see something they weren’t meant to. That unconscious part of himself that slips loose when he sleeps. The soft panic. The noise. The sweat. The muttering. The half-choked groans that come up from some pocket of his memory he hasn’t dared to open. Things that feel too private even for him. And Hannibal, he’s the last person Will wants to see him like that. But also the only one he wants to see.

 

If you want. 

 

Will’s heard a thousand invitations in his life, most of them layered with duty or pity or polite obligation. But this one, this one was real. He knows the difference. 

 

He knows what it means to be offered a place.

 

To stay. Not visit. Stay.

 

Will turns the dogs out for one last run before dusk. The wind moves slow across the yard, hot and heavy like breath left hanging on the back of his neck. The sun’s going down behind the trees, bleeding gold through the leaves like something’s been wounded in the sky. He watches the dogs weave through it, brown shapes against a brighter world, tails cutting through the tall grass, and he tries to think about anything else, but his mind keeps circling back.

 

He’s going to sleep next to someone tonight.

 

Might.

 

Probably.

 

He can’t pin the thought down. It shifts every time he tries to look at it straight. Won’t sit still. 

It’s what might come up when he’s unconscious. What rises when he’s not holding it down. What his face might do. What his mouth might say without his permission. He doesn’t scream, not often, but sometimes a noise works its way out, a choked sound, a sob so quiet it sounds like something dying. 

 

He thinks about how that’ll look.

 

And then he thinks, too, about how gentle Hannibal can be. That surprises him. How often that word shows up in his thoughts when he thinks about Hannibal Lecter. Gentle. And sweet.

 

Sweet. That’s the one Will keeps for himself.

 

Not charming. Obvious. Elegant, eccentric, European, all those easy labels people throw around like it means anything. The suits, the wine, the way he talks. Sure, they see that. But they don’t see what Will sees. What Will knows now.

 

Hannibal’s sweet.

 

That’s the word.

 

Will’s not used to that kind of attention. Not from anyone. Not that steady. It isn’t loud or possessive. It’s quiet, constant, warm. And it gets to him—God, it gets to him. Not because he doesn’t like it, but because he does. Because it’s sweet. Because it’s so sweet it makes his teeth ache.

 

And there’s that strange, boyish thought again, he might sleep beside him tonight. Maybe they’ll stay up too late and the conversation will slip into something looser, something easy and warm and sleepy. And maybe nothing will happen.

 

Maybe he’ll have a nightmare.

 

Maybe Hannibal will see it. 

 

One of the dogs barks, chasing a squirrel up a tree, and Will shakes his head like it’ll clear the thoughts. He drags his hand down his face. The porch rail’s warm under his palm, the wood worn smooth from years of this. This exact thing. Thinking too hard about something that hasn’t happened yet. Running every angle before stepping forward.

 

But this isn’t a crime scene.

 

It’s just a night.

 

Just Hannibal.

 

They’re strange together. But it works. Like two bones that broke in the same place and healed crooked together. Will’s always known he’s odd. Hannibal’s strange too. Not the same kind of strange. Not backwoods, sweat-damp strange. Not mud-on-his-boots strange. Not sweat-stuck-to-the-back-of-his-neck strange. Hannibal’s clean-edged, velvet-gloved strange. He doesn’t hide it, though. He lets it shine. Turns it into something beautiful.

 

And Will wants to learn how to do that. Wants to learn how to be his full self without apology. 

 

Wants to see how far he can go with the lights still on.

 

Hannibal’s probably had lovers. Of course he has. People like him always have. People who move like he does and look the way he does and speak softly enough to draw people in like moths to a porchlight. Will doesn’t like thinking about it too long, but it’s true. And maybe it should make him feel insecure. Maybe it does a little. But it doesn’t change anything.

 

Because Hannibal wants him.

 

Wants Will.

 

Not some refined version. Not some polished-up version who went to college parties and came out knowing how to flirt and carry himself like he belongs in a room full of people. No, he wants him. The man who hates parties. Who gets tongue-tied and sweaty when people look too long. Who’d rather sleep in a fishing cabin with five dogs than spend a night in a clean hotel. That’s who Hannibal’s been feeding and writing to and asking on dates. That’s who he’s invited to the opera. That’s who he’s opening his world up for.

 

And Will’s never been in a relationship before. Never been with someone. Not really. Never had sex. That part still feels big and quiet inside his chest, like a room he doesn’t know how to enter yet. But it’s not shame. It’s not that.

 

It’s just, he hasn’t found someone he trusted enough. Not until now. And maybe Hannibal doesn’t know. Maybe he thinks Will’s had a string of past lovers he never mentions. Maybe he assumes Will’s been living quietly but not alone. And Will doesn’t plan to say it, not tonight. It’s not a confession. It’s just a truth. And it doesn’t make him less.

 

He’s not naive. He’s not scared. Not anymore.

 

He wants this. He wants Hannibal. Wants to be near him in a way that isn’t just letters and dinners and hovering at the edges of rooms. He wants to see what Hannibal’s like in his bed. What his voice sounds like when it’s tired. What his skin feels like after the lights go out. What his body does when he’s not performing.

 

Maybe it’s stupid, but he’s decided not to ruin it. That’s his plan. He’s not gonna ruin it. He knows himself well enough to know how easy that’d be. How easy it’d be to say too much or not enough. To start picking apart every moment, looking for signs it’s all falling apart. He’s done that before. Self-sabotage.

 

But this time he won’t do it. He’s gonna hold on. He’s gonna keep showing up, gonna keep talking, gonna keep letting Hannibal see him even when it’s hard. Even when it makes his skin itch. Even when he wants to run.

 

Because this is his only shot.

 

This is the only time something like this has ever happened to him—this feeling, this attention, this strange and quiet rhythm they’ve fallen into. He’s not gonna let it go. Even if it means swallowing his pride.

 

He wants him. Wants Hannibal. That’s it. That’s the whole story.

 

And God, he wants him bad. Not just in the way people mean when they say they want someone. It’s not just body stuff. Not just skin and heat and breath. It’s more than that. He wants Hannibal in his world. Wants to wake up and make coffee while he’s still asleep, see what books he’s left out, watch him feed the dogs table scraps with that precise little smile. He wants to take Hannibal fishing. He really does. 

 

Will sits on the edge of his bed for a long time, his thumbs curled against each other, nervous energy crawling under his skin like ants in the summer dust. 

 

He’s never had sex. And now here he is. Thirty-something, bruised around the edges from everything life’s thrown at him, sitting with this quiet knowledge that if something happened tonight—if Hannibal touched him, wanted him, kissed him like he meant to do more—Will wouldn’t stop him.. He’s ready. He thinks he is.

 

Will’s done pretending he doesn’t feel that. Hannibal’s watched him in ways no one else ever has. Watched the mess of him, the fractured mind, the fear, the anger, the sharp edges and soft parts he barely knows how to hold himself. And still, somehow, he wants him. And Will wants to let himself be wanted.

 

Not just let it happen, but give it permission. Offer it.

 

He doesn’t expect it to be perfect. Nothing about him ever is. But maybe it doesn’t have to be. Maybe they’re grown men, and they don’t need to be afraid of closeness anymore. Maybe if something happens, Will won’t flinch away from it. Won’t ruin it. He can keep it safe. 

 

More than that, he wants to deserve it.

 

Will stands slowly, breathing out. The dogs follow his movement with sleepy eyes, but they don’t stir.  Will’s gotten close, here and there, but never all the way. Not with anyone. He’s skimmed the surface, gone through the motions, let people close enough to touch skin but not bone. Not heart. 

 

But now... it’s different.

 

Now there’s Hannibal.

 

Sex is just as vulnerable as sleep, when you think about it. Maybe more. You can fake sleep. You can turn your back and pretend. But touch... real touch... you have to give it. You have to mean it. It says too much, too fast. It tells on you. Where you ache. Where you tremble. Where you want. It strips you bare without needing to tear clothes off. It undresses the soul more than the skin.

 

Will runs a hand through his hair. He’s in flannel and jeans, something loose, something old. He doesn’t dress up. And tonight he won’t pretend he’s someone else. Hannibal’s seen him like this before: sleeves pushed up to the elbow, collar soft with wear, the threadbare edges of his cuffs fraying like wool pulled apart by teeth. He wants him to see him the way he always is. No dressing it up. 

 

His glasses are folded on the desk. He left them there on purpose. He won’t hide behind them tonight. His eyes are tired, maybe. A little red in the corners. But they’re clear. 

 

The house smells like lemon and steam from the rice still cooking on the stovetop, and there’s a little bit of rosemary in the air too, from the fish. He caught it this morning just after sunrise, water still cold enough to bite at his ankles. He cleaned it himself and cooked it the way he always does, baked in foil with butter and herbs, the inside tender and flaking apart like it knows how to rest. 

 

A simple meal. Long grain rice cooked slow and soft, no fanfare. Spring salad with a bit of vinaigrette he made a few days ago, kept in a jar near the back of the fridge.

 

He wonders if Hannibal will like it. It’s not extravagant. It’s not foie gras or quail eggs or what that opera crowd probably eats. But it’s good. It’s honest. Something real, and something that means something to Will. He doesn’t often cook for anyone but himself, and even that is half-hearted most nights. But he wanted to make something that mattered. Not because he’s trying to impress Hannibal, but because he wants to offer something of himself. Something ordinary. Something home.

 

The table’s already set. No candles or anything romantic, nothing to make it feel like a performance. But he did go outside earlier and pick a few flowers, just before the sky started to turn gold. He arranged them in a little mason jar with some water and placed them at the center of the table. Simple, crooked, but bright. Blue-eyed grass, fire pinks, and wild phlox. 

 

There’s even a little sprig of fleabane, those tiny white petals with yellow middles, like wild daisies. He liked how it looked next to the darker red. All of them from the edge of the woods behind the house, blooming from nothing like they’ve got something to prove.

 

He adjusts the jar a little, just a few inches, lines it up with the grain of the table. Then steps back, squints. Doesn’t change it again.

 

His hands twitch a bit. It’s not about the food. Or the wine Hannibal said he’s bringing. It’s not even about the possibility of something happening. It’s the thought of him here, inside this space. The space Will’s kept to himself. His safe place, where nothing gets in. Not even friends. Not even strangers. But Hannibal isn’t either of those things anymore. 

 

He paces once to the front door and back, then to the kitchen again, checking the fish even though it doesn’t need checking. Everything’s done. The wine glasses are on the table. The napkins are folded, tucked by the plates. There’s nothing left to do but wait. That and think.

 

He wipes his palms on his jeans again.

 

Maybe this is the dumbest thing he’s ever done. Maybe Hannibal will take one look around and realize how rough-edged it all is. How small. But Will doesn’t think so. Hannibal said yes. He’s coming. That means something.

 

The dogs bark as the knock comes, sharp and low and expectant, and Will hushes them, voice soft but certain.Will grips the doorknob for half a second longer than necessary. His stomach’s light in a way that makes him feel dumb. Maybe he should’ve changed shirts. He didn’t. He wants to be seen, not prepared. So when he pulls the door open, it’s as himself, plain and open-throated.

 

There’s Hannibal. That smile, only for him. That slight, private thing, lips softened, eyes gentle. Just real. The kind of smile you keep in a drawer for someone, and only someone. He’s holding a bottle of wine in one hand, a travel bag in the other. Will’s eyes catch on the bag. It’s real now. It’s happening. That tender thump in his chest quickens. A thrill he’s not proud of, but also not willing to ignore.

 

“Hey,” Will says, voice low and even. He nods at the bag, gives a small half-smile. “You came prepared.”

 

“I was invited,” Hannibal says, handing over the bag. Their fingers brush. Just a little. Enough. “And I believe you told me to bring one.”

 

Will doesn’t argue. He just takes it and turns, moving through the house, the dogs following behind him. He sets the bag on the side of the bed that doesn’t dip under his own weight. When he turns back around, Hannibal isn’t standing still.

 

His eyes move slowly over the pinned bugs under glass, neatly labeled. A luna moth. Two swallowtails. A green cicada. A beetle from last summer that shimmers bronze in the firelight. Pieces of his life arranged like that without any particular plan. A strange altar of memory and curiosity. He stands there with his hands clasped behind his back. His suit coat is draped over the chair by Will’s desk. Something about that gesture makes Will’s breath catch.

 

“You’ve got quite the collection,” Hannibal says without turning around.

 

Will watches him, then nods. “It’s what I like.”

 

“You preserved the patina,” he murmurs, voice velvet-soft. “That’s difficult, especially with something so small. Most people would overclean, strip the wings of their powder. But you didn’t.”

 

Will stays silent longer than he means to. Then he clears his throat. “Didn’t seem right. They’re already dead. Seemed cruel to make them perfect, too.”

 

Hannibal tilts his head, lips parting. “That’s more mercy than most grant insects. I wonder sometimes if it’s easier for people to be cruel to the beautiful things, because their beauty invites intimacy. And intimacy, for some, feels like a trap. You value honesty in decay.”

 

“I value honesty,” Will replies, folding his arms. “Even when it’s ugly.”

 

Hannibal’s gaze drops again. “I find them beautiful. These quiet bodies. So much sound in life, so much silence after. Cicadas spend most of their existence underground, preparing to speak. And then… such brief noise.”

 

Will shrugs. “I like quiet things. Things that stay where you put them.”

 

“Stillness can be sacred,” Hannibal murmurs. “Especially when the world demands movement.”

 

He steps past the bugs now, toward the old painting hung slightly crooked on the wall, just to the left of the bookshelf. A cheap thing from a yard sale. A farm horizon sloping into itself, the sky like smudged tangerine and cranberry jam. Nothing valuable, not to anyone else, but Will liked it. Still does. He’s never been able to explain why.

 

Will clears his throat and moves toward the kitchen. “You put the wine on the table?”

 

“I did,” Hannibal says, following him with measured steps. “Merlot. Not as dry as I usually prefer, but—tonight I wanted something soft. Round.”

 

Will nods once. “Dinner’s already made. I hope that’s okay.”

 

“What did you make?”

 

Will lifts his chin. “Fish. Caught it this morning.”

 

Hannibal follows him in and leans one hand on the edge of the table, gazing over the spread. “That sounds lovely.”

 

Will hesitates. “Sorry it’s so simple.”

 

Hannibal looks at him with something like affection. “Simple isn’t bad,” he says. “Simple, when done with care, is better than extravagant for its own sake.”

 

Will shrugs and turns away before Hannibal can read his face too much. The table’s already set.Hannibal looks down at the flowers and smiles. “You picked these?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“They’re beautiful,” he says. “Virginia wildflowers?”

 

Will nods. “Yeah. Didn’t want to bring anything in that didn’t belong here.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes rest on him for a second longer than Will can take, so he busies himself straightening a fork that doesn’t need straightening.

 

He doesn’t know how to do this part. He knows how to cook for someone. He knows how to share space with another body. But he doesn’t know how to make it known, what this night means to him. What it doesn’t have to mean, too. That it’s okay if nothing happens. That he just wants to try something real.

 

Will doesn’t look back at him until the food’s been set on the table and the wine is poured. Even then, he feels like he’s looking through steam, like the moment is too fragile to name. But Hannibal sits, and the dogs settle. The quiet in the house isn’t awkward. It’s warm.

 

Hannibal’s fork lifts, and Will watches him take the first bite. He knows how Hannibal eats, how deliberate every movement is, how present he becomes with each flavor. It’s a strange thing to witness up close, here in this room where nothing’s ever ceremonial, where his food is usually eaten cold, hunched over a book or a dog or an empty silence. 

 

“It’s excellent,” Hannibal says finally, voice low, warm. 

 

Will lets out a breath, quiet and short, then lifts his own fork. “Thanks,” he says, as if that’s enough. As if his whole body hasn’t gone warm.

 

He takes a bite too, more to distract himself than anything else, and glances back at Hannibal as he chews.

 

“What’d you do today?” he asks, casual as he can make it, like this is just dinner with anyone. Like he isn’t balancing desire on the tip of his ribs, hoping it doesn’t tip too far and shatter.

 

Hannibal leans back slightly in his chair, just enough to stretch his spine. “I had a few patients this morning,” he says. “Two long sessions, one shorter. After that, I walked. Drove. Nothing particularly scheduled.”

 

Will nods slowly, mouth half-full. “Sounds nice.”

 

“And your morning?” Hannibal asks, lifting his glass. “How was the river?”

 

Will sits back, a flicker of fondness twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Cold,” he says. “Still early for good catches, but I know the pockets by now. Water was higher than usual, though. Something about the melt this year—it’s holding longer.”

 

He looks down at his plate, then back up again.

 

“I caught the trout by the east bend. You’d like it there. It’s quiet, and you can see the deer come through if you’re still enough. Might take a book next time, just to sit.”

 

There’s a pause. Then: “You ever fish?”

 

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “Not with intention.”

 

Will huffs, a small smile at the corners of his mouth. “You want to come sometime?”

 

A long pause.

 

Hannibal tilts his head slightly. “I’d like that,” he says, measured but certain. “Though you’d have to teach me. I wouldn’t know the first thing about handling a rod.”

 

Will shrugs. “That’s fine. I’ve taught worse learners.”

 

Another forkful, another breath.

 

“We could take Abigail,” he adds after a moment. “You know. If the hospital lets her out for a day. Get her in the sun.”

 

The air shifts, a small hitch in the rhythm. Hannibal’s gaze doesn’t move, but the light behind it does.

 

“She would like that,” Hannibal says eventually, tone even. Will nods, but the thread of that tension tugs at his stomach. He clears his throat. Pushes past it.

 

They don’t rush the evening.

 

The plates slowly empty, the wine breathes, the light shifts as the candle gutter-flames. Conversation moves gently, unforced, an eddying current of shared thought rather than small talk. They circle things that matter to them, and things that don’t, and Will feels—more than hears—when Hannibal is listening. Not just hearing him speak, but listening. There’s a difference, and Will has spent his whole life feeling it.

 

They talk about the river, Will’s favorite bends and shaded inlets, the places the fish hide when the weather’s hot. Hannibal asks thoughtful questions, not to test him, not performative. Just curious. 

 

They eat until the food’s gone, until the rice is clumped on the serving spoon and the salad’s gone limp at the edges. The dogs shift now and then but mostly sleep. The wine disappears more slowly. Hannibal pours them both another glass and Will thanks him under his breath, voice soft and tired in a good way. 

 

When they finish, Hannibal helps carry everything to the sink. Will reaches for a towel. “I’ll get it,” he says.

 

“You cooked,” Hannibal replies mildly, setting a plate down with a gentle clink. “I can—”

 

“I’ll do it,” Will repeats, firmer this time, not out of pride but because he wants to. Because doing the dishes feels, somehow, like a way to keep the night from ending.

 

Hannibal doesn’t argue. He leans against the counter beside the sink instead, folding his arms. Watching.

 

Will starts the water. It takes a while to heat up, sputtering in the pipes like always. He scrubs with quiet diligence, his body half-turned, braced slightly forward, the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to the elbows. His hair curls damply at the nape of his neck. Steam ghosts up from the basin.

 

Hannibal says, “You know, I was thinking about that discussion we had—about the use of laudanum in early veterinary medicine.”

 

Will glances over, the barest flick of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

 

“It came up again,” Hannibal says, voice low and conversational. “I was reading a case from 1902—horse colic, treated with a concoction of alcohol, opium, and oil of turpentine. Utterly archaic, of course, but the proportions were fascinating.”

 

Will hums. “Did it work?”

 

“Temporarily,” Hannibal replies, amused. “They managed to dull the pain long enough for the horse to pass the obstruction. But it’s remarkable how close the mixture came to being fatal.”

 

Will nods. “You ever read that study from the Swiss archives? About the dogs in alpine towns, late 1800s? They used laudanum in almost every form of injury—broken limbs, bleeding gums, digestive upset. One of the earliest examples of regional dependence on opiates for non-human treatment.”

 

“I have,” Hannibal says, sounding pleased. “It was the Saint Bernard breeders, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” Will says. “They’d dose the dogs small amounts in food—meat, milk. A lot of overdoses. A lot of sleep that turned permanent.”

 

Hannibal nods slowly. “They thought they were being merciful.”

 

“They thought they were buying time,” Will says, pulling the pan from the stove. “A quiet dog meant a healing dog. They didn’t think about why he was quiet.”

 

There’s a pause. Hannibal tilts his head, considering him.

 

“And what do you give your dogs?” he asks softly.

 

Will hesitates, then shrugs. “Ellie, she’s old. Her hips are going. I give her low-dose gabapentin. Rimadyl on the bad days. Some turmeric in her food—helps a little.”

 

“No opioids?”

 

Will gives him a look. “No laudanum.”

 

Hannibal’s mouth quirks. “Of course not.”

 

“She doesn’t need to be high,” Will says, more to himself. “She just needs to be comfortable. Still herself. You know?”

 

“I do,” Hannibal says. “That’s a rare distinction. Most people forget that comfort is not the same as erasure.”

 

Will wipes his hands on a dishtowel. “Sometimes I think the line’s too easy to cross.”

 

“Especially with a tincture as seductive as laudanum,” Hannibal says, his gaze drifting. “It doesn’t just mask pain—it replaces reality. Softens the edges until all things seem tolerable, even those that shouldn’t be.”

 

Will’s voice is quiet. “Yeah. That’s the part that scares me.”

 

“You’re right to be wary,” Hannibal murmurs. “We were never meant to live in a dream.”

 

Will glances up at him. “But you like dreams.”

 

“I like control,” Hannibal corrects gently. “Dreams are merely another place to practice it.”

 

Will snorts. “Figures.”

 

Hannibal’s shoulder is close enough to touch his now. Not leaning, not crowding, just there. Still, Will can feel the presence of him, the awareness. His hip bumps the edge of the counter.  Will keeps his eyes on the plate in his hands. The sinkwater’s warm, and there’s something soothing about the rhythm. Dip, scrub, rinse. Set aside.

 

But the closeness is working on him.

 

There’s been nothing slow or tender in his history. No homecooked dinners. No glances across firelight. No overnight bags left beside beds. Just loneliness and friction and the silence of rooms too empty to echo.

 

And Hannibal.

 

He rinses the last of the forks and sets it carefully in the drying rack. The silence is thick with potential. Hannibal’s standing beside him like he’s waiting, not for anything particular, but for Will to say or do something, anything.  His throat tightens. He grips the edge of the sink. The water runs steady. Hannibal’s shoulder brushes his again, and he doesn’t step away. Doesn’t apologize.

 

Will doesn’t either.

 

Will doesn’t even realize when Hannibal moves across the room. He’s still rinsing the last dish, the water slowing to a drizzle in the sink, when he hears the soft, unexpected clink of the piano lid lifting. His head turns. Hannibal’s standing there. His hands rest on the edge gently. Will turns the faucet off and wipes his hands on a towel, his heartbeat ticking up by quiet degrees.

 

“Do you play?” Hannibal asks without looking over.

 

Will blinks, then shrugs, his voice rough with dish soap and nerves. “Some.”

 

A hum. “I was trained in harpsichord,” Hannibal says, and his fingers touch the keys with a feathered press. “I’ve always preferred it.”

 

Of course he was. Will can picture it too well. Young Hannibal, sharper, colder, stiff-backed in some room while the seasons changed beyond ancient windows, his fingers meticulous and obedient. It’s not hard to believe. It’s hard not to believe.

 

Will walks over and stands beside him. Close enough to smell him, sandalwood, cedar, something smoky that clings to the folds of his collar. Hannibal’s fingers trail the ivory, pressing a note here, another there. Not quite a song, but there’s a rhythm forming, something half-remembered from his baroque mind.

 

The light from the dining room has softened, now leaning amber across the floor. It kisses the side of Hannibal’s throat, the slope of his cheek, the polished edge of the piano. Will watches his hands moving so slowly, so carefully. Long fingers, clean and dry now from the wineglass he’d held earlier. They look beautiful in this light.

 

“I always liked the way a piano sounded more than how it played,” Will says, his own voice lower now. “More resonant. Not so sharp.”

 

Hannibal glances at him, then nods, and says gently, “The weight of the hammer. It lets you feel more. With the harpsichord, there’s distance. Precision, yes—but no pressure. No ache.”

 

Will presses a key beside him. It rings out soft, echoing, and then fades. He doesn’t know what note it was. Doesn’t really care.

 

They stand there like that for a while, pressing keys one by one, small aimless notes falling into the air between them like dust motes in sunlight. Hannibal doesn’t play a full song. Will doesn’t ask him to. They just let it grow, half rhythm, half breath, half waiting. Their hands touch. A brush of knuckles. Will’s finger hovers too long on a key, and Hannibal’s hand moves over to play the same one. It’s light. Nothing but contact.

 

But Will’s breath hitches anyway. Will shifts closer, not a lot, but enough that their shoulders nearly graze. The heat from Hannibal’s body radiates through the thin fabric of his shirt. It soaks into Will’s skin like he’s been starved of it. His breath comes faster, softer. He can feel the air between them shifting, turning humid with anticipation.

 

When he looks up, Hannibal’s already looking at him. His eyes aren’t intense the way they sometimes are. Not sharp, not cold. They’re wide. Open. Full of something quiet and sparkling. A look Will doesn’t think Hannibal lets many people see. Not even himself.

 

There’s no room for words in a moment like this.

 

Will leans in just a little. His breath lands against Hannibal’s cheek.

 

He thinks, maybe this is it. Maybe they’re finally going to kiss.

 

But Hannibal doesn’t kiss him. He presses his nose to Will’s cheek, breathing in. The curve of his face. The salt of his skin. Will shudders, something between a sigh and a tremble. 

 

“You are singular,” Hannibal whispers against his skin, his lips barely brushing the curve of Will’s jaw. “Not only in the way you look, though that alone is enough to unmake me. You are a man full of sharpness and softness at once. And all of it is beautiful to me.”

 

Will doesn’t know what to do with that.

 

He turns his head before he can stop himself, chasing the warmth of Hannibal’s mouth, and tries to kiss him. But Hannibal pulls back. Just slightly. Just enough. Will’s lips miss and land on the angle of Hannibal’s jaw. Soft skin and the rasp of evening stubble.

 

Hannibal breathes in hard. His fingers, still resting on the piano, press down unintentionally. The keys erupt in a dissonant chord, a strange sound in the golden hush of the room.

 

Will stills. The noise feels too loud. Too much. His stomach drops.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, pulling back a little. “I didn’t—”

 

Hannibal doesn’t answer immediately. He’s still looking at the keys, his face unreadable again.  Will frowns, throat tight. He thought—he thought maybe. He thought this was the moment. All the signs felt right. The closeness. The warmth. The look in Hannibal’s eyes. That starry look he gets when he’s not guarding himself. Will knows it. He’s studied it in silence. He’s felt it trace over him when he’s pretending not to see. It’s been real. It has to be.

 

His fingers are still there. Still resting an inch from Hannibal’s on the piano. His lips still tingling from where they met jaw instead of mouth.

 

He swallows hard.

 

The room is quiet again, except for the faint hum of the old refrigerator and the ghosts of the notes that were never played. Hannibal finally shifts beside him, eyes moving to Will’s face again, softer now, like whatever internal calculation he was making has passed.

 

Hannibal steps in gently, like he’s afraid the wrong movement might scare Will off. But Will doesn’t move. He just stands there, heart beating high in his chest eyes flickering across Hannibal’s face, taking in the nearness of him. His arms come around Will. It’s careful but not hesitant. Like this is something they’ve done before, in another lifetime. Something familiar, if only to the bones.

 

He draws Will into his chest and lowers his head until his nose finds the crook of Will’s neck. That quiet space where the skin smells faintly like soap and sweat and the salt of nerves. Will breathes in and holds it. Hannibal’s hand lifts to toy with one of the curls that’s fallen against the back of Will’s head. He brushes his fingers through it absently.

 

Will’s throat moves as he swallows. His hand comes to rest lightly on the small of Hannibal’s back, unsure at first, then a little firmer. Just to feel that he’s there.

 

“Did I mess up?” he asks, voice small and rough.

 

“No,” Hannibal says against his neck, soft as anything. Just that. No.

 

Hannibal leans back just a bit, enough to look down at him, and then his eyes flicker to the same curl he’d been touching. He wraps the strand around his finger and watches the way it springs back into place, lips parted a little, eyes full of something Will doesn’t know how to name.

 

“I have never wanted another the way I want for you, Will,” Hannibal murmurs.

 

Will lets out a breath that feels too big for his chest. It shivers its way through him. He smiles. Not the usual sideways, tired thing. This one’s smaller. Almost bashful.

 

“That makes me feel better,” he says, and it’s true. It does. But there’s still a part of him that feels like he’s floating a few inches off the ground. Unmoored. Not sure where to step next. He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t want to ruin the moment by admitting that part of him feels a little bruised. A little hurt in a way he doesn’t have words for. It’s not about rejection. He knows Hannibal wants him. He just—he doesn’t know what to do with all this wanting.

 

Hannibal’s hand still lingers near his head. Then he leans in, eyes closing, and presses the softest kiss to Will’s hair. Just one. Right near his temple, right where it feels the most like tenderness.

 

And then he steps back. Not far. But enough.

 

“It is getting late,” Hannibal says, voice gentle. Almost apologetic. “I do have to leave early in the morning.” 

 

“Yeah,” Will answers, nodding, though it takes him a second to say it. “Okay.” 

 

He doesn’t move right away. Neither of them do. There’s that moment after a touch ends where the skin still remembers it, still warms with the ghost of it. They stand there, a little too quiet, a little too close for anything else to happen, and Will feels it settle in him. The ache. The longing. The strange satisfaction of almost.

 

He tells himself again that this was enough. The evening was good. The food. The conversation. The piano. Hannibal’s voice in his ear. All of it was good. Even the not-kiss, even the way it all left him a little suspended. A little shaky.

 

Will gestures toward the bathroom with a quiet, polite tilt of his head. “You can go ahead”

 

Hannibal nods, and reaches for his bag, brown leather, heavy-looking, with neat buckles that click open. Will steps aside, watching him work the fastenings. 

 

Once Hannibal’s in the bathroom, Will strips down to his undershirt and old cotton pajama pants, changing quick and facing the wall like it’ll make a difference, like Hannibal might appear suddenly and see something Will doesn’t know how to explain. He’s careful not to look at the mirror. His reflection always feels too sharp at night.

 

Then he sits. The mattress dips under his weight, the frame giving a soft creak. He rests his elbows on his knees, laces his fingers together and presses them against his mouth. He waits. Water starts running. Then silence. Then movement again. Too quiet to make out, but enough to keep Will’s nerves buzzing.

 

He keeps staring at the floor.

 

He thought Hannibal would take the lead. Thought maybe that was part of the pull, that cool certainty, that subtle control. Will doesn’t know how to reach out first. Doesn’t know what to do with this kind of wanting when it’s soft. He expected to be swept up, undone, taken apart gently by someone who knows how. Someone like Hannibal.

 

Hannibal steps out into the bedroom light, clad in black silk pajamas.  His hair is slightly mussed now. There’s something younger about him like this. Unarmored.

 

He smiles at Will, small, soft. Not pitying. Not distant. Just warm. Gentle. Will can’t quite smile back, but he nods, once. Passes him.

 

Their shoulders brush as they cross paths. Just barely. But Will feels it like static.

 

He brushes his teeth with the door open, water running low, toothbrush gripped too tight in one hand. He catches Hannibal in the mirror, just a sliver of him, standing by the bookshelf, one hand trailing along the spines. Reading titles. His fingers pause on a worn edition of The Collected Works of William Blake, then slide to Darwin’s Origin of Species, then linger over a spineless volume Will glued back together years ago. He looks at each one like he’s trying to understand Will by osmosis.

 

Will spits, rinses, and turns off the faucet. He steps back into the bedroom, mouth mint-cold, hair sticking up from where his hand kept tugging at it. Hannibal’s looking at him like he’s just said something important. But he hasn’t said a word.

 

Will stands there for a second, one hand still curled around the edge of the doorframe. He could speak. He could say thank you for staying. Or I’m sorry I leaned in too fast. Or are you going to kiss me or not.

 

He tells himself he’s getting what he wanted.

 

Hannibal’s staying the night.

 

Hannibal’s here, in his house, in his bedroom. In Will’s real, cluttered, creaky life. That’s what he wanted. That was the whole point.

The sheets feel cold when he slips into bed, but only for a second. The fabric holds the memory of his body, and now it takes his shape again, folding around his limbs like a shell pulling itself shut. Will lies on his back, the way he always does when he’s unsure.

He listens for the sound of Hannibal moving behind him. Quiet feet, soft breath. A rustle of silk. It takes longer than he expects. Long enough that he starts to wonder if Hannibal is going to say goodnight from across the room and sleep upright in the chair.

But then the bed dips, and Will feels it: the shift in weight, the gravity of another person settling in next to him Hannibal crawls in slow. Will is thankful for the old bedframe, the way it creaks too easily, it confirms the things he can’t trust his senses to believe. That Hannibal is here. That this is happening. 

Will reaches out and flicks off the lamp. The room falls to quiet shadows. He lets the darkness settle. Lets it blur the sharpness of thought, the jagged edges of memory. He wants this to feel simple. Wants it not to hurt.

He wants to touch Hannibal.

He keeps his hand to himself for another moment but it burns in his chest, the waiting. Not just the physical closeness. Not the way their breathing starts to sync up. It's the wanting itself. He turns to his side, slow and careful.

Just as he moves, he sees Hannibal do the same, only not toward him.

Away. Hannibal turns to face the far side of the bed, his spine a long curve in the dark, shoulders slightly hunched. Not tense. As if to say, this is where I’ll stay. This is what I can give. Will freezes. He looks at Hannibal’s back for a long time, staring at the dip between his shoulder blades, the way the silk clings there.

He could stay like this. He really could. Lie in the dark and listen to Hannibal breathe, think about what it means that he stayed at all. Will could be good. Careful. He could pretend not to want the things he wants.

But he’s tired of pretending.

So he moves.

One cautious inch at a time, Will inches forward. Closer. Until he’s a breath away from Hannibal’s back. Then closer still, until he can feel the heat of him, the steady line of his body. He presses forward and lets their bodies meet. Hannibal makes a soft noise, not a word, not resistance. Just breath. A little caught. Like surprise.

Will’s arm follows the rest of him, slowly creeping across the narrow distance, curling around Hannibal’s waist. His hand settles low on Hannibal’s stomach, unsure. Waiting for something. Anything.

The silk is warm against his palm. Warmer still underneath. Will leans forward until his forehead touches the back of Hannibal’s neck.

Will’s voice is quiet when it comes. Small and careful. “Is this alright?”

There’s a pause. 

Then Hannibal nods. Just a little. “Yes, Will.”

Will lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and lets his weight sink a little more into Hannibal’s back, fitting their bodies together like parts that should’ve always gone this way. His legs tangle awkwardly behind him, but he doesn’t mind. His hand stays where it is, fingers curled just slightly over soft silk.

Will doesn't say anything right away. Just lies there with his forehead tucked against the back of Hannibal’s neck, breathing in the warmth that lives between skin and silk. The quiet of the bedroom folds around them, dim and close, and Will lets his arm stay where it is, draped loose around Hannibal’s waist, his palm pressed flat against the soft dip of his belly. 

 

His voice is smaller this time. More unsure. “You know… I really hope I didn’t ruin anything.”

 

Another pause. Then Hannibal lifts his hand and covers Will’s where it rests across his middle. Gentle. He raises it. And Will feels it: the softness of lips against the back of his knuckles. Barely there. But real.

 

“You didn’t,” Hannibal says, quiet and sure. “I assure you.”

 

The kiss still lingers on the back of Will’s hand, quiet and maddening in the way only Hannibal can be. It's not an answer, exactly. But maybe it’s more than one. Maybe it’s everything.

 

“I didn’t mean to make things weird,” Will says, voice low, buried in the space behind Hannibal’s ear. His breath stirs the hair there. “I thought—” He doesn’t finish. Because he doesn’t know how to finish. I thought you wanted it. I thought I wasn’t wrong. 

 

Hannibal doesn’t move much, but his thumb brushes lightly over Will’s knuckles, slow and steady, like he’s drawing something there. Letters, maybe. A way through.

 

“You didn’t,” Hannibal says, after a long breath. “You didn’t make anything strange. You asked something without words. And I… hesitated.”

 

Will closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You did.”

 

There’s a pause, and Will feels Hannibal shift, just slightly. Not to pull away. But to make space. An invitation. Will presses closer, their bodies fitting along each other like a current trying to find its path. Hannibal’s back is warm, and he’s real, and he’s here. Will’s hand stays where it is. Holding. Needing. Not asking for more yet.

 

“I was not rejecting you,” Hannibal says softly. “I was… overwhelmed. I have wanted to kiss you for a very long time, Will. But I have also wanted to be careful. With you. For you.”

 

Will breathes out through his nose, shaky, but relieved. “You don’t have to be so careful,” he murmurs. “Not all the time. I’m not gonna break.”

 

Hannibal’s hand lifts again and settles over Will’s wrist now, thumb resting in the dip where pulse meets bone. “I know you do not wish to be kept in a glass box,” he says. “But I will not treat you like you’re common. You are not a thing to be handled thoughtlessly.”

 

Will lets out a breath, half-laugh, half something else. “You’re really good at that, you know,” he mutters. “Saying something that makes me feel like I’m about to cry.”

 

“I hope it is a good thing,” Hannibal says, and there’s a thread of warmth in his voice. “That you feel something at all.”

 

Will’s hand moves slightly, adjusting its grip. His thumb brushes beneath Hannibal’s ribs now, and Hannibal shifts just enough to lean back into it.

 

“It is,” Will says. “It’s just… new.”

 

He thinks of how many nights he’s spent twisted up and empty in this bed. How many times he’s stared at the ceiling with his guts a mess and his thoughts louder than the dark. This is different. 

 

“I meant it, you know,” he says eventually, voice nearly a whisper now. “I want you to kiss me.”

 

Hannibal doesn’t answer immediately. Will doesn’t expect him to.

 

They lie there in silence after that, but it’s a different kind of quiet. Less like waiting. More like keeping. Will doesn’t know if he’ll sleep. He doesn’t know if Hannibal will turn to face him in the night or if they’ll stay in this shape until morning. But he doesn’t mind either way.

 

Will doesn’t mean to speak. He’s content for a while to just lie there, tucked up against Hannibal’s back with his arm curled loosely around his waist, the warmth between them slowly working its way into the places Will didn’t know were still cold. His nose brushes the back of Hannibal’s neck, and the scent of him makes it hard to think about anything but staying. But the words come anyway.

 

“I hope you know,” Will murmurs, “how much I like you.”

 

There’s a silence, but not a heavy one. He can feel Hannibal breathe, feel the smallest tension in his spine before it softens again beneath Will’s arm.

 

“I hope you know I like being with you,” Will says next, quieter. “Not just tonight. Not just… like this. I like you all the time.”

 

Hannibal doesn’t turn yet. Doesn’t shift or answer immediately. For a heartbeat, Will almost regrets it. Almost pulls back. But then Hannibal lets out the gentlest sigh, like something he’d been holding loosened in his chest.

 

“I do know,” Hannibal says. “You’ve shown me. And I feel the same, Will.”

 

Will lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and lets his forehead rest lightly against Hannibal’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

 

“You haven’t,” Hannibal says, and then turns slightly, just enough that his hand brushes along Will’s knuckles where they rest against his side. “You couldn’t. I like you in all your seasons. In your stillness. In your storms.”

 

Will presses in closer, not possessively, just to be sure Hannibal can feel the smile spreading across his face. “That’s a very poetic way of saying I’m a lot.”

 

“You are,” Hannibal says with the smallest smile of his own. “And it is a gift. I like you very much. Not just for tonight. Not for what you offer me. I like you as you are.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal says, firmer now. “Very much.”

 

Will feels stupidly warm all over. It settles in his throat like a knot of heat and relief.  He tightens his arm around Hannibal’s middle and lets the silence hold them again, just for a few seconds. But there’s still something he wants to say, something too large to keep crammed into his chest. And if he doesn’t say it now, he’s afraid he won’t later.

 

“I’ve never really been in a relationship before,” Will admits.

 

Hannibal doesn’t respond right away. And for a split second, the stillness feels different. Sharper. Will’s heart picks up.

 

He shifts his head, speaking against the back of Hannibal’s neck now, more guarded. “Did I scare you off now?”

 

“No,” Hannibal says immediately. Too immediately. Like the very idea had startled him. “Never. Will, no.”

 

Will lets out a breath, a little more shaken than he wants it to sound. “Okay.”

 

There’s a pause, then Hannibal shifts, finally, turning in Will’s arms. They face each other now in the soft dark, Hannibal’s eyes open and clear, studying him. There’s something in his expression Will can’t name, something deep and almost startled. Not by Will’s words, but maybe by the fact Will said them at all.

 

“I’ve known men who enter relationships the way one might enter a contract,” Hannibal says, voice low. “As if it were a matter of terms, of mutual tolerances, of timelines. Of leverage. I’ve never wanted that.”

 

Will listens, still quiet, his hand curled at Hannibal’s waist.

 

“I want this,” Hannibal continues, slower now. “With you. In all its unsortedness. I want your inexperience, your honesty, your particular way of moving through the world like it’s a thing you’re still deciding whether to trust. I’ve never felt more… known, than I do with you.”

 

Will watches him for a second longer, then nods, slowly, once. “I just really want to keep you,” he says. “This. Whatever it is.”

 

Hannibal’s hand tightens over his. “I want that too,” he says. “Very much.”

 

There’s that tone again, that still, honest cadence Will is only just beginning to learn. It makes the words settle in deeper. Makes them feel permanent, like a brick set down inside him.Hannibal’s gaze softens. That look comes back into his eyes, the one Will’s caught glimpses of before but never fully like this. Adoring. 

 

It’s devastating, in the best possible way.

 

Will’s mouth curves, slow and real. “Hi,” he says.

 

Hannibal’s smile deepens just slightly, the corner of his mouth rising like he’s pleased Will said that, like something about it makes him feel seen.He leans forward without speaking, tucks himself in closer, one arm sliding around Will’s waist, the other up around his shoulders. Their legs tangle together beneath the blankets, soft fabric brushing skin, knees tucked gently together.

 

“I am glad,” Hannibal murmurs, “that you are solely mine.”

 

Will exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sound of relief. He presses his face into Hannibal’s shoulder and holds on. “Yeah?”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal says. “I’ve known for some time now that I did not want to share you.”

 

Will closes his eyes. It’s unlike anything else. A strange calm that doesn’t feel like submission or surrender but like anchoring. Like being allowed to stop drifting.

 

“I didn’t know how to ask for this,” Will says. “I didn’t even know if it was possible.”

 

“It is,” Hannibal says. “And it’s yours. As long as you want it.”

 

Will lets that sink in, like heat under the skin. He doesn’t reply right away. Just holds tighter, fingers curling into the back of Hannibal’s shirt.

 

“I want it,” he says finally. “God, I want it.”

 

Hannibal smooths his hand over Will’s back. He kisses Will’s temple once, then just stays there. Breath against breath. Will blinks into the dark and thinks: this could be his life. Not just tonight. Not just the stolen softness of a one-time thing. But something that stays. Something he gets to keep.

 

Will falls asleep with Hannibal wrapped around him, the quiet hum of breath and body easing the tension from his bones, one slow exhale at a time. Hannibal’s arm is heavy across his waist, hand curled gently. His nose brushes Will’s hair every now and then, like he shifts only to reassure himself that Will’s still there.

 

And Will lets it happen. For once, he doesn’t flinch from it.

 

It’s not the kind of sleep he’s used to, the kind that crashes down over him like black water. This is slow. Gradual. Like a tide rolling in, lapping at his feet and then pulling him under with a strange, easy gentleness. Not haunted. Not troubled. 

 

He sleeps.

 

And then he doesn’t.

 

He startles awake.

 

Sweat clings to his back, his throat, his chest. His shirt is soaked through. His hands are fists, knuckles white. The room is dark but not empty. Hannibal is saying his name, soft, again and again. 

 

Will squirms, legs tangled in the sheets. His stomach turns. His heart is pounding, and he doesn’t know if it’s fear or something else. The images are already fading, blurs of bodies, open throats, red smeared across tile like fingerpaint, but the feeling lingers. 

 

“Will,” Hannibal says again, lower now, nearer. “It is alright.”

 

Will blinks. “I’m—” He sits up fast, clumsy, too fast. The blanket falls off his shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

 

His hands are in his hair before he knows it, yanking at the damp curls at the back of his neck. He’s panting like he’s just run six miles, chest heaving, sweat dripping cold down the middle of his back.

 

“I didn’t mean to—God, I knew this was a bad idea.”

 

“You don’t have to apologize.”

 

Will shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “Yeah, I do,” he mutters. “You never saw them. You knew I had nightmares, but you never—saw.”

 

Hannibal’s voice is calm. Too calm. “That does not mean I didn’t expect them.”

 

The sheets rustle.

 

Will flinches when Hannibal shifts closer. Like Will isn’t trembling, shirt stuck to his body, breathing like he’s about to be sick.

 

Then Hannibal lifts his hand. Touches Will’s jaw. Then the back of his head. Just a warm, slow guide. Will swallows, throat dry, mouth parted. He looks at Hannibal, really looks at him, and sees the way his eyes have gone dark.

 

Then Hannibal kisses him.

 

It’s sudden. Off-kilter.

 

His mouth lands too hard. His lips are stiff. Will’s nose gets mashed sideways and Hannibal’s does too, and there’s no angle to it, no give. Hannibal’s eyes are screwed shut like he’s trying to disappear into the act, and his breath comes too fast through his nose. Will’s hands hover uselessly mid-air, unsure if he’s supposed to push or pull or correct the tilt of Hannibal’s jaw.

 

It’s the most awkward kiss Will has ever had.

 

Hannibal isn’t leading. He isn’t graceful or controlled or even confident. He’s bracing himself for something, like he thinks this might be the end. Like he has to kiss Will now or lose him forever. Will can feel the tension thrumming under his skin, the effort of it, the absolute lack of natural rhythm.

 

It startles Will clean out of his panic.

 

He pulls back just slightly, breathing heavy, stunned, not by the heat of it, but by the weird, off-balance clumsiness of Hannibal Lecter not knowing how to kiss him.

 

He stares.

 

Hannibal moves again, sudden and sharp, his hands finding Will’s face. His fingers are firm now, almost possessive, thumb pressing into Will’s cheekbone, palm cupping his jaw. There’s a tremble in the grip, not from fear but something tauter, more urgent. And then he kisses him again.

 

This time it lands.

 

Wet. Too wet. Smeary and awkward, lips sliding past Will’s mouth before finding it again. Hannibal’s breath is hot and quick through his nose, his mouth parted too wide. Will makes a noise without meaning to, surprised by the sheer mess of it. There’s tongue, too soon, and teeth, like Hannibal’s forgotten everything he knows about elegance. It’s clumsy and sweet and wrong in a way Will didn’t expect.

 

He thought—he thought Hannibal would kiss like he speaks. With control. 

 

But this isn’t that. This is a man who doesn’t know how to hold back, who’s trying not to tremble, who doesn’t know if he’s allowed to want what he wants.

 

And Will can’t help it.

 

He laughs. It bubbles out of him sudden and sharp, startled and genuine, against Hannibal’s open mouth. Hannibal freezes, lips still parted, breath caught between them like something fragile. He pulls back an inch, startled, and Will sees it, his mouth pink, just slightly damp and swollen, his cheeks dusted faintly rose in the moonlight.

 

Will blinks at him, breathless, heart racing. “You’re… eager,” he says.

 

Hannibal doesn’t reply right away. His eyes drop. One hand lifts to touch his own lips, fingertips grazing the damp seam like he’s trying to understand what just happened. He doesn’t look at Will. 

 

Will’s chest pulls tight.

 

It hits him then, not just the kiss, not just the feel of Hannibal’s mouth, but what it means. How much care it must have taken for Hannibal to lean in at all. How much restraint he must’ve been holding himself in with. How this isn’t just about lust or claiming or power.

 

This is tenderness, plain and raw.

 

And it might be more than Will thought. He shifts, sits up straighter. The heat between them hasn’t dimmed, but it’s folded itself into something quieter now. Will lifts a hand slowly and cups Hannibal’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly over the corner of his jaw. He turns his face toward him, gentle but firm.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s alright. Come here.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes meet his again, and for a second, he just looks. Will can see the vulnerability there, naked and uncertain, flickering behind the usual stillness. He swallows, and then he leans in.

 

Slower this time. Their mouths meet again, soft and seeking. Hannibal’s hand hovers at Will’s chest, not pushing, not pulling, just resting there like he’s trying to remember how to touch. Will’s lips part, just barely, and he lets the kiss stay shallow. This, he thinks, this is what I wanted. Not performance. Just Hannibal.

 

Will murmurs something soft and he feels Hannibal exhale against him. He listens. Follows. Their mouths work gently.  Hannibal makes a sound then, a quiet one, right against his lips. Something like a whimper, held back.

 

“I was attempting,” he says between breaths, “to ground you.”

 

Will’s lips curve faintly, brushing against his. “You did,” he says. “You are.”

 

And then they kiss again. This time it builds. Slower, but less careful. Hannibal leans in with more weight, more pressure. His hand slides up Will’s back and pulls him close, and Will lets himself be taken, lets himself be held. The kiss deepens. Hannibal’s lips are soft but uncertain. Sometimes too much, sometimes not enough. It’s messy and uncoordinated, a learning curve that arcs between them, but Will can feel how hard he’s trying.

 

And it’s sweet. God, it’s sweet.

 

Will hums softly and opens his mouth a little more, letting the rhythm guide them. Hannibal breathes hard through his nose, pressing in. Will can feel it, his hands trembling slightly, the unevenness of his breath, the heat in his face. 

 

Will reaches up with both hands, finds Hannibal’s hair, and tugs. Not harshly, just enough. Hannibal pulls back, startled again. His mouth is red now, truly red, and his eyes are glazed, wide, a little lost. His breath comes heavy, and his pupils are blown, almost black. His hair’s a mess where Will touched him, and his lips are open like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

 

Hannibal looks wrecked. Quietly, sweetly wrecked.

 

And Will’s chest stutters with something like awe. He can’t believe this is who Hannibal becomes when he wants. When he lets himself want. Clumsy, uncalibrated, undone.

 

He’s so used to the control. The restraint. The surgeon’s touch, the exacting voice. But this is something else. Something hidden. Something soft. And Will is the one who gets to see it.

 

Will exhales slowly and presses his palm to Hannibal’s chest, guiding him gently back down to the bed. His body goes with him without resistance, silent and obedient. The mattress dips beneath their weight. The covers shift as Will tugs them back up, folding both of them beneath the softness.

 

They lie there again, face to face. The air is cooler under the blanket, close and quiet and thick with the smell of each other. Their hands rest between them, not quite touching, fingers curled loosely in the space where their bodies nearly meet. Will stares at them for a second before lifting his eyes.

 

Hannibal’s face is still flushed. Moonlight spills across his cheekbones, catching the raw shine left on his lips. His lashes are damp at the ends, blinking slow. Will swallows, throat tight. He leans forward again, slow and tentative. And Hannibal tries.

 

Will can feel the way he strains to match him. His mouth presses forward too eagerly, then pulls back too fast. He gasps softly through his nose like he’s trying to time his breathing with Will’s. His eyelashes tremble where they brush against Will’s cheek. The kiss is unsteady. Learning. Like he’s reaching for something he’s never held before.

 

He shifts closer, just a few inches, barely enough to close the space between them. The covers rustle around them, bodies brushing from shoulder to knee. Will feels his breath catch, nervous and unsure. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, doesn’t know where to put them or if he should reach at all. One twitches halfway to Hannibal’s waist before retreating. He wants to touch. But—

 

He realizes something.

 

Hannibal hasn’t touched him.

 

Not since Will pulled him close. Not since Will kissed him and laughed and touched his face and coaxed him back to bed. Will turns his eyes downward and sees it: Hannibal’s fists clenched in the blanket, knuckles pale, fingers wound in tight coils like he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

 

Will’s breath shudders. His heart kicks up a notch.

 

He pulls back a little, not far, just enough to see. Hannibal’s lips are red and parted, slick from kissing, and he chases after Will again without meaning to, blinking like he’s dazed. Will’s hand comes up, soft but firm, pressing lightly to Hannibal’s shoulder to hold him still.

 

“Hannibal,” he murmurs.

 

He searches the other man’s face. His mouth. His fluttering lashes. The raw openness of his gaze. It’s all there. It’s all there.

 

Will swallows.

 

“Have you—” he starts, barely above a whisper.

 

But Hannibal interrupts. Voice flat but fragile.

 

“No.”

 

Will stares. His stomach swoops like he’s misheard.

 

“No?”

 

Hannibal’s throat bobs. His eyes flicker, meeting Will’s and then darting away.

 

Will opens his mouth, closes it again. Then: “How?” He blinks. Shakes his head faintly. “That doesn’t make sense. It—makes sense for me. I mean, I—sure. I get that. But not you. Not you.”

 

Hannibal’s gaze lifts, slowly. There’s a long pause. Thoughtful. Not ashamed. Just still.

 

“I never wished for anyone to see me that way,” he says. His voice is low. Measured. “Not as a performance. Not as a curiosity. Not as an idea they could bend into something else.”

 

He pauses, eyes searching Will’s.

 

“I would sooner kill than let someone see me vulnerable. Until you.”

 

Will stops breathing altogether. He thinks about the way Hannibal kissed him, too much, too fast. About the stiff lips and trembling hands. About the way he chased him without thinking, lips still parted. About the clenched fists, the silence, the effort. All of it.

 

They’re the same.

 

Will doesn’t say anything. He can’t. Instead, he surges forward and kisses him. Because the feeling is too big to stay inside. Because he sees him, finally. And because Hannibal let himself be seen.

 

And Will doesn’t care anymore if it’s messy or unpracticed. If it’s too wet or too eager. If they knock teeth and breathe too hard and can’t figure out the rhythm. None of that matters. Will kisses him like he’s been starved for years and finally someone told him it’s allowed. Hannibal melts under him, breath catching, and one hand finally unfurls from the blanket and touches Will’s chest, flat and tentative.

 

Will groans softly into his mouth and deepens it. It doesn’t matter if Hannibal can’t kiss. If he’s never done it before. If he’s trembling and clumsy and desperate.

 

It doesn’t matter because Will’s just as bad.

 

And they’re doing it anyway.

 

Will isn’t sure how long the kissing lasts, only that it builds, slowly at first, then quickly, maddeningly, like something being wound too tight until it bursts. Their mouths meet again and again, clumsy and open, neither of them quite sure what to do, both desperate to keep doing it.

 

Their lips don’t line up right. Will moves to fix it, and Hannibal moves at the same time. Will chases his mouth, his breath, everything. His hands slide into Hannibal’s hair, tugging, pushing, smoothing, unsure where to settle because nowhere is enough. The soft, loose strands stick to Will’s fingers. Hannibal makes a sound into his mouth and Will swallows it down like he can keep it.

 

“God,” Will pants against his lips. “You kiss like—like you’ve been thinking about this forever.”

 

Hannibal breathes out a trembling little laugh. “I have.”

 

Will presses their foreheads together, both of them panting. He can feel Hannibal’s breath on his lips, humid and soft, sweet.

 

“You’ve never—?” Will asks quietly, thumb brushing beneath Hannibal’s jaw, feeling the pulse there.

 

“No.” Hannibal’s eyes don’t waver. “Never.”

 

“Not even—?”

 

“Not even that,” Hannibal says. “No one’s touched me like this. I’ve never wanted it. Until now.”

 

Will’s throat works. He’s shaking a little, not from fear, but from the aching, incredible newness of this. Of knowing neither of them have done this before. That they’re both bare here, equally uncertain. Equally wanting.

 

“Jesus,” Will murmurs. “Me either.”

 

Hannibal searches his face.

 

Will huffs a laugh, hoarse and stunned. “I’ve never wanted someone like I want you. I thought I was broken. I thought—” He swallows. “But I’m not. I just didn’t want them. I want you.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes soften in a way that makes Will feel like he’s looking directly into the center of the earth. Will leans in, murmurs against Hannibal’s lips, “We can figure it out. Yeah?”

 

His voice is rough and shy all at once.

 

“You wanna figure it out with me?”

 

And Hannibal just nods, wordless at first, something tender and breathless and wrecked in his expression.

 

Then softly: “Please.”

 

Hannibal’s hand, trembling, slides down between them and lifts Will’s shirt. Just a few inches, just enough to touch. His palm finds Will’s stomach and lays there, fingers splayed over the soft, tense rise and fall of Will’s belly.

 

Will jerks a little, not away, just in surprise. His breath shudders in.

 

“It’s okay,” he says, because it is. “It’s okay. Keep—keep touching me.”

 

He presses forward and they kiss again. Will moans quietly into it as Hannibal’s thumb strokes the bare skin just beneath his ribs. They’re not practiced. They’re not graceful. But the need is wild. Sweet. Crazed. Will’s never felt like this before. Like he’d rather die than stop. Like he’s on fire under his own skin and he wants it. Wants all of it.

 

Hannibal’s other hand finally moves and touches Will’s waist. Will gasps softly, mouth parting under Hannibal’s, and then they’re really kissing again. Their mouths open wide, too wide. Hannibal’s lips are so wet, so soft, and Will doesn’t care how sloppy it is. Doesn’t care how out of sync. It’s real. It’s theirs.

 

They’re murmuring now, both of them, soft and low.

 

Will pants, “Yeah—yeah, like that—”

 

And Hannibal whispers back, “I am unsure—”

 

“You’re doing fine,” Will breathes. “God, you’re—doing so fine.”

 

They touch each other like they’ve both been dreaming of this in secret, hoarding the idea of each other in the dark, never expecting to get it. Will’s hands roam, sliding under Hannibal’s shirt, palms dragging up his back, over ribs. Will can feel his heart racing.

 

Will grabs his wrist and guides his hand, shakily, up toward his chest. “Here,” he says. “You can touch me. Wherever you want.”

 

Hannibal follows his lead. His palm presses flat over Will’s heart, and they pause there a moment, both of them breathing hard.

 

“You are so warm,” Hannibal murmurs.

 

Will nods faintly, eyes wide. “You too.”

 

Their hands are everywhere now, sliding up sides, down arms, curling in shirts and hair and blankets. They’re still kissing, again and again, breaking apart to breathe only to fall back together, mouths open and hot. Will licks into Hannibal’s mouth with a gasp, hips shifting like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Hannibal makes a soft whimper against him, fingers bunching Will’s shirt.

 

Will’s hand finds Hannibal’s hip and holds him there, thumb pressing softly.

 

He moans, softly. “God, you feel good.”

 

“So do you,” Hannibal whispers.

 

Their bodies are tangled now, all knees and breath and soft friction. Will rolls slightly, his thigh between Hannibal’s, and they both go still at the contact.

 

“Is this okay?” Will asks, voice hoarse.

 

Hannibal’s eyes are wide and glassy. “Yes. It’s—Will, it’s perfect.”

 

They’re flushed and panting, lips red, breath fast. Hands fumbling and frantic. Neither of them knows what they’re doing, but they’re doing it. Together.

 

They’re figuring it out.

 

Will can’t stop. His mouth keeps finding Hannibal’s, over and over, spit-slick and breathless, drawn to it like a need he doesn’t know how to survive without. Each kiss lands wetter than the last, open-mouthed and swollen, pulling sounds out of both of them, soft, startled, ragged.

 

He doesn’t mean to get greedy, but he is. His lips slide off course and catch at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth, then trail sloppily along his cheek, down to his jaw, where he presses another open-mouthed kiss, then another. Will isn’t graceful about it. He’s panting, practically mouthing at the edge of Hannibal’s jawbone like he can’t get close enough.

 

This is better than anything Will ever imagined. A million times better.

 

He never thought he’d get this. Not just the touch. Not just the body. But the fumbling. The sweetness. The way neither of them knows what the hell they’re doing but they want it, want each other, so badly they can’t stop.

 

The covers are too hot. Too heavy. Will kicks them down without looking, feet tangling as he pushes them off the edge of the bed, and Hannibal’s body shifts with him, following instinctively. Their legs slot together. Their hips meet.

 

They both moan. Their hips grind together, clothed and clumsy, hard cocks brushing through soft layers of cotton and sweat-dampened heat. It’s overwhelming. It’s good. Better than Will knew it could be. Pressure and friction and him, all at once. It makes Will whimper against Hannibal’s cheek.

 

He can feel Hannibal’s pulse in every inch of skin they share. His body is burning hot, nearly trembling. He’s never wanted anyone like this. Never imagined he could.

 

Hannibal’s hips shift forward again, searching, rubbing. They press together harder this time, and the fabric of their clothes drags in just the right way.

 

Will gasps.

 

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. “God—Hannibal—”

 

Hannibal moans helplessly into his mouth. His arms are around Will now, loose and shaky, as if he doesn’t know where to touch, only that he has to. His fingers splay at Will’s lower back, drawing him in closer. His thighs press open and Will fits between them without thinking, mouth still hot and open on Hannibal’s, sweat slicking their foreheads, their cheeks.

 

Their bodies rut together like it’s the only way they know how to say what they feel. It’s all teeth and tongues and moaning now, hot breath spilling between them. Will’s never been this hard in his life. He grinds down again, helplessly, and the drag of Hannibal’s cock against his own through layers of sweat-dampened silk and cotton makes him cry out.

 

“You feel so fucking good,” Will gasps against his lips. “I didn’t know—I didn’t—God—”

 

Hannibal’s mouth is open under his, glazed and pink. “Neither did I,” he whispers.

 

“Wanna keep going,” Will whispers, helpless. “Wanna feel more of you.”

 

Hannibal nods, barely. “Yes. Please.”

 

Will shifts again, hips grinding forward, and they both moan louder this time. There’s no space left between them, only pressure and breath and friction. They keep kissing until Will feels like he might come from just this. Just the heat. Just the sound of Hannibal panting into his mouth. They murmur things between kisses, barely making sense.

 

“You’re shaking,” Hannibal says softly.

 

“So are you,” Will breathes.

 

Hannibal kisses his cheek, his jaw, then his mouth again. “Don’t stop.”

 

“I won’t,” Will promises. “Not unless you want me to.”

 

“I never will.”

 

Neither of them is going to last long. It’s too much. Too new. Too good.

 

But that’s okay. That’s the whole point.

 

Will can feel it, wet and warm and spreading slick between them. Every time their hips grind, it smears further, sticks slick and humid against his skin, and the mess of it makes him shudder.

 

He can feel Hannibal leaking. Sticky already, soaked through, leaving a spreading patch between their bellies, through their boxers. The heat of it, the sheer wetness of it, catches Will off guard. Makes him lock up, just for a second, breath hitching as his hips stutter forward again.

 

“Fuck,” Will whispers, head dropping, voice low and cracked as they kiss. “You’re so wet. Jesus, Hannibal.”

 

Hannibal makes a sweet little sound against his mouth. Soft and low and wrecked. Their mouths keep sliding, messy and open, soaked with spit and breath. 

 

Will breaks away for a breath, lips brushing Hannibal’s jaw as he murmurs, “I thought you had all the experience in the world.” He laughs, breathless and crooked, forehead pressed to Hannibal’s temple. “You act like you’ve fucked gods.”

 

Hannibal lets out a small, startled breath of a laugh too, more like a moan. His lips chase Will’s, eyes fluttering closed, pink and glistening. “You are all I’ve ever wanted. You undo me. And I want it. I want you. In all the ways I’ve never let anyone see.”

 

Will groans. “God, I love this. I love this.”

 

“I adore you, Will,” Hannibal says softly.

 

Will’s hand shoots down Hannibal’s back, sliding under his waistband, gripping his ass tight, tight enough to make Hannibal gasp into his mouth. Will pulls him in, forces them flush, until their cocks are grinding together again in slow, aborted little circles that make his toes curl.

 

It’s too hot. Too sticky. Perfect.

 

Hannibal’s whole body bucks against him in tiny, stuttering shivers. His hands are everywhere, Will’s chest, his throat, his hair, his shoulders, as if he doesn’t know what to hold onto first.

 

Will’s panting. Moaning. He noses at Hannibal’s temple, kisses there, before whispering, “Want you to see me come.”

 

Hannibal whines. Whines.

 

“Wanted you to see me like this,” Will says. “All of me.”

 

Hannibal nods helplessly, mouth parted, eyes dazed and fluttering. “I do,” he breathes. “I do, Will. Please.”

 

Will kisses him again. Keeps grinding. Slow, tight, desperate. His hand stays clenched on Hannibal’s ass, holding him where he wants him, pressing them together where it matters. Their soaked cocks rub again, again, and Will’s hips jerk with it. It’s filthy and sweet and absolutely perfect. Will’s not sure how he’s still breathing. His thighs tremble. Hannibal’s sounds are soft and unguarded, every moan tucked into Will’s mouth, every breath shared.

 

He can feel Hannibal’s cock leaking against him, sticky and insistent, smearing wet against the fabric of his own underwear, the friction going sloppy and delicious.

 

Hannibal’s hands don’t roam like he expected. They stay close, clutching the blankets, the hem of Will’s shirt, the curve of his ribs, tentative and aching. It’s not the polished performance Will thought it might be. It’s better.

 

Better than anything he ever imagined. Better than being wined and dined and spread open like a story read in parts.

 

This is raw. Shy. Human.

Will’s body curls around Hannibal’s. His thighs tighten, pulling him in, pressing him down. He can feel Hannibal’s heart pounding through his chest, can feel his cock twitch where it rubs between them. They’re figuring it out with their bodies. They’re learning each other by touch and motion and mess.

 

Will’s fingers trail down Hannibal’s back, catching on sweat-slick skin and the sharp curve of his spine. His grip tightens when their cocks rub just right and the pressure makes him cry out softly against Hannibal’s cheek.

 

The wetness grows. Thick and hot and everywhere now. It soaks into the sheets beneath them, into Will’s thighs, into the place where their bellies meet and press and grind. It squelches softly with each drag of their hips, like they’ve already come and haven’t stopped. The sticky press of it sends a shudder through Will’s chest. 

There’s nothing graceful here. Nothing orchestrated. Only panting. Only groaning. Only need. Will’s hand fists in Hannibal’s hair, messy and damp, tilting his face up again to kiss him open-mouthed, noses mashing, spit running between their chins.

 

Their mouths can’t stay off each other. The kissing goes sloppy, tongues pushing, lips too wet, teeth catching, and Will loves it. Loves how bad they are at it, how good it feels to not have to get it right, just to feel.

 

Will’s head is spinning. His belly is tight. Hannibal pants against his cheek, and every time Will grinds back up, it gets wetter. Stickier. His thighs tremble. He grips Hannibal harder, their bodies working together in slow, urgent, pulsing thrusts, small and uneven, and perfect in all their imperfection.

 

His hand slips down between them, grasping the waistband of Hannibal’s pants, tugging. Hannibal shudders when they peel down his hips, first soft resistance, then sudden freedom. His cock springs free, flushed and wet, leaking onto the trail of hair that leads up to his belly. Will can feel it against him, smearing, hot and heavy where their stomachs touch. The stickiness of it makes him curse softly.

 

“Oh fuck,” Will breathes, pulling back just enough to look. His voice cracks with it. He pushes Hannibal’s shirt up with one shaking hand, baring his chest and belly, dragging his eyes down over the slick shine of him, the way the head of his cock glistens, leaking into the coarse hair around it. “Hannibal.”

 

Hannibal just pants, lips red and open, blinking up at him like he can barely see straight.

 

Will swallows hard and kisses him again before shoving his own pants down hastily, trying to keep contact. Their bodies bump, slide, catch. And then Hannibal’s hand fumbles at Will’s waistband, tugging down hard until they’re both bare from the waist down. Their thighs press together, and then—then—their cocks touch, skin to skin, leaking and twitching and slick with sweat and everything else.

 

Will lets out a low, guttural moan, his head tipping back. “Oh.”

 

The smell of it is thick in the air, musk and salt and arousal, the scent of Hannibal’s skin all over him. He can feel everything. Hannibal’s cock pulsing against his. The wetness of him. The heat.

 

“Perfect,” Will mutters, nearly choking on it. “You’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”

 

His hand finds its way between them. Hesitating, trembling. Then he wraps it around both of them, careful, sliding his palm over slick skin. They’re soaked. Dripping. He strokes them together, slow at first, watching Hannibal’s face as he does it.

 

Hannibal gasps. His whole body jolts and he clutches at Will’s shoulders like he can’t hold still. “Will—” he breathes, voice unsteady. “I—oh. Please.”

 

Will groans, jaw clenched. “Yeah? You like that?”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal whispers, eyes fluttering closed, his hips rocking into the rhythm. “I—Will, I’m close.”

 

Will leans in and kisses his cheek, his temple, keeps stroking them together, feeling the slick slide of his own cock against Hannibal’s, the hot wet head of Hannibal’s cock leaking over both their stomachs now. 

 

“I adore you,” Hannibal says again, and it sounds like it’s being pulled from the depths of him. “You are—so beautiful. I—Will—”

 

Hannibal trembles, hand clinging to Will’s back, and Will moves against him, still rutting, breath harsh, cock dragging through the mess between them. “Didn’t know it could feel this good,” he pants. “Didn’t—didn’t know.”

 

Hannibal’s hand lifts, trembling, to Will’s hair, petting gently. “Only you,” he murmurs, dazed and wrecked. “Only ever with you.”

 

Will kisses him again, hard, searching, messy, and his voice is almost pleading when he pulls back just enough to speak, panting against Hannibal’s cheek. 

 

“Gonna come,” he gasps. “Fuck, Hannibal—come on, look at me.”

 

And Hannibal does. He opens his eyes, lashes sticky and dark, and looks straight at Will with this soft, burning expression. His chest rises and falls in short, shallow pants. His lips are raw and red and a little open. He leans in and kisses Will again, softer now, slower. Then he nods once and reaches up, hand sliding into Will’s curls.

 

Will shudders. His hips are stuttering, his rhythm gone sloppy, and his hand has slowed, his whole body trembling on the edge of it. And then Hannibal’s hand wraps around both of them. Takes over where Will’s was. Not confident. Just loving.

This, all of it, it’s awkward and it’s perfect. It’s not what he imagined, but it’s better . Realer. Raw and a little silly. There’s a moment where Will closes his eyes and realizes he’s naked in every sense of the word. Not just stripped of clothes but stripped of everything else too. His defenses, his armor, all the jagged edges he’s honed like a blade over the years. They’ve fallen somewhere between the sheets, forgotten. He let Hannibal see him dreaming, sweating, shaking with the echoes of nightmares. He let him see the way he breaks apart.

He’ll let Hannibal see him come.

Letting someone see your face when you’re sleeping, mouth open, skin slack, body twitching in the shadows of something you can’t control, that’s one thing. But this— this —letting someone see you fall apart in real time, flushed and messy and barely breathing—that’s another entirely.

He didn’t know it could be this soft.

They kiss again and Will shifts so he can press himself against Hannibal, their cocks sliding again between slick bellies, and he groans, low and needy. The friction is everything. Warm and wet and dizzying. It’s still clumsy, he can’t get the angle quite right, and they keep slipping, but god , it feels good. It feels right . Hannibal’s hair clings to his temple in damp curls. His throat bobs with every sound he makes, soft and helpless and sweet .

That’s what surprises Will most. How sweet it is. How sweet he is.

Hannibal, who in another life might’ve stayed pristine and untouched, nothing more than a name behind glass, a beautiful man in a perfect suit. But here he is now: flushed and bare and his . chest heaves. His thighs shake against Will’s as they grind. And when Will strokes him again, slow and careful, Hannibal arches up like he can’t stand it, head tipped back, neck exposed.

Will watches all of it, memorizes the shine of spit on his chin, the pink at the tip of his nose, the way his lashes flutter when Will kisses him just below the ear.

This is everything he ever wanted.

Not just sex. Not just closeness. But this , the whole thing. The mess, the sweetness, the deep shaking intimacy of being allowed to see someone like this. To touch someone like this. The trust . He wants Hannibal in his bed every night, soft and sleepy and real. Wants him in the morning, too, when the light’s sharp and nothing’s hidden. 

Will ruts forward, pushing himself closer, grinding their hips together with a breathy whine. It’s too much and not enough. Will’s thighs ache. His belly sticks to Hannibal’s. 

They’re so young like this. Not in age, but in experience. Untouched. Unpracticed. And together . That’s what matters. Will doesn’t feel ashamed of the mess or the trembling or the way he keeps losing control. Because Hannibal’s just as lost. Just as hungry. Just as new.

There’s still so much to learn. About this. About each other. But Will wants it. He wants it. Wants the quiet of Hannibal beside him. The heat of his body at night. He wants every kiss. Every slow rut of hips. Every trembling moment like this one.

He’s never had this before. He thought he wasn’t allowed to. But it’s real. And it’s happening. And he gets to keep it.

“Let me,” Hannibal murmurs. “Please. Let me see.”

 

And Will does. He lets it happen, lets himself fall over the edge right there in Hannibal’s arms. His whole body curls into it, spine bowing, his hand gripping Hannibal’s arm, his breath caught in his throat before it breaks out into a deep, shameless groan. His mouth falls open. His face twists up tight and desperate and unguarded. There’s nothing held back, not the tremble in his jaw, not the helpless rut of his hips, not the sob of pleasure that chokes out of him.

 

His come spills hot and wet over Hannibal’s hand, over both of them, mixing with what’s already there, and he shakes, completely undone.

 

And Hannibal watches. He watches like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen, eyes wide and wet and aching with something like awe. He keeps stroking through it, slow and careful, even as Will sags forward against him, breathless and red and wrecked.

 

Will presses a soft, dizzy kiss to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. “You—need to—”

 

But he doesn’t even have to finish. Hannibal makes a broken sound low in his throat and ruts forward once, twice, and then he’s coming too. Will feels it, the sudden warmth between them, the press and pulse of Hannibal’s cock against his own softening one, the way Hannibal clings to him, jaw tucked into Will’s shoulder like he’s hiding.

 

Will holds him as it happens, listening to every sweet sound he makes, those soft, punched-out gasps, the hum that starts in his chest and spills out of him like something helpless and holy. And then it’s quiet. Just their breathing. The sound of sheets shifting when Will collapses onto his side, pulling Hannibal with him.

 

They’re a mess. The whole bed’s a mess. They’re still half-dressed, sweaty and flushed and soaked through with come. Will’s skin is tacky with it. He should care. He doesn’t.

 

Will shifts gently in the half-dark, his breath still catching in his throat every few seconds from the aftershocks, but quieter now. Just the heavy rhythm of his chest moving against Hannibal’s. They’re sticky and tangled together, skin warm and wet, the soft groan of the mattress below them like a heartbeat.

 

Will lifts his head and presses a kiss to Hannibal’s temple. It’s tender, almost thoughtless. Like breathing. Then, carefully, slowly, Will reaches down and peels off his T-shirt. It sticks where it clings to his back, damp with sweat, and he has to tug it up over his head with one arm, the other still half-curled around Hannibal’s waist.

 

The shirt is soft. Will uses it gently, brushing it first against Hannibal’s stomach, careful around the more sensitive places, then over his own chest, swiping away the worst of the mess.  They can shower in the morning. Right now, this feels more intimate than anything else. Will drops the shirt to the floor beside the bed and lets his hand linger, cupping Hannibal’s hip. He rests his head on the pillow, close, their noses almost brushing.

 

He hesitates a moment, then whispers, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

“I was afraid,” Hannibal says quietly, after a moment. “I thought I would lose control. I did.”

 

Will leans in and presses their foreheads together. “Good,” he says. “That’s all I wanted. That’s what I wanted.” His thumb brushes Hannibal’s jaw. “You didn’t mess anything up,” he adds. “We were made for each other. You know that, right? Even if it’s messy. Especially because it’s messy. We’re already tangled. That’s the point.”

 

Hannibal’s breath catches like Will’s words have reached something buried deep. His fingers flex around Will’s hand, gripping tighter, like reassurance, like proof.

 

“I have spent so much of my life in discipline,” Hannibal says softly, voice rough with emotion. “So much time believing that to feel something this deeply would unmake me. That to yield would be to fall apart.”

 

Will blinks. His throat works around a soundless reply. But then he exhales, and presses his nose to Hannibal’s cheek.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says again, lower now, not pleading but steady. “Don’t leave.”

 

“I won’t,” Hannibal breathes. “I couldn’t.

 

Will closes his eyes and nods slightly, his cheek brushing Hannibal’s. He lets the warmth of that settle inside him. The conviction. The closeness. There’s something wild and still delicate about the moment.

 

Will never thought he’d get to fall asleep beside someone like this. Not just anyone, him. Hannibal. Beautiful and strange and cruel in ways Will still doesn’t understand, but kind too, in those quiet, surgical incisions of affection that only Will ever seems to recognize. He sees it all clearly now, in the hush between the end of everything and the start of something new: Hannibal stayed. He didn't run. He’s here. In Will’s bed, in Will’s house.

 

This is what he wanted. Not just the sex, not even primarily the sex. This. 

 

They’ll sleep through the night like this. Will knows it.

 

Hannibal will wake up stiff and sore from the terrible mattress, and Will will make them coffee and eggs and pretend it’s a normal morning. They’ll let the dogs out. They’ll sit at the kitchen table and talk about music or dreams or what it means to be alive. Maybe Hannibal will kiss him over the butter dish. Maybe he won’t. It doesn’t matter. He’ll be there.

 

And this will happen again.

 

This will happen again.

 

Will will kiss him against the kitchen counter next time. Or on the porch. He’ll learn what it means to make love slowly, what it means to be claimed so gently it hurts. He’ll learn the way Hannibal’s voice changes when he’s about to come. He’ll get used to the weight of Hannibal’s hand on his chest when he sleeps. He’ll get used to washing two coffee mugs instead of one. He’ll learn everything. And Hannibal will learn him too.

 

He doesn’t have to be perfect. He doesn’t have to be healed or well or whole. He can be exactly as fucked up as he is, ugly and sweating and afraid, and still, Hannibal will come back. Will knows that now. Hannibal will keep coming back.

 

And Will will go to him, too.

 

He pictures Hannibal’s house: cold and clean and silent. Too silent. He’ll go there next week, maybe sooner. He’ll bring a bag. He’ll sleep in Hannibal’s bed, curled against him in the dark, and if he wakes screaming, if he thrashes or mutters or sobs from the things that haunt him, Hannibal will still be there. Will can fall apart as many times as it takes, and Hannibal won’t leave.

 

Will lets his hand drift up to Hannibal’s chest, rests it there, feeling the slow beat of his heart. It’s a real heart. A fragile thing. And it’s his.

 

 

Notes:

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of cervviidae's virgin hannigram fics