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The melancholy isn’t new.
It has varietals, different blooms and branches that sometimes stay for an hour, sometimes a week. Sometimes an indeterminate blob of time between.
No one apologizes when the waves pass, there’s no need, but when the water is lapping at Will’s ankles he is consistently frustrated with his inability to dry it up.
Hannibal is staring from the window of their little beach house, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. It’s a chilly autumn day, and the sea has greyed to match the swollen clouds above. Chin cupped in his palm, he sighs. It’s a quiet huff of a thing, made so as not to draw attention.
It draws attention. Will has found, in this blur of days to months since they pulled themselves from the salt-belly of the sea, that he is uncomfortably tuned to Hannibal’s emotions. Before, they were difficult to pluck, not so easily worn, but the water eroded his facades and now he is a fragile thing. Not in body, nor mind, but in the carelessness of how he lets his thoughts slip from his eyes. It’s easy to spot, easy to catch in his hand and hold to his breast, careful - always careful.
“I got you something.”
Will hasn’t done this before. Gifts were never his strong suit. He sets the box by Hannibal’s elbow anyway, perching on the edge of the couch. Hannibal looks down at it with perplexity.
“Why?”
Will shrugs. “Why not?”
Lifting the lid from the box, Hannibal pulls a finely made scarf, hewn in a gradient of deep purple and red. A fine thing, soft as butter and warm between his fingers. Hannibal doesn’t look up, just runs the fabric over his hand, letting it glide like a snake.
“Weather’s getting cold,” Will offers as justification, “and I like that colour on you.”
Hannibal raises his eyes then. “Oh?”
Will just shrugs.
“Thank you,” Hannibal says, and hangs the scarf loosely around his neck. “Perhaps I’ll take a walk in it later.”
Then he returns his eyes to the sea. Will sighs and walks away.
He leaves him be until dinner, when it becomes clear that Hannibal is in no mood to begin his normal performative cooking ritual. There’s enough to go by in the fridge that they can’t possibly go hungry, but after staring into it for long minutes, Will decides that’s not what he wants. He takes the phone off the wall, dials a number.
Thirty minutes later, give or take, a young man appears with styrofoam containers stacked in a plastic bag. Will hands him a few twenties, a generous enough tip to stifle questions as to why this customer is wearing a low-brimmed hat and dark glasses. He takes the bags into the kitchen.
“Dinner!” Will yells. Hannibal is still on the couch. The scarf, at least, remains. He opens his mouth and Will makes a shushing motion.
“Don’t care if you’re not hungry, come here and eat.”
Hannibal makes a predictable wrinkle of his nose at the offensive red-lettered HAVE A NICE DAY take-out bags. Will just eyes him, daring a complaint.
“This,” he explains as he draws a container out and cracks it open, “is my favourite comfort food.” Steam wafts out along with the pleasant aroma of coconut and lemongrass. “Thai curry.”
There’s a small quirk of Hannibal’s lips that would have gone unnoticed by anyone else and Will feeds on it like air.
“Comfort food,” he says quietly.
“Mm,” Will nods, dipping a finger into the sauce and sucking it between his lips. He makes a pleased sound. “Perfect.” He dips again, holds his finger out to Hannibal. Daring, but asking too.
Hannibal wraps gentle fingers around his wrist and darts his tongue out to delicately lick the tip of Will’s index finger. He makes a satisfactory noise and nods.
“It will do.” There’s just enough jest in his tone that Will laughs quietly. He serves up two plates and they retire to the living room.
There’s a marathon of old musicals on TCM. Will puts it on in the background as they dig in. From somewhere within the recesses of the house, a small grey cat slinks out. She winds her way around their ankles, mewing daintily.
“No, Ham,” Will says, “your food is in the kitchen.”
He pretends not to notice when Hannibal breaks off a piece of chicken, scrapes off the sauce and lets it fall to the floor.
“Poor Alexandra,” Hannibal says, “your masters are so cruel.” She rubs her head on his hand and trills happily.
They fall asleep on the couch with For Me and My Gal playing in the background. Will wakes first, Hannibal’s head on his shoulder.
“I know you miss your old life,” he says quietly. He lets his fingers comb gently through Hannibal’s fine hair, shot through with silver now. “But this one’s not so bad.”
Hannibal rumbles something in answer, the sleep-worn frown melting from his features. He twists, adjusting the pressure to his nearly-healed stomach wound, and Will feels fondness crawl across him like a blanket.
The next day, the sky is a little brighter. Hannibal joins him for breakfast newly showered, the scarf draped around his neck. Will can’t help but giggle.
“Nice outfit.”
“It’s soft. I like it.”
“Good,” Will replies. He crowds closer than he normally would as Hannibal pours his coffee and kisses him on the cheek.
Hannibal goes very still.
“Sorry,” Will says immediately, “I didn’t-” But he doesn’t finish the sentence, because he did, he certainly did, and he has no desire to take it back. Hannibal cups his mug loosely, fingers the scarf with his free hand. He opens his mouth as if to say something then closes it quickly.
They stand there, frozen in a tableau of confused intimacy, until Alexandra winds her way around their ankles and makes pitiful cries.
“Darling,” Hannibal coos, scooping her up, “you need your breakfast.”
And that, it seems, is that.
Will leaves him be for the rest of the morning, goes for a run, lets the sand fleck his calves. When he comes back, Hannibal is waiting. The scarf is gone.
“You think that my malaise comes from nostalgia.” His mouth is an indecipherable line.
Will unzips his jacket, still panting a little. “I– yeah, I thought…”
“Why did you kiss me this morning?”
The change of subject is abruptly jarring, but then Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes and sees that it really isn’t.
“Because I wanted to,” he says plainly.
“To make me feel better?”
Will shakes his head, hangs his jacket on the brass hook in the entryway. “No,” he replies, “if it did, great, but that wasn’t the reason.”
“What was the reason, then?”
Hannibal is looking at him like he’s something dangerous, but he seems forlorn despite it. Resigned to his own slow destruction. Will breathes in, exhales steadily, palms at his sides.
“Get your scarf. We’re going for a walk.”
Hannibal nods once and disappears. He returns in less than a minute, the deep purple tucked close to his throat.
The moment their feet touch the sand, Will takes Hannibal’s hand in his, locking their fingers together. He feels the tension, the instinct to pull away, and holds tight.
“I thought you felt trapped,” Will says quietly.
“I do.”
“But not the way I thought.”
Will tugs him closer, Hannibal falls obediently in line beside him. He walks them both to the ocean’s edge. Seafoam tickles the soles of their feet.
“I dragged you under.” Will doesn’t look at him, eyes set on the vast expanse of blue. “But I pulled you out too.” He can feel Hannibal trembling, his pulse quickening helplessly.
“Do you trust me?” He turns to Hannibal then, watches the light dapple his face. Hannibal looks back at him, wary as a churchmouse.
“Yes,” he says, “it terrifies me.”
Will shakes his head. “Don’t let it.”
And then he kisses him. Soft, but insistent, urging a pliancy that he knows rests under the surface. Hannibal is still at first, but as each wave strikes them he grows bolder. He clutches at Will, letting his hunger break from its cage. Soon, they are kissing the way men decades younger should be, careless and with crazed joy. Hannibal tongue slips into his mouth and Will moans, grabbing the ends of his scarf and pulling him even closer.
When he breaks for breath, he pulls salt-air into his lungs and it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. Then Hannibal slinks in for another kiss, sucking and nibbling on his lower lip, and Will reconsiders what delicious really is.
“Hannibal,” he gasps. He barely recognizes his voice, raspy as the sand between his toes.
Hannibal breathes ragged, nuzzles the hollow of Will’s throat.
“You have broken and remade me,” he murmurs.
“I know.” Will strokes his hair. “Feeling’s mutual.”
They walk back home, twin footprints left alongside each other. They make love twice once they’re back inside - first wild and rushed, then slow and with an almost painful reverence. There are tears, and laughter. Half-whispered apologies and silent promises.
It’s late afternoon by the time they emerge, and Will drags him to the kitchen, cracking open the freezer. He pulls out a pint of Haagen-Dazs and two spoons. Hannibal scoffs and Will just wags a finger.
“No,” he replies to the unasked question, “no bowls. You’ve come inside me, we can share some goddamn ice cream.”
He feeds Hannibal the first bite, licking the cold traces from his lips soon after. Hannibal reciprocates, letting a small scoop ‘accidentally’ fall onto Will’s chest. He sucks it off with a happy hum and Will tousles his hair.
“Happy now?”
Hannibal nods, turning his face to look up at him with undisguised adoration.
“Immensely. Terribly. Tragically.”
Will snorts and bends to kiss him.
“So pretentious.”
“And yet.”
The sentence needs no finishing. Will just nods, smiling.
“And yet.”