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“Will,” Chiyoh says—her voice almost guttural in anger, such a far cry from what Will remembered her to sound like. “If you don’t help me now then you can’t help Hannibal,” she says. Meaning, Hannibal could die.
Will nods, receiving the rubber gloves and snapping them on. The feeling of the gloves bring on stacked memories of crime scenes—and for a second, his mind almost stirs into that direction. He almost thinks about how he has betrayed Jack Crawford.
But the alarming amount of blood that Hannibal has lost, and which now has dyed everything around them dark red, thankfully pulls him back into reality.
Will applies pressure to where Chiyoh points and struggles to keep his eyes from darting to Hannibal’s face, where he’s afraid that Hannibal is watching—judging. Or, maybe Will is afraid that Hannibal might already be gone. And that possibility is too horrible to think about.
After, Chiyoh wordlessly cleans the wounds. She attends to Will’s wounds, which look meagre in comparison—and she makes quick work of it. Will is grateful for how efficient she is. If it were Hannibal tending to his wounds, he would have liked to lingered; would have stared deep into Will’s eyes—and he couldn’t have bore that.
Chiyoh doesn’t seem worried now, and that somehow sets Will at ease. It feels like she’s a better judge of near-death experiences. “Help me change him,” she instructs. There is something in her look which is cautious, as if expecting that Will will burst out in panic all of a sudden—and do God knows what. Despite being successful in keeping the panic at bay, Will feels a low hum of it now, creeping up and waiting for the right moment to pounce. But whether it is panic or nervousness, it’s difficult to gauge just what it is.
Chiyoh hands him fabric scissors from her medical supplies and cuts along the left leg of Hannibal’s slacks. From her demeanour, it’s clear that she wants Will to do the other one. Will takes a deep breath and begins at the hem, which is already growing stiff from dried blood. His panic or nervousness, whatever it is: he’s taking great care not to make it too obvious. He starts cutting shakily, aware of the gnawing in his chest at having to see Hannibal like this. When he nears Hannibal’s hip, Will can barely move his fingers, and can feel Chiyoh waiting for him. After a second, she takes the scissors from his hand and finishes wordlessly. Will looks away when Chiyoh drags the cut slacks away and balls it up to set it aside. Now comes the harder part—he’ll have to clean Hannibal. But surprisingly, Chiyoh has mercy on Will by spreading a sheet over Hannibal’s nakedness and instructing him to change himself. Will stoops down to the bag she refers to and finds comfort clothes: a variety of sweatshirts and sweatpants; some wool socks.
“There are rags you can use to clean yourself,” Chiyoh says, not even bothering to meet his eyes. “Go use the bathroom.”
Will nods and carries the bundle with him out to the bathroom—wherever that is.
“To you right. Down the hall,” Chiyoh says.
“Thanks,” Will rasps, wishing he could sound like he means it.
*
When Will returns, Hannibal is cleaned and clothed in sweatpants, chest bare because getting him to wear a shirt would mean moving him, and that seems like something that is unnecessary for now. Instead, he’s covered to the chin with a blanket.
“He needs rest and so do you. I will prepare dinner,” Chiyoh says, eyeing the space beside Hannibal, as if ordering that Will make use of it. She points to the small table beside the bed. “There’s water there. Mind his wound,” she instructs, and then takes her leave.
Will has no say in this because she doesn’t even wait for an answer. He slumps down a little from exhaustion, and eyes the blankets that Chiyoh had set aside for him.
Hannibal is sound asleep, knocked out by drugs. Either way, it still feels frightening to finally—after all these years—be lying down beside him, completely alone…just the two of them. With his eyes closed and his dishevelled hair, Hannibal looks impossibly human. He looks a little pale—and stubble is shadowing his face. It’s hard to comprehend this version of Hannibal, compared to the notorious man who once had the FBI in the palm of his hand—who staged such glorious deaths and ended lives with such incredible finesse. Will chuckles bitterly: Hannibal has also ended his marriage.
Will shakes his head and spreads the large blanket so that it covers the both of them, and lays down. Staring at the ceiling induces him into restlessness—his chest feels like a ticking time-bomb. He realises that it’s all the unspoken words that he had been wanting to say to Hannibal. Will turns on his left side and looks at Hannibal, at the scar on his cheek—something left over from another time. Slowly, he nudges towards Hannibal until the front of him is glued to Hannibal’s right side. His nose comes in contact with Hannibal’s jaw. It feels so intimate—and so peaceful. “I’m sorry,” he says, and brings his hand into Hannibal’s under the blanket, which is lying on his side. “I wish I could take the pain away.”
Before Will knows what he is doing, he’s pressing his lips to the side of Hannibal’s cheek, and then to his temple…then to the scorching skin of his neck. It doesn’t feel wrong, or an invasion of privacy. It feels just right. He feels warmth blooming in his chest.
*
Days pass—Chiyoh doesn’t tell him much about their location, and maybe that’s for the better. He doesn’t remember how he and Hannibal were transported here, other than brief flashes. And maybe that’s for the better too. All he knows is that they’re in Japan, judging by the writing on some of the juice boxes that Chiyoh has them gulp down on.
When Hannibal is awake, he seems almost unaware of Will’s presence. Chiyoh helps him to the bathroom when needed. He barely eats or drinks—and spends the rest of the time sleeping. Will feels useless. Technically he’s also supposed to be recovering but he feels almost energetic. All he needs to do is swallow some pills to prevent infection and clean his wounds—while Hannibal seems to be slowly withering from life. But Will has faith in Hannibal. At times when Will clasps his hand into Hannibal’s, he can feel Hannibal squeeze back, with a strength that he himself couldn’t have managed while bedridden.
He, too, spends most of his time trying to sleep—or looking for minute changes in Hannibal’s recovery.
The thought of intimacy with Hannibal crosses Will’s mind several times a day. Now that it's clear which side Will is on, intimacy is all that he can think about. Because where else are they heading? He wonders if he's delusional to be thinking about this, but he can't seem to stop. Who knew that when you had nothing to do but to heal your body, all you could do was think? Strange to think that even with the condition that he is in, his mind drifts to thoughts of touching Hannibal…of being touched by Hannibal.
Whenever his eyes are pulled back to the sleeping Hannibal, Will lets himself linger. And then, with a sharp guilt, he averts them and chastises himself; and then repeats the cycle all over again.
*
Will has looked at Hannibal’s naked chest so much that the sight of his naked back is like a feast to the eyes. Chiyoh is helping him walk to the bathroom—it’s strange to see the two so unabashedly comfortable with each other. Will feels a sickening jealousy, because Chiyoh is family to Hannibal. But then something reassures him that he himself is more than family to Hannibal. When Hannibal returns with Chiyoh, Will pretends to sleep—but then Hannibal seems to sense it and calls out his name, after Chiyoh has exited the room.
“Will,” Hannibal rasps, though he seems more lucid than ever.
Will turns his head to Hannibal—he does look a lot more aware of his surroundings.
“How are you?”
For a second, Will wants to be mean. He’s suffered worse—he’s been shot, stabbed, gutted. But he doesn’t find it in his heart to get angry. “I feel fine,” Will replies. The stab wound on his cheek and shoulder feel like nothing. “How’s your fever?” He sits up, and simultaneously reaches out his hand to place it on Hannibal’s forehead. He withdraws it sharply before it even makes contact: he’s shocked by his unconscious movements—because—who is he to take such liberties with Hannibal—as if Hannibal were his to touch.
Hannibal notices but lets it pass, perhaps not knowing how to react. “It’s coming down,” he says, uncertain.
Just then, Chiyoh enters with a tray and her eyes flit to Will, in the way that she has, as if she doesn’t yet quite trust him with Hannibal’s well-being.
Much hard work has been carried out by her—and Will wonders what it is about them—Hannibal and Chiyoh—who showcase such superhuman strength. But today, she seems tired. Finally, Will thinks, a sign that she is human after all. Today, as if she has calculated the speed of Hannibal’s recovery and deems him well enough to feed himself, she doesn’t linger and urge Hannibal to take his meal; or to have another spoon. She sets it down on the table and takes her leave, apparently more busy with other tasks. Or simply testing how Will would do without her.
“Time to eat,” Will hoists himself up and takes the tray onto his lap. Hannibal is obedient, and accepts the bowl of porridge and pretends to eat. Will sits facing Hannibal, having trouble with his own appetite, but wanting to be a good example to Hannibal, though he can’t chew too well because of his wound.
“I do not regret anything that has allowed us to be in this present moment—together, Will.” Hannibal says suddenly, his hand absentmindedly stirring the porridge. He’s looking out at the garden: perhaps he’s being merciful to spare Will the embarrassment.
Will almost chokes, and knows that his cheeks are flushed. There are so many ways that he could answer but nothing comes out. “Eat,” he instructs Hannibal. “I know it’s not fancy but you have to build up your strength.”
Hannibal doesn’t listen; his eyes are looking at nothing.
Will has almost finished his portion and sets it aside. “Hannibal,” he says, to which Hannibal responds by turning his face to Will. It’s almost jarring to be so close and vulnerable with each other, with nothing but the silence between them.
Will takes the spoon from Hannibal’s hand and gathers a small amount of porridge into it. Then, he returns the spoon into Hannibal’s fingers. “Please?” Will asks, hoping to have some kind of effect—as it did, the last time when he had said please to Hannibal.
Hannibal stares at Will, maybe recalling the same scene in his mind—but then brings the spoon to his mouth and swallows. The moody atmosphere fades; Will finds that he’s smiling. He takes up his abandoned bowl and his wedding band audibly clinks against the ceramic. Instantly, Molly’s face darkens his mind. Will gulps, unintentionally loud in the silence; his guilt in abandoning her coats the space between them.
“Are you thinking of her?” Hannibal asks.
Will feels the corners of his mouth turn down. “Don’t talk about her,” he says, the taste in his mouth bitter. Will expects Hannibal to rebuke but nothing happens. He has returned to not eating, and has resumed his staring at the garden. “Hannibal,” Will says, a little too loud—feeling vaguely like he wants to apologise. When Hannibal turns his face to Will again, he also looks like he wants to apologise.
Will is left speechless so he takes the spoon from Hannibal again and gives it another try. Scooping porridge, he brings it to Hannibal’s mouth. “Please eat,” he says.
Saying please seems to be the magic word. Hannibal opens his mouth and accepts the food, not refusing when Will keeps on feeding him. After about ten bites, Hannibal turns his face away—like a child—and though he genuinely looks like he’s had enough, Will knows that Hannibal is playing. A strange excitement spears through Will’s heart, and he decides to play along.
“Come on,” he says. “another bite,” he hovers the spoon in front of Hannibal’s mouth. Hannibal shakes his head, mouth clamped shut. “Please?” Will urges, tilting his head to catch Hannibal’s eye. After a moment, Hannibal gives in and opens his mouth. They repeat the game until the porridge is almost gone, and they are smiling—grinning.
"Enough, Will," Hannibal pleads.
“We’re almost done,” Will encourages. He has placed the bowl in his lap and is trying to pry open Hannibal’s mouth with a hand under his jaw, the other hand trying to shove the spoon in. Hannibal is almost laughing.
Just then, Chiyoh enters the room with that serious expression of hers, and Will snatches both hands away as if he and Hannibal were pupils in a classroom, caught having too much fun. She gives Hannibal a fleeting look, as if she means to convey disdain at their behaviour—two adult men acting like children, or maybe, questioning him why on earth he would still tolerate Will after what Will had done.
But Hannibal, yet again, is shameless and smiles at Chiyoh, as if expecting her to join in their mirth.
“Are you two finished?” She asks, and it’s difficult to tell if she means the food or their laughter. Hannibal looks to Will, and after a pause, Will sets the spoon down and piles the utensils on the tray. Chiyoh says something to Hannibal in Japanese, and Hannibal’s laugh disappears.
“Thank you,” Will manages to add.
Chiyoh barely nods as an answer.
After Will is certain Chiyoh is out of earshot, Will returns his attention to Hannibal: “What did she say?”
Hannibal looks at Will for a moment, as if debating on whether to tell the truth.
“Be honest,” Will says.
“If I gave you honesty…” Hannibal says. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
Will scoffs. “Seriously? Do you think that I’m so weak?”
“Weak? No. Unwilling to confront your feelings? Yes.”
“My feelings?”
“We haven’t been able to talk about anything,” Hannibal says. “You asked me not to talk about your wife earlier. You sounded very sure.”
Will wants to retort but instead he just grimaces. “So…maybe you’ll tell me some other day,” Will says.
Hannibal nods. “If you wish.”
*
Later, Will wishes that he could slip his arm through Hannibal’s as they walk in circles among the fallen sakura petals. Or that Hannibal would put his arm around him, and lean on him. But he’s stronger now, and barely needs any help. Now and then they bump against each other but acknowledging it would certainly be dangerously close to having to talk about his “feelings.”
Hannibal inhales deeply—and Will does so too, trying to catch the faint scent of the flowers. There’s a sense of peace in the rustling sound of the wind making its way through the branches of the trees. After about half an hour, Will directs Hannibal to sit on the stools that Chiyoh has placed for them for just this purpose. She knows that Hannibal likes the spring air, that he would want to gaze at the trees not just from the inside of a window, but directly from under the tree itself. The stools are placed close and Will doesn’t have the courage to move them so they are comfortably apart.
“You look like you want to draw,” Will says, darting his eyes immediately away—because he’s just admitted to looking at Hannibal, for long enough to interpret what he wants to do.
Hannibal turns his gaze on him, and doesn’t turn his head away.
Will gulps—sometimes it’s so easy to be with Hannibal, but at times it’s like Hannibal is reading his mind.
“I did not anticipate waking,” Hannibal says. “after the fall.”
Will looks up, guilt creating a lump in his throat—rendering him unable to speak.
“But I did wake. And never would I have thought to see your face upon waking,”
Will gulps. “And, are you glad that it was my face?”
“Is it not obvious?”
Will sighs, unbelieving. It takes him a moment before he can speak again. “Don’t let us be separated ever again,” he replies—vaguely wondering why it sounded like a threat.
“Never,” Hannibal says—his voice painful, as if he, too, were fighting away tears. Will stifles a gasp when Hannibal grasps his hand, and squeezes.
*
He can’t tell if it’s because of how close Hannibal lies beside him, or simply that things are changing between them, for the better—after their talk in the garden. Will can still feel how Hannibal’s hand felt in his. It lingers in his mind, makes him wonder what else is going to change between them.
“Do you still have any compassion left for me?” Will asks, almost stuttering. He knows that Hannibal is awake, though his eyes are closed. He turns his face towards Will in the darkness, gauging the true meaning of the question.
“Compassion—I have more than compassion for you.”
Will remains silent, unnerved.
“What ails you, Will?”
Will huffs. There is much that ails him, that he can’t simply put into words—not like Hannibal, who time and again shows his astounding ability to speak so bravely without holding back.
“Would you reject me if…” Will begins—but his throat constricts.
Hannibal thinks a moment. “I would never reject you.”
“No?”
“If you recall, Will, it is you who has the tendency to reject me.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.” Will says—and even as he says this, he feels frustration at himself for always contradicting how he feels—and what he feels for Hannibal. What if Hannibal were simply still unsure of how Will felt for him, and was simply waiting for a sign? For Will to make the first move?
“You’d never reject me then?” Will asks.
“Tell me what you want,” Hannibal says instead, since the answer to Will’s question seems so obvious.
“I—” Again, Will’s throat closes up. He lifts his hand and sets it on Hannibal’s forearm. The touch feels feathery, unsure; so Will curls his hand and strengthens his hold. After a dreadful pause, Hannibal’s hand comes to rest on Will’s. Will takes courage from the gesture and shifts his body closer to Hannibal—it’s obvious what he wants.
But Hannibal is one to live a moment to its fullest. “May I request we turn on the lights? I would like to see you.”
Will shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. He moves his hand from Hannibal’s arm, and for a second tries to make out where Hannibal’s jaw is. He finds his way and hold it in place. “Kiss me,” Will whispers.
A pause, as if Hannibal can barely believe it. Wordlessly, he moves his face forward, a little awkwardly, until his nose bumps Will’s. And then Will feels Hannibal’s lips, sliding down against his own, a brush at first, and then an adjustment. Then a genuine press. In a second, Will feels breathless, as if his soul has been snatched right out of his mouth. He leans in and kisses Hannibal back. His hand drops to Hannibal’s shoulder— reminiscent of how they stood on top of the cliff—and draws him closer, as if Hannibal might run away.
It’s too much: his blood is rising… and he doesn’t know if he can handle more than kissing. He pulls away, and Hannibal doesn’t protest.
Will clamps his hand flat onto Hannibal’s mouth. “No talking,” he says. “I need to think.” He feels Hannibal’s mouth curve into smile beneath his hand, but then he nods.
Will pulls his hand away but returns it to curls into Hannibal’s arm. He relaxes his body, on his side and against Hannibal—heart racing. It feels like a great weight has been suddenly lifted from his chest. An unexpected feeling of contentment arises, warm and long-awaited. “Goodnight, Hannibal.” Will whispers.
*
Will wakes up alone, surprised to see Hannibal gone—but settles back when he smells breakfast in the air—not Miso soup and Tamago-yaki and Natto with rice, but scrambled eggs and bread. American breakfast. Which means Hannibal has pushed Chiyoh out of the kitchen. He smells something like sausage, probably store-bought—since Hannibal is in no position to be hunting at the moment.
Will jumps out of bed, a strange giddiness thumping in his chest. He throws a robe on and then pauses, contemplating as he looks down at his wedding band. On impulse, he grasps it and pulls it off of his finger. His hand feels infinitely lighter without it. He looks around and then shoves it into the bedside drawer. He wonders if he should bury it under the sakura tree.
When he enters the kitchen and bids Hannibal good morning, Hannibal is elusive and uneasy—as if keeping busy to drive the thought away, that Will might—after all—decide to reject him again.
Will sets the table for two since Chiyoh is nowhere to be seen, and silently waits for Hannibal to stop fretting. Hannibal’s jitteriness is rubbing off on him too, so he gets up and takes the liberty to pour them both their coffee, and then waits by Hannibal’s side, peering into the pan.
It’s reminiscent of their first meal together. Will somehow finds himself smiling, despite the complex tangle of memories that accompany that day. How Hannibal had just barged into his space—into his life—and refused to budge, like a permanent thorn at his side.
“It’s done,” Hannibal says. “Sit down.”
Will shrugs and does so, and watches as Hannibal comes over with the pan and carefully transfers the eggs and sausages into their plates. “Smells delicious,” Will says.
Hannibal smiles but doesn’t meet his eyes. He turns around, walks to the fridge and takes out a bowl of sliced orange slices.
When Hannibal sits down, he seems like he has no appetite. Will takes his first bite and chews slowly, smiling. “Mmm,” he says. “Thank you.”
Reluctantly, Hannibal lifts his fork and starts eating.
“Hannibal,” Will begins. Boldly, under the table, he extends one foot out of his indoor slippers and nudges it into the hem of Hannibal’s pyjama pants, where it meets naked skin, soft and supple. The gesture is alarming and successful, because Hannibal is finally looking at him. Will can feel himself blushing. “I’m not going anywhere,”
Hannibal nods meekly, and offers Will a smile.
“I chose you, remember?” Will says. And although he has contradicted himself many times—said things and then proceeded to do the opposite, he knows with a certainty that this time, it’s true.
Hannibal sets his fork down. “You chose to throw us off the cliff.”
Will smiles bitterly, caught. “I could’ve left still. I could’ve left last night.”
Hannibal nods, but he still looks unsure. Will extends his left hand, deliberately, and grasps at Hannibal’s. Hannibal immediately notices the absence of the wedding band and something changes in his eyes. He traces his thumb over the white ring of skin. And then to Will’s surprise, he raises Will’s hand to his lips and gives it a deep kiss.
*
That night Will climbs into bed, nervous as a teenager. He hasn’t given much thought to what he wants to do with Hannibal sexually, because he already knows. He doesn’t want to give it more thought because he can already feel excitement chasing after him.
Hannibal is wide-awake, though he pretends to sleep. Will extends a hand and places it on Hannibal’s, as an experiment. Immediately, Hannibal’s hand tangles itself with his. “Do you wanna…” Will starts to ask, but he doesn’t know how to say it. All day they had been charging with tension, acting as if nothing had changed between them.
Hannibal turns his head, and Will can vaguely make out his eyes in the dark.
“Kiss?” Will says.
“Yes.”
Will smiles, and shoots his head forward, lips landing a little off. But he corrects himself and finds that he is ferociously hungry for this. He can feel himself stirring as Hannibal kisses him back, genuine even in this awkward angle. Will extends a leg up and hoists himself without breaking the kiss, straddling Hannibal—possessed by the need to be as near to Hannibal as possible. He’s mindful of Hannibal’s still healing wound, and mindful not to let his erection jab at Hannibal—because he has to keep in mind that he can’t just assume that Hannibal would consent to more than kissing at the moment. But Hannibal makes a pleased sound into his mouth and his hands reach out, sliding open-palmed all over Will’s back, under his shirt. Will is straining to push his erection down, desperate for relief—he can feel himself getting frantic with want. He gasps loudly into Hannibal’s mouth when Hannibal plants both hands on his hips and pulls him down—pressing their erections together. “Oh god,” Will whispers, delirious. Hannibal’s hands on his hips encourage him to move, and Will does so. Hannibal kisses his neck—hungry, as if taking bites out of his flesh, and before Will knows it, he’s on his back with Hannibal on top of him.
“Tell me to stop,” Hannibal says—challenges.
Will doesn’t want it to stop. He lets Hannibal lift his T-shirt off of him, and lies prone when Hannibal runs his lips over his neck, over his collarbones. Between the hollow of his chest. Will grips Hannibal’s hair in his hands when Hannibal runs his tongue over one nipple. It’s not just a lick either. He does it over and over again, sucking it and tasting it—and then moving to the other one. A hand brushes across the scar on his belly, exploring but affectionate. Hannibal’s body weight on his erection feels good—and though he’d like to rub himself off, he also wants this to last.
“May I turn on the lights?” Hannibal asks, voice spent.
Will thinks a moment, insecure and uneasy about having his scars—especially the ugly one on his face—so glaringly obvious to look at. But he also wants to look at Hannibal.
As soon as he lights the lamp, Will can feel regret threatening to crumble his efforts. But Hannibal leans towards him and engages him in a tender kiss. Will lifts his hands and places them at the sides of Hannibal’s face, deepening the kiss. Once again, he feels his arousal spike.
Hannibal tugs Will down by the back of his knees and has them horizontal again. Breaking the kiss, he takes hold Will’s boxers and peels them away. Will lowers his knees, completely naked now, as Hannibal pauses and runs his eyes over Will’s body, appreciatively. He reaches out and traces his fingertips along the scar on his belly, contemplative.
“Now you,” Will says, a little accusingly.
Hannibal doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his shirt over his head and then pulls his pyjama pants away. Will can’t help staring: he drags his eyes over Hannibal’s broad chest, at his strong biceps—and his erection, hard and shining at the tip.
Hannibal plants a hand on his thigh, and slowly shifts his hand to circle around Will’s cock. Immediately, Will closes his eyes and gasps. “Come here,” he says. Hannibal obeys, and watches as Will snakes his hand down and experimentally holds Hannibal’s cock. “Kiss me,” Will demands. Hannibal inches forward, mouth open and hungry, as he starts to jerk Will off—while Will does the same to him. Hannibal’s hand is certainly more flexible in its movement—it proves almost too much for Will. Will moans into Hannibal’s mouth, as if as a warning. Just then, Hannibal ceases his hand, and moves away to bow his head in between Will’s legs. Will knows what’s happening, but he can’t protest as Hannibal’s mouth closes on his cock. He starts slow: Hannibal isn’t in a hurry. He takes his time, lifting his mouth away to lick at the tip of Will’s cock—tasting him. He drags his tongue along its length with excruciating slowness. It takes a lot out of Will to not to push into Hannibal’s mouth and bring himself to climax. He looks down and notices that Hannibal is tugging at his own erection while simultaneously sucking Will—a sight that Will finds insanely arousing.
“Faster, please,” Will begs. “You’re killing me.”
Hannibal lifts his head and meets Will’s eyes. “But I am not done yet.”
“Ugh,” Will huffs. “You love to torture me,”
As if to shock Will into orgasm, Hannibal pushes his mouth down hard and rapidly bobs his head until Will feels his cock hit the back of Hannibal’s throat repeatedly. Will cries out, unable to control himself—spurting warm into Hannibal’s mouth. It feels blindingly good. He opens his eyes a moment later, panting. “Now you,” he tells Hannibal, hand reaching out.
“Are you sure?” Hannibal says. He’s stroking himself as he watches Will. “The sight of you like this is enough to bring me over.”
Will chuckles. He’s sweaty, and unkempt and extremely out of shape. He doesn’t feel appealing to anyone’s eyes. “I want to…” he says, sitting up.
“Is that what you really want?” Hannibal asks.
Will nods. He plants one hand on Hannibal’s chest and gently pushes so that he can rest on his elbows. Hannibal goes, spreading his thighs apart for Will. Will lowers his head, taking hold of Hannibal’s cock and bringing it to his lips. He flicks out his tongue and licks the head experimentally, and then gaining confidence, runs his tongue over the head over and over. Hannibal hums a deep sound of pleasure. Will opens his mouth and closes it over Hannibal’s cock, sucking earnestly. Hannibal’s hand lands at the back of his head, setting a rhythm. “I’m close,” he warns.
Will keeps sucking, a little frantic now, aware of the power he has of having Hannibal like this—so vulnerable…so human. So beautiful.
He swallows just as Hannibal had done for him, and smiles when he lifts his head to gaze at Hannibal. He tries to memorise the devastatingly beautiful image of Hannibal like this—who’s also looking at him, panting, with something like love in his eyes.
*
“What did Chiyoh say to you that day?” Will asks, finally, as they settle down into bed again, unable to fall into sleep.
Hannibal’s pause is a little concerning, but he’s truthful: “She told me to be careful,”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
Will shrugs. “I don’t expect you to forgive me for throwing us off of the cliff.” He said. “Chiyoh told me once that violence was all I understood.”
“Violence is a part of human nature as is anything else,” Hannibal said.
“So…that means that I have to be careful of you too.”
Hannibal considered this, silently.
“We’ve done unforgivable things to each other,” Will said. “Perhaps it’s in our nature to do so.”
“Perhaps it’s also in our nature to do things that are the opposite of violence,”
“There are other means of influence other than violence,” Will said, quoting Chiyoh once again.
Will could almost hear the agreement in Hannibal’s silence. He turned onto his side and clasped Hannibal around the middle, and held him close.