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After the fall, everything is different. And yet, nothing is. Not really. They always were both apart from the rest of the world, but together - they had their world, small as it was.
The first year after the fall is spent discovering who they are now, in this world apart from the rest of the world. It’s days, weeks, two months before Will comes to Hannibal where he’s sitting by the fire and lays a hand on his shoulder. No words are spoken, but no words needed to be spoken either. The long breath that had been held for these two months, for all the years before, was finally released.
The space between them is suddenly easily navigable, yet still rife with obstacles. Both of them still stumble, but the rift of blood and death and destruction heals with every passing day. They fall asleep each night in the bed they share together,
And then, suddenly - but not truly suddenly of course, for the seasons change in the same way every year, and even separation from the world does not imply separation from the world’s natural order - it’s winter again. Will starts chopping wood to warm the little cabin that they share in the wilderness of Canada. Hannibal watches, waiting for something. He does not know what he waits for, but the feeling of anticipation grows by the hour.
And then, as the sun rises on the coldest morning yet -
“Will.”
“Will, wake up.” And then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and Will turns over, rubbing the sleep and the night from his eyes.
“Hannibal?”
“It’s Christmas.”
There’s a note of something that is somehow unfamiliar in Hannibal’s tone, and Will looks at him. “So it is.”
When Will was a child, he and his father would celebrate Christmas out on the docks. Will would hang their old, half-falling-apart wreath on the door to the cabin of their little boat, and his father would prepare the fish.
He never thought much of Christmas then. He certainly doesn’t now, not with all of the other events that have happened that have seemed so much more important than a holiday. He never realized that Hannibal had any interest in Christmas either. Christmas seems so small in comparison to everything else they have celebrated over the years.
Hannibal sighs, and Will is brought back to the memories of their conversations in his office, sitting facing each other in leather chairs that somehow seemed to move closer together with every passing day.
“Do you celebrate Christmas, Hannibal?” he asks.
“We did, my sister and I. And I enjoy the festivity.”
“Are you saying you want to celebrate Christmas with me?” The thought is bordering on mad, but then again, what isn’t mad between them?
“If you would be amenable to it,” Hannibal says, which Will takes to mean “Yes.”
So Will gets up and out of their shared bed, and puts on a pair of the corduroy trousers that had once belonged to the man who owned this house before their arrival. He isn’t sure if it was part of Hannibal’s plan, but he and the man were nearly the exact same size in clothes.
Hannibal slips out behind him and into the bathroom, and Will walks into their sitting room to start a fire. By the time that’s done, Hannibal has started preparing breakfast in the kitchen. Will walks up behind him and runs a hand through Hannibal’s hair, and the look he gets in return sends his heart soaring.
Affectionate touches had always been foreign to Will, but sometimes, he finds, there is no other way to express how he feels except through touch.
They pass the day in silence, something clearly on Hannibal’s mind. For all that Hannibal seemed excited about Christmas, they did little to celebrate the day. By night, they find themselves back in their room, the whole day a grey blur bordered by dreams of red and green.
“Will.”
Will turns over to look at Hannibal, his eyes shining in the sliver of moonlight coming in through the window.
“I didn’t have any presents to give to you, Will.”
“Oh. Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting anything. Don’t worry about it. I didn’t get you anything either.”
“But you did, Will. You did by being here.”
Will feels his heart race, and he wonders when that’s ever going to stop happening whenever Hannibal even slightly references their shared memories. “Then it’s reciprocal.”
A smile passes over Hannibal’s lips, and Will does not dream of blood that night but of something softer, of a world in which they met under a different moon, in sweeter circumstances. And when he wakes, there’s an arm across his stomach, and light breath against his neck, and Christmas may have just been another day between them, but it also seems like a marker between the days of separate and the days of together.