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Crystal blue waves crash against the sandy white beach, reflecting the bright gleam of the sun as it breaks through the early morning clouds. The soft breeze carries the laughter of families and children as it blows through the palm trees and rustles their leaves. Eventually, the cool air swirls around sheer curtains through a wide-open window and brushes against a man’s cheek, streaks of sunlight accenting the thick scar along his jaw.
Will’s eyes flutter open and stare at the ceiling, his mind swimming as he tries to recall the events of last night. He shivers slightly and realizes that he’s completely bare, only a thin sheet covering the lower half of his body. He feels warmth next to him and hears a soft snore, prompting him to roll onto his side, grunting softly as his back reminds him of that night only three months ago, of the pain and blood.
Hannibal lays there, a sleeping beast in all his glory, just as bare as Will and nearly pressed against him. His bangs fall messily over his forehead and his lips are parted ever so slightly. He looks peaceful. He looks vulnerable. He looks human.
Every day, Will begins to look more like the monster within himself that Hannibal unchained and let loose on the world. Every day, Hannibal begins to look more like the man that Will pulled back out into the light and loved until he could show himself fully and truly.
Will reaches out and brushes Hannibal’s hair from his eyes, tucking what he can behind his ear. He cups his cheek and rubs his thumb along the bone, waiting patiently until those gorgeous brown eyes finally open.
They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Will stares into Hannibal’s eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching up as their gazes lock. They kiss languidly, unaware and uncaring of the world around them. Will rolls onto his back, pulling Hannibal with him, his fingers tracing reverently along the edge of the brand between his shoulder blades. The blanket slips as they shift, leaving them bare. Despite the warm day ahead of them, the wind bit at their skin, but neither of them noticed. Every light in the sky could extinguish itself and they would still have all the warmth they needed in each other’s arms.
Hannibal leans his forehead against Will’s once they part, eyes shut tight as if his lover might fade away like a dream when he opens them. Calloused fingers caress his cheek in a silent request, but he does not falter.
Will kisses him again, his other hand still resting on Hannibal’s back, as if he is also subconsciously afraid of losing him. He kisses his nose, his cheek, his jaw, his eye— every inch of skin on Hannibal’s face is touched by Will’s lips until he finally makes his way back to his mouth. Another soft peck and Will is gazing into Hannibal’s soul again.
Will has come to love everything about Hannibal, but the first part of him that he fell for was his eyes. They were brown, but not in a honeyed way or a golden way, or an amber way. They were brown like Will’s favorite leather jacket from high school, a piece of clothing he treasured even after he grew out of it. They were brown like the soil in their garden out back, nourishing gorgeous flowers and herbs. They were brown like the bark on the firewood they burned to keep themselves warm at night for that first month after the fall, before they made it to Cuba, when they were resigned to an overgrown cabin Hannibal kept as one of his safehouses. They were brown like the spine of his favorite novel, and the stain on his bookshelf, and the leaves that crunched under his feet every Autumn. They were brown like every other thing in Will’s life that made him feel warm and at home.
The hand on Hannibal’s cheek winds into his hair, ruffling it further as Will cradles his skull. Will noses at this jaw, tilting his head up so that he can press kisses to his throat. Hannibal hums at the feeling and thinks about how Will could rip his throat out this very moment, or snap his neck, or choke the life out of him. He melts further into the embrace.
Eventually, they separate, though only slightly, to prepare for the day. An hour later, Hannibal is in front of the stove making breakfast. Will wanders up behind him, pressing his bare chest to Hannibal’s thin t-shirt and wrapping his arms tightly around him.
He kisses the bruise at the juncture of Hannibal’s shoulder and neck, reveling in the shiver it draws out of Hannibal. Hannibal turns in Will’s arms to kiss him, his hands sliding from the waistband of Will’s sweatpants to the base of his back, tracing upward along the faint red lines left by his nails the night before.
You cannot control, with respect, to whom you fall in love.
Hannibal remembers those words he said to Bedelia nearly four years ago clear as day. He remembers how he repeated those words to Will in the dark of night before the fireplace just after their first kiss, only a week after Will pulled them off the cliff, leaving them both sore and broken. They were shattered teacups, ready to repair each other, and now their scars shine with gold.
As Hannibal traces the scratch marks, Will remembers his own conversation with Bedelia. It excites him to know you are marked in this way, she had said. Will hums and kisses another hickey, this one on Hannibal’s collarbone. It excites him, too, knowing Hannibal is marked because of him.
He is in love with Hannibal, just as Hannibal is in love with him. They’ve fought with each other and for each other. They’ve killed with each other and for each other.
What they have is reciprocity, and it’s beautiful.