Work Text:
“Would you indulge me in a dance?”
Will looks up from the papers he’s grading in Hannibal’s study. This had become a routine between them in recent days: dinner and drinks—mostly drinks and then dinner for Will, nightmares lurking in the spaces of his mind after a series of particularly grueling crime scenes this month. The alcohol helped. After dinner they would settle in, washing the dishes by hand before retiring into the other room. Will works in one of the side chairs while Hannibal sketches at his desk, silent except for the turn of papers and scratching of pencils, and the sound of classical music playing at a low volume.
Will chooses the music this evening like Hannibal insists every time.
“—I told you Hannibal,” his first name replaces all formal titles out of habit now, to Will’s annoyance. “I don’t know anything about music, definitely not the classics. It all sounds the same to me.”
“We’re never too old to learn,” Hannibal says, smiling. Will doesn’t put up a fight for long before he walks over to Hannibal’s collection of tapes, because of course he listens to tapes.
Tonight’s choice came with little deliberation as usual. Will simply looks at the stacks and picks one based on the name, or artwork, or whatever his hand lands on. This time, it’s “The Rite of Spring” composed by Igor Stravinsky. The name sounds vaguely familiar to Will and he pops it into the cassette player without a second thought. Hannibal hums in approval and pulls out his supplies to start a drawing.
The music is frantic and off-beat. Sharp. But it quickly fades into the background noise while they work. Thirty minutes have passed when Hannibal’s words cut through the ambience. The music fades back in, still jolting and loud. It’s not something Will would consider dancing to; not like Will considers dancing to anything. It seems impossible to move to this rhythm.
“A dance?” Will repeats back.
“Yes, it would give our legs a chance to stretch. Circulation is vital to our health.”
“You know I have two left feet,” Will starts to say. He thinks about saying, “ What if I embarrass myself? ” or “ I’ve never done that before but I want to with you. ”
“Please, Will.”
The sincerity in Hannibal’s words pulls him back to the present. He stares at the other man for a moment before setting down his papers. He stands, uncertain where to meet him or how one starts a dance. Hannibal takes a step forward and takes his hand, leading him into the open space in the room. He places his free hand on Will’s waist. It shouldn’t surprise Will that Hannibal will lead, but he stills at the touch anyway and tries not to think about the intimacy.
They start to move. It’s a painfully slow waltz, and Will thinks that Hannibal must be listening to a different song. He doesn’t know much about tempos and measures, but the steps don’t line up with the sharp beats. It takes him a few tries to get the movement right — one, two, three; right, left, together — however, the speed and Hannibal’s guidance makes it easy. It doesn’t take long for them to fall into another pattern for the night. Wil can’t bring himself to admit that he may enjoy this. He hasn’t been held like this in a long time.
“Would you like to hear the story behind this song?” Hannibal asks, glowing in his element.
“Please enlighten me, Doctor.” The endearment is intentional this time.
Hannibal chooses this moment to swing Will out, still holding one hand, before spinning him in. Will lets out a suppressed yelp in surprise, his back now pressed firmly against the other man, arms crossed over and holding him tight. He’s dangerously warm. They sway like this, and Hannibal surreptitiously rests his jaw on Will’s shoulder. It’s so painfully soft and intimate that Will just might break. He doesn’t have time to process what this means for the two of them before Hannibal starts to speak, his voice barely a whisper.
“The Ballet Russes debuted Le Sacre du Printemps in 1913. It was very avant garde for it’s time, depicting a pagan ritual to renew spring. A virgin is offered as a sacrifice,” he says. The close proximity of his breath on Will’s neck sends a shiver down his spine. “She dances herself to death for the gods to give life to the earth for another year. Some say the audience rioted.”
Will closes his eyes and can imagine it, too obscene—vulgar for the conservative crowd. They start to trash the theatre, matching violence with violence.
He’s brought back as Hannibal spins him out again and returns them face to face.
“Is that what you plan to do? Dance us to death tonight?” Will asks. The music is louder now, coming to a crescendo. It fills Will’s head.
“I’m hardly a virgin.”
Will nearly stumbles. Their eyes meet again before Hannibal looks down at the blush dusting his cheeks at the statement. Will knows that Hannibal is enjoying this, and wonders why he is too. This is new for them both— at least for Will—and certainly something new between them.
Hannibal closes the space between them, chest touching chest now. He finds his face leaning down in the crook of Will’s neck again, and Will’s mouth meets the other man’s shoulder. Their hands are still clasped.
Hannibal doesn’t get embarrassed, but he feels fear, and he feels it now as the words build in his mouth.
“But I would suffer a lifetime if it would give you just a morning.”
It's such a loaded statement that it takes Will a moment to understand his words. It's the closest either of them will ever get to love. Will drops his hands, giving Hannibal momentary panic before they draw around his torso, gripping him in a tighter embrace.
“I don’t need you to be my martyr“ his voice is muffled against Hannibal’s chest. “Let’s have one night without sacrifices.”
Hannibal doesn’t let them have this moment. He cradles Will’s face and crashes their lips together. The dichotomy of hard and soft tears Will apart. Back in 1913, the girl dances feverishly. The chords intensify and score the men’s vicious kiss. She falls to the ground with a final double beat, and then silence. The sound of skin on skin, mouth on neck, wet against dry distracts them both and fills the air in the music’s absence. It isn’t until the cassette reaches its end with a hard click and static that they break away, gulping breaths between them.
“Should I pick out another tape?”