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Language:
English
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Published:
2022-06-09
Words:
787
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
15
Kudos:
534
Bookmarks:
57
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5,246

My Heart, the Bayou, and You

Summary:

Hannibal Lecter has never seen the side of Will that only exists when he’s home. On a trip to rural Louisiana outside New Orleans, Hannibal is finally able to see how deeply the culture of Will’s upbringing is ingrained in him. Will is pleased to find that it makes Hannibal love him all the more.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

When Will had told Hannibal that he still technically owned the deed to his father’s property & family home in rural Louisiana, somewhere outside of New Orleans, the man had gone into a line of questioning about whether or not Will felt he had unresolved history with the place. The fact was, Will neither loathed it or held any disdain for his upbringing at all— the only thing unresolved for him about Louisiana was the fact that most days he missed it. To Hannibal he was a scholar, a primal predator, a hunting partner, a Virginia boy with about as many social skills as a lone guppy in some teenage boy’s unattended tank. Will knew, though, and pondered the fact regularly, that there was one place he’d been more comfortable in his skin than anywhere else— and that was just off of the salty waters of the Gulf Coast.

-

Will’s glasses fogged up the second he stepped off of the air conditioned plane and into the thick, damp weight of sick-heavy Louisiana air. Hannibal found himself assaulted by the quality of it, raising a handkerchief to his nose to protect his sensitive olfactory nerves from the muddied, sulfuric and sea-breeze heavy smell that stuck to the water particles hanging in the air and settling, unfortunately, against his skin in a way that made it sticky.

Will folded up his glasses and clipped them onto the collar of his shirt, already indefinitely more comfortable with his feet on Louisiana dirt. He glanced over to Hannibal, noting the way he was recoiling, even if politely, to the overwhelming new energy of the informal American south.

“You’d do better to save your disdain for the house,” he remarked, settling his hands onto the belt at his hips, a mumble in the way he said it and a narrowing of his blue eyes at the sun glaring at its high point.

His Pa’s place hadn’t been touched in fifteen years, if he had to guess, and they’d grown up poorer than dirt, anyway. For a second the man was ashamed to let his partner, his love, who had been born into wealth and nobility, see him as he’d been for the biggest part of his life— a curly-headed kid, a greasy boatyard mechanic that had hovered dangerously close to the poverty line in a way that rich white folk in the South looked at as white trash.

Hannibal Lecter was different, though, and a second spark lit up in his chest at the thought that his lover, taken with the admonition of the rude, would have delighted in pulling crimson-pouring hearts from the ribcages of gossipy Southern judgement.

Hannibal stepped forward, then, resting his hand alight at the soft curve, the delicate small of Will’s back, skin hidden by the blue-gray plaid of a terrible button-up shirt, and directed him with guiding assurance

“Take me home, Will.”

-

Hannibal had done his very best to be deferential in reaction upon his first introduction to the home. ‘Home’ seemed too light a word for it at all, in his mind. It was a less-than-mediocre wood-panel house teetering precariously above thick green water, and they’d had to come in through the back door because only the posterior entrance of the house could be accessed from semi-dry land. The white paint was more green, in some places, and chipped significantly. He imagined the air quality, did it. Too wet to keep anything pristine and dry.

He waited in the livingroom, though, as Will dragged his duffle into the back room to strip himself of collared shirts and navy khakis.

He emerged wearing completely new clothes not ten minutes later, and Hannibal sat up straighter from where he was perched at the edge of the horridly upholstered couch, his heart skipping a beat.

Will’s curls had already begun to take a shine with the moisture of the air, tousled against the equally dampened skin of his forehead in enchanting disarray. He wore a simple T-shirt in light turquoise, a logo of a fishing hook decorating the left breast, and a pair of well-worn but still-fitting Levis that hung at his hips, snug against his ass in a way that highlighted its form more than any pair of dress pants Will had ever worn.

And his feet were bare.

In any other instance, seeing William barefoot on the grimy wooden floor of quarters that hadn’t seen a broom in 15 years would have prompted a visceral reaction from Hannibal. Today, though, here in the home that had seen his bare feet as a young boy, Hannibal thought that Will might be the most naturally beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

His voice was breathless as he spoke.

“Hello, Will.”

Notes:

This will be a regularly updated work! As someone from the south, myself, I figured we deserve to see more of Will at his roots ❤️ I hope you enjoy.