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It took one month to leave the US, and another to leave North America. They spent another two months cooped up in a London apartment while their wounds healed naturally, and they gained the most of their strength back. They then moved onto Nyhavn in Copenhagen, a location chosen by Hannibal. He thought the proximity to water would please Will. He never said anything, of course, but a few times a week Hannibal would look out the window and find him sitting by the canal.
It was the first time in many, many years that Hannibal had lived with someone. Even in medical school he had his own apartment, and he had never had a relationship long enough to live with a lover. It was strange, he found.
Will kept to himself, mostly. He was either found in the living room or his bedroom. Hannibal watched as the library had started to grow more and more. 'Library' was probably an overstatement as it was just a few books stacked on top of each other, until he surprised Will by buying a new shelf for him. Their home was a mixture of their personalities - luxury furniture from Hannibal's picking, a rack of fishing rods and a drawer of gear for Will. Paintings tastefully decorated the walls, CD's stacked on their coffee table.
"Hey," Will said, drawing Hannibal's attention from his cutting board, "surprise."
He pushed a cooler on the bench. Hannibal immediately had a peek and smiled at the pair of cod inside.
"I know you've got dinner sorted for tonight, since you always do." There was a stunning lilt of humour in his tone. "They'll keep for a few days."
"Thank you, dear Will." Wiping his hands clean, Hannibal removed the fish from the box. He wrapped them in a protective wrapping, in hopes they would not cross contaminate with the other meats in their freezer. "How has your day been, so far? Apart from catching such perfect specimens."
Will sighed as he poured himself a glass of tap water. Hannibal watched in mild disgust. He had bottled water in the fridge, and yet no matter how many times he reminded Will of this, he always opted for the easier option. "Boring, mostly. I saw the neighbours in the lobby."
"The ones who are learning the saxophone?"
Will hummed in confirmation, watching Hannibal with that same shine in his eye.
"I am half tempted to go up there and teach him myself."
"You know how to play the saxophone?"
"I have never attempted in my lifetime, and yet I am sure I will have more skill."
Will snickered and moved out of Hannibal's way when he went back to chopping vegetables. In turn, Hannibal smiled, always blessed to hear his laughter.
Since their cohabitation began, both Hannibal and Will had somewhat lost the masks they had created for others. Hannibal allowed himself to smile wider and laugh more, to allow his features to show exactly what he was feeling. It was a courtesy Will deserved after years of trying to decipher him. In turn, Will was significantly less emotional than he was when Hannibal met him, nearly six years ago. There was no one he had to fool into thinking he was a man of fear. His empathy, of course, would never vanish, but that is not to say he is as fragile as he used to pretend to be.
He was, however, soft around the edges. Late at night, when he and Hannibal had possibly had one too many drinks, Will would throw his head back when he laughed. He would talk louder than normal as he recounted a funny, albeit mundane, tidbit. It was the kind of domesticity that Hannibal had no idea he ached for with Will. And yet, he found those evenings were the ones he both enjoyed and hurt the most.
Those evenings were turning out to be a regular, Hannibal had deduced. In fact, those evenings were beginning to be most evenings. This night was no different. Hannibal had happily served dinner and told Will of his day, of his progress on chasing down a satisfactory harpsichord. They retired to the living room, where Will took a bottle of wine and Hannibal followed with two glasses.
Hannibal longed for a fireplace, and told Will as such. The smile he gave him around the rim of his glass was teasing and yet he said nothing.
A few hours and a bottle and a half of wine later, Will and Hannibal were sitting so close on the sofa that Hannibal could smell salty air on him. He was leaning against Hannibal, attempting to show him how to tie a sinker to a line. Hannibal hadn't the heart to tell him that he could hardly pay attention. Firstly, the nylon was clear, so most of what Hannibal was seeing was Will's fingers picking at each other as he slurred the instructions to him.
Secondly, Hannibal could only really pay attention to one thing, and he had decided that memorising the feeling of Will laughing and mumbling while he leaned against his shoulder was of utmost importance. He rested his own head against Will's and the vibration of his voice echoed through Hannibal's mind.
"There, all done." Will handed the line - snipped from the roll, so he could demonstrate how to do such a thing without putting one of his rod lines at stake - and Hannibal ran his thumb over the knot. "Think you can do it yourself now?"
Hannibal removed his head from its resting place when he felt Will shuffle beneath him. In the dim lighting of their living room, Will looked as beautiful as a painting. Hannibal almost wished he had some acrylics at the ready. Hair mussed and long, the edges were white from the lamp behind him. His eyes were half lidded in the way they always were when he knew he had the upper hand, and his face was flushed from the alcohol. Will's lips were stained red.
Just like that, his smile shrunk. Hannibal noticed he was looking at him rather sadly. "Don't look at me like that."
It probably took him a minute for his drunk mind to catch up. "Like what?"
"Like you're about to do something."
Hannibal's mouth ticked to the side, hoping to ease the tense blanket that had just fallen over them. "Do what, exactly?"
With a huff, Will leaned back against the opposite arm of their sofa. "Something that you'll regret."
Frowning, Hannibal straightened. He felt much too sober all of a sudden. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
"What is it that stops you from telling me how you feel?"
Hannibal's heart leapt to his throat. He was quiet for much too long. "I do my best to stay honest with you, Will. It is the least you deserve, considering how far we've come."
"Let me be more specific, then." Will sat up, but the proximity was less comforting as it was before, more intimidating. He spoke slowly. "Why won't you admit that you're in love with me?"
The very real possibility of cardiac arrest was just one of the flurry of thoughts that whirled around Hannibal's head. He watched, dumbly, as Will's eyes flicked between his own, as if he could read each and every one of those thoughts. The sigh Will let out was nothing other than disappointed.
"Goodnight, Hannibal," he mumbled as he stood.
Hannibal's hand shot out. "Wait."
They looked at each other. Will waited for words, whilst Hannibal wished they could go back to thirty minutes ago, when Will was telling him of the two stray cats that visited his home as a child.
Hannibal never let go of Will's wrist, but he looked to the floor. "Why?"
"Why do I know? Or why do I want to know?"
"... Both."
"Bedelia told me. Not even in a roundabout way, didn't even withhold that information to torture me further. Once it was brought to my attention, I couldn't stop seeing it. Especially now, in our very own home. You cook me dinner every night, drink with me, look at me like that."
Hannibal swallowed over the lump growing in his throat. "And what makes you think that is information I would withhold from you?"
"I don't know," he said firmly. "That's why I asked."
Hannibal chewed his lip and released Will. He took that as a sign he would not be telling, so started wordlessly to the stairs that lead up to his bedroom. With a sharp intake of breath, Hannibal stood. He did not take a step to follow, though.
"Because," he stated loud enough to catch Will's attention, "if I said anything aloud it would make it all the more real."
"That's a bad thing?" Will turned to face him. He leaned against the railing, as he was a rather clumsy drunk.
"For me, it is." His voice had shrunk so much he feared Will did not hear him. "I have only ever truly loved one person. My dear Mischa was taken from me, and that was too much to bear."
Hannibal hated how his eyes fogged up at the mere thought of Will coming to the same fate as Mischa. He had attempted to bring him there himself, that night in Florence. However, it was different now, and Mischa's death was far more brutal. Thinking of Will suffering the way she did, cold and alone, torn apart by strangers that did not care for her, almost made the well in his eyes spill.
"Loving hurts, that's the reason?" Will's voice had risen and Hannibal had to sit back down because of it. "You would rather ignore it in hopes that when I die, you won't be so sad about it? Go, possibly the rest of our lives, not saying it even once?" Will took a breath and his voice was quieter, shakier. "You would rather let me live thinking I'm crazy, or that I don't deserve your love, or that I'm just your most recent plaything, all because you're scared?"
Hannibal's breath hitched at the idea of living the rest of his life with Will. It was what he wanted, ached for, nothing less and nothing more. "I do not intend to hurt you, Will. In fact, it is something I wish to avoid altogether. I had hoped this conversation would never come up."
"So you were just going to deprave us of each other's love and happiness to soften the blow of pain, that could be decades from now?"
"Why is it that you so desperately want this from me?" Hannibal asked instead, overcome with shame, an unfamiliar feeling.
Will scoffed. "You think I would have run halfway across the world to live a brand new life with you, if I didn't love you?"
Guilt accompanied shame. How long had he been hurting Will for the sole purpose of trying to salvage the two of them in the event they lost each other? When they could go years, decades even, before that happened?
"Is what we have not enough?" he asked desperately, clutching straws. He wanted nothing more than to say it, but the memory of anguish he felt with Mischa was so great that it hindered him. It had an effect on all of Hannibal's life - he had never gotten close enough to someone to love them, knowing it would eventually bring him pain. Will had been an oversight.
"Not for me. You're a selfish, selfish coward, Hannibal. Goodnight."
Will disappeared up the stairs. When Hannibal had the strength, he traipsed to his own bed, though did not sleep until the sun rose.
The sun was high in the sky when he woke up again. He was tempted to just fall back asleep and laze around all day, but the hour was already in the double digits and this was the first time in months he had not made both he and Will breakfast, as well as being the first time in possibly twenty years that he had gone without breakfast altogether. It would be pathetic to go without lunch as well.
"I'm terribly sorry for my absence this morning," Hannibal called when he reached the bottom of the stairs, dressed and proper despite feeling like diving into the canal and not breaking for air. "I hope I can make up for it, and our argument last night, with a meal and proper apology."
Nothing. Will was not a loud person, not even to live with. But there was no response, no sound of pages turning or music, not even of deep, sated breathing. No footsteps or mumbling. No sign of life. Hannibal knocked on the bathroom and strolled into the living area, looking. He found a note on their coffee table:
Hannibal
Don't panic.
This line was, as intended, a relief. Hannibal was in fact beginning to panic, but if Will said something like that, then he obviously believed it would be silly to panic.
I broke some of your mugs by accident. They slipped from the cupboard, so I'm going to buy some more and do the groceries while I'm at it. It's a good thing you write down all the shopping you need, because I would never have guessed.
Hannibal smiled at that. He continued reading.
You're asleep while I write this, but I won't be long. Don't bother texting/calling me since my phones dead, but I'll be home by six.
I look forward to dinner.
P.S I made breakfast, for a change. Look in the pantry.
Hannibal folded up the letter and slid it into his pocket. He would be holding onto this note forever. In the pantry, a plate of scones were hiding under a tea towel. Double checking the bench, Hannibal found all the dishes were done as well. The scones were delicious. He should get Will to join him in the kitchen more.
He took his time eating, as it was still six hours before Will would be home. Afterwards, he busied his body and mind with a walk. In Denmark, people didn't look twice at him. His accent blended in well enough that people mistook his Lithuanian heritage as Danish. The story he and Will had prepared was that Hannibal was from Denmark and Will was American, but wanted to visit overseas, which is how they ended up living together. People in their building often asked if they were married or dating, and Hannibal politely corrected them. He didn't believe he had the ability to do so now, after their argument and what was revealed from it.
What was said the previous night was all that was on Hannibal's mind. Will loved him. He did and he admitted it. It had taken those first couple months still in America for them to trust each other again. Hannibal was wary that Will would make an attempt on their lives again, and Will was almost certain Hannibal would make his own move for the cliff incident. Perhaps for the first time in their relationship, they talked it out like adults and they both benefited from it.
Hannibal never expected Will to love him, however. He still vividly remembers how Will used to look at him - disgusted, horrified, angry. Most of those outward emotions had been his mask, so thick and thought out that Will had fooled himself with the facade. They were the same in nature. The flesh they had created around themselves appeared different than each other, but their bones were the same.
But love was something Hannibal had actively tried to avoid thinking about. With his lifestyle, he had of course lived with much physical pain. He had grown resistant to it. Broken bones come back stronger. Broken hearts, however, did not mend. There were no medicines, practices, or anything of Hannibal's medical knowledge to fix a broken heart, not even time. That was apparent still with Mischa.
If he had another heart break, another suffering, he wasn't sure he could take it. That is why he built his outward personality as such - friendly and polite, always, but he would never single someone out of a group. In all the conferences, operas, dinner parties and whatnot he had attended and hosted in his life, Hannibal had kept pleasantries and conversation to a strict script.
That didn't mean he had gone celibate or without romantic relationships in his life. Though, in most cases he had motive - a girlfriend who's brother was his soon-to-be dinner, a boyfriend who had excellent physique and music taste, others like Alana, who he used to get an arm up over someone.
Will had come barrelling into his life like a cyclone. Hannibal was curious how his mind worked, how it worked broken. When he had snapped back stronger than ever, that curiosity shifted. Admiration and trust followed, one of which was broken that night before he slipped away to Florence. That was, perhaps, when he should have realised his feelings. The sickness in his gut was similar to the night he was fed his sister. It shifted still until what he felt now, which he would still refuse to name.
Hannibal returned home four and a half hours before Will would return home. He thumbed through the stack of CD's. It consisted mostly of popular rock that Hannibal wasn't too fond of.
"Neither am I, really," Will had said. "My dad used to listen to it, so I just got used to it as background noise."
Idle hands was something Hannibal had tried to get used to since moving. He stepped into their kitchen where he began to prepare dinner. He would not cook it until Will arrived, so it would still be hot and in hopes they could eat together like normal. However, he could still have his measurements, still peel, wash, and cut vegetables.
Once that was done he rearranged the cupboards in a satisfactory order. He went upstairs with the intention of residing in his room for the next three and a half hours, but he walked past Will's door, temptingly ajar.
His room was, to anyone else, utterly boring. Will's bed was slightly rumpled, the only other furniture in the room is a dresser, an empty desk, and his bookshelves. A pair of shoes were neatly pressed against the wall by the door.
This was the first time Hannibal had been in his room, aside from when they first moved in and he helped shift some furniture. Will did not have much of an impact on the decor of their home, not even in his own bedroom, it seemed. But it was in the small spaces that he could be seen.
Hannibal ran his fingers over the tops of his novels, feeling along the indents where Will had dog eared the pages. The tops of the dresser and desk had no dust on them, the fingerprints indicating Will obsessively brushed it off like he did the side table in the living room. Most of all, most prominent, was the smell of him.
Hannibal sat on the bed and a waft of that smell rose from the sheets. Like open sea air and the permanent smell of dog hair, despite not owning one (yet, Will would remind him). He was torn between leaving so that Will could keep this sliver of privacy, and laying down exactly where Will had fallen asleep last night.
Instead, he lay down on the other side of the bed. It wasn't a double like Hannibal's. Just barely big enough for two people he would imagine. He faced the side that Will slept on, where most of the sheets were wrinkled and the pillow sunken in.
For the past four or so years, Will had left a heavy weight in Hannibal's chest. It hurt all day. Every day that Hannibal thought of Will, saw him, laughed with him, hurt him, the ache was present. He hated it, Hannibal didn't want to hurt anymore. Though, the hurt was addictive. It would only grow stronger in Will's absence, like every morning he woke up alone, and in the afternoon before Will would come through the front door and alleviate the ache, if only a little.
This ache was a sharp pain, laying in Will's bed, imagining falling asleep with him across the sheets. Will frowned in his sleep. His brows drew to a pinch on his forehead and if his nose twitched it meant he was having a dream. Hannibal allowed himself to picture falling asleep watching those movements, but all he could think about was after. If he was given this luxury, it would only hurt all the more without it.
But maybe that was alright. Will was not going to shatter like Mischa did, Hannibal saw that himself. Will knew how to be careful, and he knew how to be dangerous. In some ways, he was smarter than Hannibal, and he could easily admit that. Will had survived both himself and Hannibal, and there wasn't much more that posed threat to them.
It was time, Hannibal decided, to let himself love someone.
He wanted to. God did he want to. The fear of loss was what had held him back, but now he had a fear of never being to have in the first place. He would tell Will, when he gets home.
Hannibal didn't even realise he had fallen asleep until he woke again. He found that waking in Will's bed was nothing less than amazing, even without the man himself in it. Blinking the haze from his eyes, Hannibal read Will's horrid red digital clock.
6:34
Sitting up in the blink of an eye, Hannibal fixed his clothes, fixed Will's bed and rushed the stairs.
"Will?" He called. Yet again, there was no response, but he did not expect a letter this time.
After taking a full ten minutes looking for him in every room of the house, like Will was some toddler he had taken his eyes off of for one minute, he sat on the sofa.
Forty minutes. Forty five minutes, really, that Will was late. He could have gotten caught in traffic, or gotten distracted during his shop or his walk.
It was unreasonable for him to think that Will could have gotten recognised. They were old news, even in America. Ever since their escape B-rated journalists like Freddie Lounds had all ceased their reports and theories, and went so far as to delete their old ones on the two men.
But Jack and Alana were the problem.
Jack had followed him across the world once before, and Alana was likely to be a plus one considering that Hannibal had made it clear he would take her family away with the first chance he got. If she had the chance to take his family, she would take it. Even if it was Will.
Hannibal removed the CD he had put in the radio earlier and turned it to a random station. He would wait until the hour, in ten minutes, when he would leave the house looking for him. There was nothing of value in their home, not enough that Hannibal cared about it or could not replace. Perhaps Will's books, but if they had to flee again, Hannibal would promise him a whole room dedicated to his novels.
Somehow, through the buzzing of thoughts, the radio bled through.
"Just twenty minutes ago a major crash happened here in Copenhagen. A bus collided with three cars, taking several pedestrians with them. There were thirteen fatalities in total, and dozens more injured-"
The reporter went on to name the bus, the one Will took often, and the street name the bus had taken on its route.
Hannibal hardly had time to lock the door behind him before making a break for it. It would take him ten minutes to run there, that's how close he was to home.
All Hannibal could think about while he ran down the road was-
No. Please. Not again. Not him. Anyone but him, please.
I can't do this again.
Not him.
It took him seven minutes to run to the scene, uncaring for the multiple stretches in his button down shirt and slacks. He hadn't even put shoes on but the burn on his feet was nothing compared to the burn in his eyes.
A policeman approached him. "Sir, please evacuate the scene. If you have arrived to pick up a loved one, everyone who could not make their own way home has moved over there-" he gestured to a group of people. "-if you cannot find them there, they have either gone home or were sent to the hospital. Have you called them?"
Hannibal shook his head, and started to jog towards the group of survivors, managing a breathy "thank you" over his shoulder.
There were twenty five to thirty people all sitting and standing by the curb. Blonde women, short men, children, elderly, ginger, brunette, thin, fat, clean shaven, wrinkled, baby faced-
When Hannibal set his eyes on him, finally, he almost yelled his real name. Instead, he called, "Darling!"
Will turned, curious, then visibly relaxed when he saw Hannibal.
There was no way Hannibal could go another second without saying it.
"I love you," he sighed, scooping Will into his arms. He squeezed him so tight he felt his ribs crack under his strength, but Will clutched at him in return by clawing at his hair and shirt. "I love you so much I can't stand it."
"I love you too," Will laughed. He scratched at Hannibal's scalp and laughed again gloriously when Hannibal lifted him off the ground in his hug.
Wasting no more time, no more of their lives, he kissed Will. He kissed him so hard their noses crashed and their teeth clacked. He poured all his pent up love into the kiss, releasing it, proving to Will that yes he loved him, with his entire being, with every lifetime he would live and has lived before. It's all been for Will, the love of his life.
"I love you," he said again, because the flood gates were open and he was helpless to stop them. He kissed Will's cheek and down his neck. Placing him back on solid ground, his arms whipped around his body checking everywhere he could have been hurt.
"I'm alright, I wasn't hit, I wasn't in the accident." He cupped both sides of Hannibal's face. "I jumped out of the way of one of the cars just in time, but the police still called me over here while I was in shock. I knew you would come when you heard, that's why I stayed."
"I'm so glad." Hannibal leaned into Will's palm and closed his eyes as he wiped a tear from his face. "I love you, so much, my darling."
"I know," was all Will said before he kissed him again.