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I.
The world around Will is never truly silent.
Even in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by glittering water that stretches beyond the horizons on each side of their boat, the world is noisy. Whether it is the large waves of unrulier days or even the gentle licks against the hull, the sound vibrates through the walls and in his ears. He cannot escape the noise even on the bridge. There it is the hum of the electronics. The weather radar and the clicks of the autopilot steering their boat. The ocean wind is currently only a breeze that whistles through the gap between the door and its frame.
The droning gives him a headache. Not because it is loud to an unbearable level, but because it makes him clench his jaw so hard, it takes a conscious effort for him to unclench it. His teeth hurt. Relaxing hurts. There is new blood from the cuts in his upper gums from Dolarhyde's shard that makes him taste metal and become aware of the rush of blood in his ears, swelling the cut in his cheek. Stitches hold it together and if he tries to block out the electronic humming, he instead can only listen to the rough material of the stitches move against his skin.
It is a minimal sound. Maybe he only imagines it.
It bothers him either way.
He checks if they are still on course and, content, leaves the bridge. Outside he is hit with the all embracing sharp scent of salt and motor oil. The boat's engine gently rumbles along, not sputtering, just going and going and going. It's the kind of noise, along with the electronics, that Will could have blocked out any other time. In another lifetime.
He wanders up and down the deck aimlessly before he realises that he is clenching his jaw yet again and decides that he can't stall it anymore. He is going down for a painkiller, is what he tells himself.
Below deck Hannibal lies in his bed, opposite to Will's, and sleeps. He sleeps a lot since their lives are no longer in immediate danger.
Will envies him. All he's become is more tired as the days go on. Even though he is no less injured, he can't stand being in the same room with Hannibal. It's difficult enough when he's asleep, he doesn't want to risk being there when he's awake and talking. The even breaths of someone resting efficiently - because Will doesn't believe that Hannibal is capable of such things as sleeping peacefully - accompany the wooden rolling of a pencil against paper on his nightstand, moved back and forth by the sway of the boat. Rhythmic. Meditative.
Will doesn't look at the sketchbook. He can't look at Hannibal for too long, let alone at the Will Hannibal sees him as. He'll look different than he knows himself to look. His features more shaded. Idealised. Hannibal likes to draw his hair just a touch neater than it is. His eyes will have an expression of unwavering confidence and determination, the look of someone entirely at peace with himself. And Will knows he's not quite there yet.
He avoids looking in Hannibal's direction - and still knowing exactly what he looks like asleep, like his field of vision will always expand just so it contains Hannibal - and heads for their medical bag. In his hurry to get back outside as quickly as possible, he opens the zipper that makes a noise like it wants to pierce his ears, and rummages for the small bottle of aspirin .
"I advised you not to take those until I've removed your stitches." Hannibal's voice is rough with sleep.
Will stands straight, back to him. "Good thing it's only advice, then," he says before biting his tongue back. He promised himself to try, to try and not let his own bitter confusion out on Hannibal. So he swallows and softens his tone for his next words, "My head is killing me. Maybe hit it harder than we thought when we fell."
Hannibal nods thoughtfully. Not that Will can see, but he hears and feels the tiny movement in the air. He knows because he's had the time to study Hannibal's habits for long enough, so connected to the man that he could emulate them himself at the press of a button if asked. Hannibal has become predictable to him in that way. It should feed into his fresh sense of power since Hannibal can't predict him too. It doesn't. It's irritating.
The sheets rustle and the pillow is being plumped up, so Hannibal can sit up and rest against the headboard. "Please sit."
"It's fine. I'm just gonna-"
"Will, I'd like to be certain that it isn't serious."
Will clenches and unclenches his hand around the aspirin package a few times before relenting. He settles on the edge of Hannibal's bed. The springs of the mattress creak, a brief rustle of the sheets. Hannibal's breathing stutters so little from the pain of moving that no one else would have been able to pick up on it. "Look at me, please. I need to see your eyes."
Will bites back a tsk. Hannibal always needs to see his eyes. He's starved for them, for being the image that Will ingests into his mind through his retinas to never be forgotten.
Reluctantly, he turns to face Hannibal, gaze lowered. Don't look at the sketchbook, Graham . To his relief and dismay, Hannibal reaches for his face. Will can feel the print of his thumb against his chin, of his finger along his jawline, and the gentle pressure urging him to look up and face Hannibal properly. It used to be easier, the easiest thing to look Hannibal in the eye. But not right now. His gaze flicks to the side, seeking to escape. To the moss green curtains on the small windows, to his own unmade bed opposite Hannibal's. Anywhere.
It's futile. He always comes back to Hannibal. Whose shirt is unbuttoned to allow him access to the neat bandage over the gunshot wound. Up over the chest hair and to his carotid. Will can hear the blood rush through it just as well as he can hear his own. Like they are one thing, two halves of the same.
"Talk to me, please."
"You're saying please an awful lot." At the unamused tilt of Hannibal's head Will finds himself relenting yet again. "Everything's loud. It's driving me nuts." Hannibal's other hand touches further up his face, drawing the first of Will's eyelids open, then the other. His professional detachment is undermined by a barely perceptible worry. It's only there in the quirk of his right eyebrow and tight downward slant of the corner of his mouth. Will busies himself with talking. His own voice is loud enough to drown out everything else for the time being. "I sleep badly because, uh, the fridge hums very loudly. Each time you open it, the latch does this little click but it's like someone is firing a gun right next to my ear. It's like that with everything. I sound like I'm screaming right now."
"You're whispering," Hannibal assures him, sounding absent-minded but he never truly is. Not when it's Will who is talking.
"Are you done?" Will takes Hannibal's wrist to push his hands away from his face. The brush of his thumb over his beard sounds like the bristles of a toothbrush echoing through his skull.
Hannibal pulls back. His brow lowers to its normal height and his mouth draws into a line that produces the beginnings of a smile. "It appears psychosomatic to me. You are experiencing a great amount of stress."
Finally allowed to move his head again, Will lowers his eyes again. Though now they have found a fixpoint on Hannibal's throat. He must remain like that for a while because Hannibal says, "Watching you think is like watching the sea move. What thoughts are swimming below the surface?"
Will blinks. "If I cut your throat right now and let you bleed out, it would be quieter. I mean, it would be loud at first, hearing you drown on your own blood and the flow of it drenching you. But after that it would be quiet." The jump of Hannibal's Adam's apple doesn't escape him, the click of swallowing his own spit. From the corners of his eyes, he notices Hannibal's hands reach back up and he leans back before they can cradle his face once more. He's not prepared for a speech about ocean eyes and divine unfathomableness.
"I'll know when you make dinner. Don't call me," he says as a last thing before standing and returning to the deck.
He can't stand looking at Hannibal because, as inevitable as everything will come to an end and everything will have its rebirth, he will be overwhelmed by how much love he finds within this one man. A man who is more like a monster with how destructive his ways are, how detached from a common morality he exists, how long he hasn't loved like this. Love so great and plentiful that he himself doesn't know how to handle it either and it leaves them both stagnant. A love so loud that it accelerates his blood flow, strengthening the drumming of his heartbeat to an inescapable volume. So loud that it spills from every gaze that caresses Will, from his very mind so clearly that Will could almost think himself a telepath for the steady stream of pure affection he receives. It aches in the scars he already has and those that have yet to form.
Will stares at the water and thinks about how the ocean makes men mad. There has to be some truth to that. He considers diving in and going under. Let the waves crash down upon him and the currents carry him wherever they deem suitable. They are so far out in the ocean that it would be impossible to find his body. He thinks about tying a weight to himself to speed up the process. It would be quiet under waves when the droning of the ocean ambience fades out the same as his life. Maybe the air bursting from his chest, thundering, would be the last thing he'd hear. Ever.
He'd die alone.
Even worse, he'd abandon Hannibal.
His empathy conjures up how Hannibal would feel if Will left him now, either because he went away or because his life ended. The results are a pain in his chest, as though his ribcage had been ripped open by bare hands and someone dug out all the organs it protected. As though someone punctured his lungs again and again and yet he wouldn't die but instead suffer the laboured breathing and omnipresent taste of his own blood. As though his heart was wrapped in barbed wire, straining against it anew with every beat and only digging the barbs deeper each time. If Will ever went, it would leave Hannibal in a limbo of pain born from the extent of his own love. He would think himself foolish, would become a self-hating thing and all the crueller on the world for it.
The echo is always there. He loves me he loves me he loves me . It becomes quieter but it never goes away. Whenever Hannibal looks at him it crescendos into a fortissimo that silences everything else.
More than the guilt keeping him from the cold, silencing embrace of the ocean is the realisation that it is not solely Hannibal's love that is so loud. Detangling his own feelings from those he imitates, Will has found that out since he left Bedelia's office. He had known that he loved the monster back. The extent of it, that he had been ignorant of.
He has never loved and been loved this much, and it is frightening.
When the smell of food lures him back below deck and onto his designated seat on the pull-out table, there are so many words on his tongue. All of which he wants to say at the same time, so he doesn't say any of them. Hannibal serves the fanciest thing he could make from their canned rations and takes his seat opposite to Will, watches him take the first bite as he has always done. Between that and Hannibal's own Will tells him, "I love you." And he tells him, "Don't talk." and "I won't leave you." and "I think I'll just need a lot of time but I want this, us " and "I just wanted you to know."
Maybe it's the first time anyone has left Hannibal speechless. Triumph lays a blanket over the noise of his thoughts and the clinking of cutlery on plates is suddenly less grating.
II.
Will had always thought that he'd be the one to initiate their first kiss, but Hannibal had always had a better gauge on Will's readiness.
They first land on the Portuguese coast and remain in a countryside cottage until their conditions improve. It's here that Will has to make peace with the fact that his shoulder is damaged beyond repair, something that will get worse again as he ages, and he won't be able to reach up with his right hand again without a significant amount of pain. Hannibal prescribes him pills to help with the muscle ache and each morning begins with exercises of rotating and moving. The stab wound itself heals into a pink scar rising from his skin just as the one on his face. It takes Will some time to get used to chewing with the right side of his jaw again.
In the end, he finds it difficult to say goodbye to the Portuguese house. Even though it was no home, it is the place where he first saw Hannibal move through his entire, usual morning routine, now undisturbed by the strict rules and discomforts of the BSHCI or their limited resources on the boat. Sometimes Will stays in the bathroom door frame just to watch Hannibal undress for a shower, memorise the order he applies his hair and skin products and count the time of how long he stays under the running water. He watches the grimaces he pulls as he shaves his stubble, the soft parts around his lips, not immune to this human humiliation and vanity, and just to himself Will smiles. Hannibal doesn't address his presence during all of this, quietly content that he is there no matter whatever intentions Will might harbour.
Eventually they move through Spain and into the south of France. Another house waits for them here along the coastlines of the Golfe du Lyon. The cottage lies outside the cities, in the outskirts of a village, on the edge between a wildering meadow and a strip of an evergreen forest. Its facade has soaked in the fresh scent of pine and resin, so much that it follows them inside. While the rooms are tidy and clean, it is evident that nobody has lived here in a long time. There are no personal belongings stored anywhere. Pictures of it could have been printed in an advertisement.
The first impression of personality comes from the presence of their clothes and washroom utensils. There are two bedrooms on the upper floor and a jump disrupting the beat of Hannibal's pulse when Will unpacks his suitcases in the same one as him. The racing of Will's own heart thunders in his ears and drowns out the nail-curling rustle of clothes being sorted into drawers and closets, of shaving cream and toothpaste and lotions being set down on the bathroom counter with loud clicks.
That first evening Will spends checking their garage and their small backyard tool shed only to find them fully stocked and leaving nothing to be desired, while Hannibal busies himself with preparing dinner. With nothing else to do, he stays outside on the porch and tries to get used to this new soundscape. He'd better if he wants to sleep.
There is the rustling of the wind in the trees. The coos of birds, the crack of wildlife treading the underbrush sounding so close they might be standing right in front of him. Inside their new four walls, the clinking of a kitchen knife on a cutting board and later the sizzling of something cooking in a skillet. The scent of garlic and fennel find its way out through the window, with an undertone of oranges.
Will stalls getting back inside and watching Hannibal cook, even if he knows that Hannibal wouldn't mind, even encourage his presence for the simple pleasure of conversing with him. After having spent weeks enclosed on the boat and the Portuguese house, he still doesn't tire of Will. On the contrary, his affection only grows with each word they exchange, and so Will avoids long meandering conversations or else his mirroring of the love Hannibal possesses for him will make him deaf and suffocate him.
Hannibal eventually calls him to set the table. If he dislikes that Will doesn't arrange the forks and knives entirely straight, he doesn't mention it. He serves them Marseille-style shrimp stew with a side of toasted baguettes, and watches Will take the first bite.
They don't talk until they've finished washing the dishes because Hannibal acknowledges that that would be too much noise. The clinking of cutlery, the chewing, the ambience. They stay in the kitchen for a nightcap. Pitchblack night has fallen outside, leaving the windows to reflect how they are both leaning against the counter. Will watches himself bring his whiskey glass up to his lips, swallow, like he is watching someone else.
"Is this house to your liking?" Hannibal asks him. He has taken to whispering to accommodate Will but he still might as well be shouting at him.
Will nods, tearing himself away from his mirror image to instead look at a point over Hannibal's shoulder. "It's calm." As calm as it could get, he reasons. Hannibal is compromising with him by not having chosen their new home to be in a densely populated city as he preferred, and Will is sure that they would gravitate toward Lyon or Marseille after however long it takes him to cope with all the noise.
"I've thought about cultivating a garden for vegetables," Hannibal goes on with a glance towards the lonesome pot of fennel decorating the kitchen's windowsill. His mind's eye extends to Will and shows him more greens. Basil, thyme and parsley. A neat row of vegetable beds in their garden with salads, carrots, onions, turnips and zucchini. Even strawberries, currants and a sown appleseed that they will not see grow into a tree in their lifetime.
"You'll need to hire a gardener to take care of all of that," Will says over his glass.
It turns out that he is that gardener. They last through the winter, the snowfall never bad enough that they can't make their way to the nearest grocery market. But as soon as the days become longer again and the frost has disappeared for certain, they buy flower soil and mulch, dig the beds into their garden and for entire weeks of spring it busies them.
Will doesn't think he has ever seen dirt underneath Hannibal's fingernails until then. The sight makes him pause for long enough that Hannibal eventually straightens from planting their first zucchini plant and asks him, "What's wrong, my love?"
His voice startles Will from his fixated state. It's loud and possessive. As though all this time before Will had been a rogue planet and now Hannibal's sun had drawn him in, never to be escaped again. He finds Hannibal's face because the sudden need to look at it overcomes his entire body as though he would die if he didn't. He is hit with another wave of this love that he will never be able to get used to because of its steady increase. The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them. "I love you."
His face heats up from how breathless he sounds, how reverent, how in love, because he doesn't believe he could ever love Hannibal as much as Hannibal loves him without borrowing the emotion from him. For another moment he stutters over unfinished words. "I, um, you know... Just- just in case you forgot."
Hannibal walks up to him, close, to take his face between his hands. They're dirty and smell like fresh earth but Will can't bring himself to mind it all when they lean into each other's space. A rough thumb draws gentle circles over the scar on his cheek, and from up so close Will studies the pale nicks on Hannibal's nose and cheekbones, just to not look into his eyes."I love you too, Will. More than you can fathom."
"I believe that." The corner of Will's mouth twitches into a nervous smile.
Hannibal's other thumb traces his chin, just below his lower lip. He answers with a smile of his own. "May I kiss you?"
Will nods before the full question is out, so immediate that he knocks their foreheads together with the movement. They laugh it off but the sound of it is already chased away by the fluttering of eyelashes, brush of noses and unsteady inhales of breath before their lips meet as softly as the spring breeze carries a leaf.
The prospect of ever kissing Hannibal had been a scary one. Kissing a mouth that devoured lives, that could tear throats and served as an instrument for the monster's manipulations. Will could get over that. He would have willingly endured being devoured, bitten, torn apart sinew from bone and being told that this was the way the monster loved. He had been ready for that. But Hannibal has always had a better gauge on what Will was ready for or not, even when Will himself didn't know. He had feared being too flooded with waves of suffocating, strangling affection. Falling entirely deaf, finally, to the world around him.
The taste of his own heart in his throat comes close enough to suffocation.
And Hannibal's presence and proximity embracing Will turns out to be a relief. They wrap him in cotton, shield him from the noise of everything outside of this cocoon.
It's calm.
In the end the kiss is briefer than it feels like, and Will remedies that by pulling Hannibal back into another one just as he's about to lean away. Without the noise he allows himself to touch. His own fingers are stained with earth, too, while he caresses them along Hannibal's jaw and cheeks, venturing into his hair to keep him close. His lips are as soft as he's imagined from watching how well Hannibal takes care of himself. Trembling only ever so slightly against Will's, taken by relief and disbelief over whether this is reality.
The quietness has to end in favour of letting air into their lungs. When Hannibal tells him I love you again, it's muffled through a pleasant curtain of stability and certainty.
And because even after every murder they committed, separating their lips still feels like the most criminal thing Will has ever done, he brings them together again and again and again.
III.
A fist to the face. His teeth cut the inside of his cheek. Will's mind goes quiet with anger. Less at the man for punching him, and more at how he had been so close to forgetting the taste of his own hot blood. It fills his mouth again with its tangy taste that washes out the remainders of the wine he's been offered only minutes earlier by Hubert Chastain. Who had dismissed Hannibal's input on Botticelli at the art gallery with a wave of his hand and is now struggling to move that same hand.
It's bleeding from a broad puncture wound where Will had rammed a kitchen knife through it. His other hand is annoyingly swift and solid.
After having invited them into his countryside villa in what he believed an act of generosity but truly only carried the intention of being patronising to these two less knowledgeable about the arts, he is now struggling for his life. Mad like only those whose lives are in immediate danger are. Will can hear the adrenaline pump through his veins as though it's his own body. He feels the raging pulse of it against him when Chastain tackles him with his full body weight and pins Will against the nearest cupboard, shattering its glass windows. He's Hannibal's size, though heavier around the middle, and Will struggles for breath for the split second it takes for Chastain to next wrestle him to the ground and weigh him down there. Two hands close around his throat.
From the ground Will catches a glimpse through the door into Chastain's brightly lit dining room. Hannibal hasn't moved from the table, legs crossed, wine glass half-emptied, mouth flirting with the idea of an amused smile.
Will's heart throbs. God knows how much he loves him. No, that's a lie. Not even God knows, only Will knows, can truly grasp the sheer amount of it, because he is the only god Hannibal prays to.
His hands scramble blindly across the floor around him as his visions blurs at the edges from the loss of oxygen. The shards of the shattered cupboard nick his palms. He closes his fist around them, a whole palmful, and reaches up to clutch at Chastain's neck.
The man cries out. His hands fly to the fresh wounds and Will sucks in a relieved breath. His head is blissfully empty, his body thrumming singularly with its most innate instincts of survival and hunting. He lands a punch of his own against Chastain's eye, then claws at his face. The skin rips underneath his fingernails and he chokes the wail from his prey's throat with a sharp jab with the edge of his hand.
He twists them around, pinning Chastain down in a reverse of their previous predicament. Hands clutched tightly around his neck and occasionally ramming his head down against the floor when his hands become too grabby. The sounds - the thump of a skull against the hardwood floor, the rush of blood and sweat, the gasps for air and hisses through teeth - are the best kind of white noise. Unlike droning TV static that gives Will headache, this is the kind that leaves him relaxed and refreshed even after it stops.
Hubert Chastain eventually stops breathing. His eyes roll back and his body falls limp.
The first sound that reappears is that of his own heavy breathing, accompanied by the rasping rise and fall of his chest. The next is the thunderstorm of love when he becomes aware of Hannibal's eyes on him - they never left.
He stands up and makes his way to the kitchen, trembling with exhilaration. "You didn't move."
Hannibal sets down his now empty glass. "You asked me not to."
"Unless I was actually dying."
"You are as alive as you will ever be."
Will fondly rolls his eyes. It is a self-perpetuating relationship, that between what Hannibal believes him capable of and what Will can do. Sometimes it feels like such things are possible merely because Hannibal believes him capable, instead of it being reduced to seeing unfulfilled potential that Will sabotages himself from realising. They realise each other.
"When the police find him, it won't be long until they'll know it was us in America," Will says, "We'll need to lie low."
Hannibal hums in agreement. "Perhaps leave the country. How would you like Seychelles?"
"You're trying to bribe me with sunny beaches again."
Hannibal has the decency not to argue.
Will chuckles. "It's working." He only refrains from kissing Hannibal to save his suit from blood stains.
They have dinner in Chastain's home. Transporting him all the way home would spoil the meat. Best to have it fresh right here and now. Will is the one to take the largest knife he can find and sever the prey's offensive hands from his body. He presents them to Hannibal. Next he cuts the corpse open from belly to collarbone, disembowels him until he can reach for the heart underneath the ribs. He tears it out and offers that to Hannibal too. Anything symbolic of love that he can find will always go to Hannibal, and in return he is nourished as well.
While Hannibal busies himself in the kitchen, Will arranges the body in the foyer of the villa. Chastain had so proudly pointed at the life-sized portrait of himself just above the entrance, marking him as the owner of this lavish home. The building is one of those venerable mansions that litter Europe, with too much space for one person without the ego to fill it. Will finds rope and steady wire and strings the body up next to the portrait, handling it to imitate the self-assured pose Chastain takes in the image. Now devoid of life and drained of his smug grin, empty because he is good for nothing more than feeding those above him.
He cleans up the scene as well as he can, finds the laptop that the security cameras feed into and breaks it. He takes the harddrive and makes a mental note to break that too and throw each piece in a different river. If this murder reaches America, the FBI would connect the dots enough but Will wants to keep the most concrete evidence away from them.
By the time Hannibal calls him to the table the blood in Will's clothes has crusted. He looks a mess and washing his hands and face doesn't do nearly enough to make him presentable at Hannibal's table. But if the burning worship in his eyes is anything to go by, he doesn't mind so much. And if he hadn't an otherworldly self-control, the kiss he presses into Will's hair as he serves the steak au poivre with red wine sauce would have turned into something bordering unholy.
Will has never felt this calm since the fall and since before even that. It had taken years for the noise to become bearable and eventually ignorable at best. Moments of true quietude used to be rare and strangely only tied to Hannibal's presence. The exposure to him has worn down the forts he'd built finally.
When their glasses meet in a toast, the clink is just a clink and not a world-shattering crash. They don't have to whisper anymore.
"Happy anniversary."
IV.
The ring on his finger glints in the moonlight as he caresses down Hannibal's back. His skin runs hot beneath his hands that trace every inch they can find. He traces the Verger brand for a brief moment, then the circular scar of the bullet wound, before travelling lower and playfully raking his fingers over Hannibal's buttocks.
The response is a low noise against his neck and a twitch of his hips against Will, startling a gasp out of him that ends in a content sigh.
They're tangled together into one being, writhing in tune with one another. Will finds it hard to believe how he could ever have been hesitant to have sex with Hannibal, fearing that it would overwhelm him to an unpleasant extent.
It does overwhelm him, each time anew. The friction of their bare bodies against one another, the indulgent exchange of kisses, however gentle they might be, contributes to an endless feedback loop of sensation and pleasure that Will often struggles to stay entirely present, to not get too lost in it.
By now Hannibal knows how to keep him in the moment. He will mix in just the slightest bit of pain. The sting of his teeth against a fresh suck bruise, a pinch to his bottom, the scratch of his fingernails against Will's scalp. It makes heat coil in his lower belly to know that Will is marked in so many ways by him.
Tonight they do it slow and close. Not a hair's breadth between their bodies. Will has his arms and legs wrapped around him, sweat glueing their chests together. He drives his fingers through Hannibal's hair to gently urge him away from the necklace of bruises he's already left on him and to his mouth instead. He adores the proximity, how they share air and spit and everything else. It doesn't matter whether it is Hannibal's or his own pleasure that Will is feeling because they're one and the same, blurred into one entity.
His head is pillowed in the crook of Hannibal's elbow while his other hand cradles Will's face like something precious. The skin-warm gold of Hannibal's own ring brushes over Will's stubble and whenever he can, Will leans to kiss the pads of his fingers.
Finally, their lips meet in a soft press.
The world shrinks to this one full body-contact. To the only being in the universe that matters. He knows separation would have either of them wither away within hours.
So for now, they swallow the life-affirming sighs and groans flowing from the other's lips, as though they are starved for it each time again. Drinking down everything they have to give to each other with no intention of letting anything spill. They rock together, unhurried. Hannibal's hand wanders minutely lower, stroking along Will's neck, shoulder, his side and eventually his thigh to adjust it just slightly higher on his waist.
Will muffles his moan against Hannibal's neck, his turn now to gift him red and blue jewellery. When he comes, he bites down. Enough to be felt, not enough to break skin. The taste of Hannibal's blood is sweet, but he doesn't desire it today. He doesn't want to break the peaceful silence after sex with wound care. His orgasm echoes when Hannibal shudders against him with a gasp, head lifting as ripples course through him to see Will's pleasure-stricken face. When the indulgent last rolls of his hips end, he descends over Will like a weighted blanket. His nose presses against the side of his neck to breathe in the scent of Will's endorphins. Will counts six deep inhales before his breath evens out into contentment. Just satisfied to lie here.
Will keeps his arms around him where they were but his caresses become automatic, absent-mindedly drawing circles, while he has his cheek resting against Hannibal's hair. He smells of sweat and the mint of his shampoo. Will lets himself be entirely surrounded by his secure weight atop him, his scent, the remaining taste of his kisses, the soft rise and fall as they breathe together.
There is nothing to say to one another that they haven't already or that they don't already know. A gentle kind of silence. One meant to bask in.
Sound is muted. The warm breeze that rattles the wind chimes outside barely reaches Will. Even the murmur of the ocean that is only a few dozen yards from their house is merely a faint whisper. The loudest thing is their heartbeats, thudding as one in their chests.
When the sweat dries, the air of the room suddenly feels unpleasantly cold, as do the fluids between them. With a heavy heart, Will turns his head to press kisses to Hannibal's hair. That and then he chuckles and says "You're greying". It gets Hannibal's attention. When he raises his head to meet Will's eyes, he looks drowsy, close to falling asleep. Will leans up to kiss his mouth, and then again and this second time his kiss is reciprocated with all the reverence Hannibal can muster.
"It's a good look on you," Will goes on.
"I'm correct to assume that any bad dreams have been dealt with?"
"Thoroughly." That's what started it tonight. Nowadays it happens rarely that Will is haunted by nightmares, perhaps once or twice every half year where it gets so bad that it shakes him awake. Sometimes Will hates to be touched right after waking up, and Hannibal will do everything in his power to get him comfortable again. Make him tea, prepare bite-sized biscuits, bring him one of several blankets of whichever texture Will can stand in that moment, and speak to him calmly. It's the latter that usually single-handedly brings Will back from the dreamed images of blurred and bloody shapes, or the reminder of how it felt to lose himself, or the deep, starving loneliness he endured for three years after Muskrat Farm. Hannibal's steady voice reminds him of where they are, that they are together.
Other times touch is exactly what he needs and then Hannibal will hold him or Will will hold Hannibal to know that he is close and alive and won't disappear into thin air at the blink of an eye. Those times the soft circling of a thumb in his hair will turn into a touch of lips and those lips will wander until they've found their match.
"I'm cold," Will says, which is half a lie since Hannibal's warm body is still enveloping him.
"A shower should rectify that."
"Join me."
It needs a succession of more kisses before they disentangle, reluctantly, unwilling to give up the skin contact. That is remedied when they wash each other's hair and body.
"I meant it," Will says as he takes the shower head to wash away the last few soap suds, "I'd like seeing you become all grey."
Hannibal grasps his hand and kisses the ring there as passionately as the most devout believer would kiss a holy man's feet. "I know."
They end up tangled back together, Will's head pillowed on Hannibal's shoulder and one leg slung over his middle while an arm around him holds him secure. He falls asleep to the even beat of his heart.
V.
The only thing they do separately is drink coffee. Will usually wakes up before Hannibal in the early hours of the morning, often before the sun rises. He makes his own cup and then sets out with his boat. Always within eyesight of the shore. The sea is calm, the air fresh. The cool breeze wakes him up even better than the coffee.
It is different from a secluded stream in the forests of Virginia but nevertheless pleasant for how few people there are around. He enjoys the silence of the morning. Watches the sunrise as one of the first people of the island which always brings up the same memory of how he woke up Hannibal to watch it with him. They sat on their porch swing, orange juice in their hands, and Hannibal told him "It's beautiful" even though his eyes were closed and he was already half-asleep again on Will's shoulder.
Even when he doesn't take the boat out, Will is awake earlier, primed by several decades of taking care of needy dogs. He'll spend some time watching Hannibal sleep or testing how many times he can kiss him before it rouses him. Or he'll take a walk up and down the white beach, earning an exasperated sigh from Hannibal at the sand he brings back. Other times he'll retreat to his workshop, prepare flies for fishing, continue weaving a wire fence for when the turtles lay their eggs and island animals try to dig them up.
On days he does fish, he doesn't always bring back a catch. Hannibal, for all that he is no morning person, is nevertheless a routine animal and expects him back for breakfast by nine. Whether he has caught something by then is up to chance.
Today he is lucky to return with two snappers. The scent of fresh coffee, scrambled eggs and sausages greets him in the entry hallway. He can't clean and stow away the fish in the freezer quick enough to kiss Hannibal good morning. Immediately after he is tasked with dicing fruit and skewer them along with gossamer-thin strips of bacon, while Hannibal flips the last few of this morning's pancakes. On the counter Will also spots a bowl of dough covered with a damp towel. They'll have fresh bread again soon.
Breakfast is peaceful. Will tells Hannibal about the calm ocean, and Hannibal tells him about their plans for the day. A visit to the town, the local tailor, a picnic lunch out in the green. The latter is code for Hannibal wanting to draw him. He doesn’t much appreciate having his meals on a blanket in an insect infested meadow but he adores the view of Will surrounded by nature. His sketches could be photographs. He draws Will with the scar on his cheek, the lines around his mouth that came from smiling, self-assuredness in his eyes and above all love as he looks up at Hannibal from the paper.
"I've been thinking," Will says as he accepts a plate from Hannibal's soapy hands to dry, "We should get a dog. When we are back in Europe." And they will go back to Europe, eventually. Hannibal loves the art scene there too much to be disconnected from it for too long.
"How long have you been thinking?"
"Since sunrise."
"You are sure?"
Will nods. "I'm ready for it, Hannibal. I think I can stand a little more life around the house again. Having a complete family."
For a split second Hannibal halts in his dish washing. It makes Will smile.
"If that is what you want."
"It is. It's what you want, too. Maybe not in the form of a dog, but it'd be a family. We can't have a child, doing what we do. We're getting too old anyway."
"Everything for you, my love."
"You don't sound sold on the idea."
Hannibal sets down the half-clean juice glass into the sink. Even after he rudimentarily dries his hands to take Will's face between them, they're still damp and cool. Soothingly so. "I often struggle to ascertain that I have not gone mad in my own mind palace to find myself here and with you."
"Need me to pinch you to make sure you're not dreaming?" Will pulls him in closer by the band of his apron and without waiting for an answer pinches the soft of Hannibal's waist.
"I believe it." Still, he runs his thumb up and down Will's jaw to be certain. "One condition: no dogs in the kitchen."