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Above almost any other affront, Hannibal harbors a deep disgust for the banal. He despises those who have nothing valuable to say, and there is nothing on earth that he detests more than small talk. He would sooner snap someone’s neck than be forced to discuss, for example, his favorite color.
That does not necessarily mean that he does not have one.
As a child, he’d favored gold. He loved to watch the golden chains and bands of his mother’s jewelry collection, shifting and sparkling in the sunlight. Most of all, Hannibal loved the shimmer of his sister’s hair. He spent countless minutes in his youth tending to her long blonde locks. She was perfect, like a little porcelain doll, always grinning when he did it up in tiny blue bows.
And then Hannibal changed. Or perhaps the world changed around him. Red became his shade of choice. Deep, blood red, in glasses of wine and raw flesh and arterial spatters. He searched for it everywhere, and always found it in flowing abundance. It never lost its luster, never stopped making his mouth water for more.
But recently, he’s found himself seeking out another color.
Will’s skin has turned darker, tanned by lazy afternoons spent in the blazing Cuban sun. His body is dotted with flecks of a deeper brown, freckles near his spine and down his toned arms. There’s one on the sole of his left foot, where Will flinches from his touch with barking laughter and sharp admonishment.
Sawdust and shavings cling to him when he comes in from his workshop, tiny chips of pale pine and deep walnut and warm mahogany. Their home is populated by the creations that aren’t sold off at flea markets, a variety of wooden pieces crafted by Will’s own clever hands. The dark, rich soil is fertile and forgiving, and Hannibal plants the seeds for herbs and the odd vegetable in their backyard, fenced off to save them from the wrath of their dogs.
His favorite shade of brown— the deep, tempting hue of Will’s cascading curls— is currently shielding his beloved from view. It hangs in his face, tangled and matted with the dried blood of their latest prey. He’s grown it out long, in the wake of their climactic tumble away from the public eye. Hannibal adores how it falls so elegantly over his shoulders, spilling down his back and all but begging to be touched.
It had been tied back when their hunt began, but over the course of the evening the bun he’d secured it in had fallen loose. Their chosen victim tried to run, and though Will was swift in his capture and retribution, there had been something of a struggle. Nothing dire, Hannibal’s husband is too formidable a foe for the average pig to injure anymore, but he’s a bit worse for wear. Some scrapes, a bruise. Mainly the encounter has just left him filthy.
Hannibal observes him as they haul the body inside, as they clean it and dispose of its clothes before storing it in their deep freezer to be broken down in the morning. His clothes will need to be burned, though Will makes a point to wear things he wouldn’t miss on nights like these. There’s blood and soil clinging to the beds of his fingernails. Most notably, he’s still a bit wild around the eyes. It’s difficult, sometimes, for Will to decompress.
When they at last return to their bedroom, Will retreats to the master bath, stripped bare and muttering something about ‘hosing off’ before retiring for the night. Hannibal follows.
“How do you like the sound of a nice, hot bath?” he suggests instead.
Will sighs. He’s still getting used to the pampering. The softness, the attention. He clearly enjoys it, but the stubborn remnants of his previous life still cling to him in places.
Hannibal places his hands on Will’s bare shoulders, begins to massage them in firm, coaxing kneads. “It will help you relax,” he says, leaning forward a fraction to whisper in his husband’s ear. “You’ve more than earned it. You were magnificent tonight, mylimasis. So clever, so quick. Truly a marvelous thing to behold.”
Will’s muscles shift and loosen beneath his fingers as he works, gradually unwinding until the tension slowly melts from him. Hannibal presses a kiss to the space where Will’s shoulder meets his neck.
“Come, let me worship you.”
The low, warm sound of Will’s resulting pleasured hum brings a smile to Hannibal’s face. “Alright, alright,” he sighs, like he’s the one indulging Hannibal by entertaining this. Hannibal strides over to the tub, twisting the knobs until the water spilling forth is just on the wrong edge of steaming. How Will can stand such a heat, let alone enjoy it, Hannibal will never know. Still, it doesn’t seem to irritate his skin, so Hannibal doesn’t object.
Will is quiet for most of the bath. He’s always introspective after a hunt, regardless of the outcome. Sometimes it’s a dark sort of quiet, all brooding scowls and glaring at nothing. Sometimes he leaves Hannibal to peer through the clouded windows of him, to wonder at what might be happening within.
This isn’t that sort of quiet. He can see it in how Will rolls his neck with a gratified sound as he luxuriates in the scalding bath, how his clever lips curl into a smile when Hannibal begins to gently scrub him clean. He’s reminiscing, not regretting. And so Hannibal lets the silence lie, content to bask in Will’s glow as the minutes tick on.
“Tip your head back, darling,” are the first words he says, and Will obeys. His eyes fall shut as he does so, lashes casting tiny shadows on the fragile crescents beneath. Hannibal takes his time in washing Will’s hair, reveling in the small privilege he’s been offered. Will’s trust is a thing not easily won, but he doesn’t tense as Hannibal works the shampoo into his hair.
The scent of jasmine and bergamot fills the room, Will’s lips parting around a soft sigh when Hannibal takes the opportunity to scratch lightly at his scalp. Hannibal is careful to rinse it thoroughly, to work the conditioner into every strand. Will’s hair is thick, and it tangles terribly. He shudders to think of how roughly the other man brushes it when he’s in a rush, tearing through knots and letting out growls of frustration.
Seemingly endless in his patience tonight, Will allows Hannibal to towel him dry once he’s finished, laying kisses on the meat of a sturdy thigh, the high jut of a collarbone, the corner of an upturned lip. He’s caught in that heavenly valley between exasperation and amusement, that curious space where his smiles come easily and his eyes roll but never stop twinkling. Hannibal loves him like this.
He watches Will slip into a black satin nightgown in the way that a trapped rabbit might watch the approaching wolf— not just unwilling but outright afraid to look away, even for a moment. It’s nearly painful to see how the fabric drapes over his frame, how it softens the harsh creature that’s made its home in Hannibal’s bedroom.
Will catches him, of course. Ever observant. He smirks, head tipped to the side so that his wet hair dangles suspended over open air. Hannibal feels the urge, as he often does, to kneel at his feet.
“Close your mouth before you start catching flies, Doctor” he teases, one dark brow cocked in challenge.
Hannibal simply prowls nearer, plucking Will’s hairbrush from its place atop their dresser and settling on their bed. “Would you like me to brush it out for you?”
Will chuckles. “You’re spoiling me,” he notes, but he moves to sit with his back to Hannibal, tossing his curtain of hair behind his shoulders. “One must wonder what I’ve done to earn so much attention.”
“Must they?”
The bristles hiss through Will’s damp hair, staring at the ends. “I caught your dinner,” he jokes. “I’ve always heard that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
“Hm.” He catches a small knot, begins the delicate work of coaxing it free. “Is that how you think I see you? As a means to sourcing meat?”
“I think of myself as the spider living in your bathroom,” he muses, leaning into the strokes of the brush with a content sigh. “You let it stay because it eats the smaller insects, and then someday you realize that you’ve gotten attached to it. Given it a name and come to think of it like something between a pet and an infestation. And now you’re fucked because it’s taking over your bathroom and you don’t have the heart to smash it with a shoe.”
Hannibal laughs. It takes Will right along with him. “I think I’ve grown to like the look of your cobwebs, dear. Rest assured that I have no plans to smash you.”
“None?”
“Not beyond repair,” he concedes, and leans forward to lay a kiss on the crown of Will’s head.
Hannibal brushes through the other man’s hair in long, thorough passes. It’s curious that he’s still so resistant to this sort of attention in principle. For once he has it— once Hannibal has tamed the frightened, feral beast of him and tempted it to lower its hackles— Will revels in it. The indulgence, the finery and excess and love of it all. Even in simple forms, even here.
He’s not entirely sure when he begins to hum. The notes simply rise, weightless, like smoke from a well-tended hearth. He falters when he remembers himself, instantly recognizing the simple melody he’d been parroting, and though Hannibal might not be well-acquainted with embarrassment, he finds a sliver of it waiting for him. He clears his throat, guiding his focus sternly back to his task.
“Don’t stop.”
Hannibal doesn’t respond. Instead he bides his time by running his fingers through Will’s damp hair. It’s perfectly tamed, now, silken soft and shining in the low light of their bedroom.
“It was nice,” Will adds. His back is still to Hannibal, but he knows the other man’s voice well enough to detect his warmth, his gentleness. “It’s funny, you’re such a musical person but I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing before. I liked it.”
Hannibal sighs as he strokes through Will’s hair once more, gathering it back from his ears and forehead. “More muscle memory than anything else,” he says at length. “I don’t sing, much. Not anymore.”
Will nods as much as he can without disturbing Hannibal’s touches. “What was it?”
Another brief hesitation. “Stella, stellina,” he says. “It’s an Italian lullaby, my mother taught it to us.”
Slowly, as if afraid of spooking him, Will says “Do you still remember how it goes?”
Hannibal stalls. Licks his lips. Will waits patiently. Does he know what he’s asking? Surely he does; their pasts are always thorny places to visit. It never stops either of them from trying, though— Hannibal is no stranger to the elaborate hopscotch that is delving into Will Graham’s childhood, himself.
He clears his throat. Almost subconsciously, he grounds himself by smoothing out Will’s long curls. He divides them into three sections, judges their evenness against one another. Takes two sections in his hand and crosses them.
‘Star, little star,’ he begins, much slower than the lullaby would ordinarily be sung. His singing voice wavers a bit with disuse, but his recollection of the lullaby is perfectly clear.
Will all but melts. He’s always had a penchant for Hannibal speaking languages he doesn’t understand. The soft Italian syllables float to him, entirely devoid of meaning, and Will welcomes them with open arms.
‘Night is approaching. The flame flickers.’
His fingers work effortlessly, their muscles still holding this once-frequently practiced skill. The braid takes shape as Hannibal sings, simple but elegant.
‘The cow and the calf, the sheep and the lamb, the hen with its chick.’
A tiny laugh bubbles out of Will. Maybe he just realized how strange this would seem to an outside observer. Maybe he’s simply surprised by how happy he feels, being cared for.
Hannibal has only ever wanted someone whom he could care for.
‘Every one of them has their child...’
The lamplight shifts, just so. A chill seems to reach him, clawing at his suddenly small frame even from outside.
Just for a moment, Hannibal is sitting on his Mischa’s narrow bed, her toys and books observing him from the opposite wall. He looks down, finds his hands grasping a half-done braid of her lovely, golden hair. She likes for him to braid it just before bed, likes the wave that it gives her shining blonde tresses when Hannibal unties them for her in the morning.
Hannibal drops the braid like scalding water, takes in a shuddering gasp. All he can smell is the lavender in her shampoo.
“Did you forget the words?”
It isn’t his sister who asks. Hannibal blinks, and in an instant he’s deposited back into his and Will’s bedroom.
“Hannibal?” Will turns, looks at him over one tan shoulder. Instantly, Will’s mouth falls open in mute horror.
“Hannibal? Hey, look at me.”
The other man shuffles over the bed, the rich fabric of his nightgown pooling around his knees as he comes to kneel just in front of Hannibal. His work-worn palms cup Hannibal’s cheeks. They ground him in their weight, their warmth, their texture. It’s a touch his young, helpless self could not have known.
He doesn’t realize that he’s started to cry until Will wipes the fallen tears away. Firm but gentle, like a mother fussing over a stain. It summons more, though, the very knowledge that they are there waiting in the wings enough to make them spill over.
Will shushes him, their roles so abruptly yet so easily reversing. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, and folds Hannibal into his warm embrace. Hannibal clings. He lacks the presence of mind to feel ashamed of clinging. “It’s okay, Hannibal, just breathe.”
Hannibal sobs, sucks in a wet gasp. His fingers seek needy fistfuls of Will’s nightgown, clumsy and numb like he’s just come in from the snow. Will cups the back of his head, guides him to hide away in the crook of the other man’s neck. Hannibal goes readily, pressing his frost-nipped nose tight against Will’s throat and taking in shuddering breaths of his scent.
Will doesn’t ask him to explain. In all likelihood he already knows. He simply holds Hannibal tightly within the circle of his arms, rocking them both subtly from side to side and whispering little barely-there encouragements into Hannibal’s hair.
“Everything’s alright,” he coos, and Hannibal’s breaths slowly begin to find their usual meter. “I’m okay, we’re both okay. Nobody’s ever gonna take me away from you. I won’t let ‘em.”
After what can’t have been more than ten minutes but feels like lifetimes, Hannibal breathes out a long, wavering sigh. He’s exhausted in the wake of it, but the storm seems to have passed for the moment. His face is wet and tacky, old and new tears mingling on his ruddy cheeks. Will tightens his grip, gives Hannibal a parting squeeze.
“Let me make you something to drink, okay? It’ll help you feel better.”
Will moves to stand, and despite himself Hannibal grips his shoulders. “You okay, Han?” he prods.
Now that his emotions have begun the slow process of leveling out, Hannibal has remembered how to feel shame. It’s an experience he hasn’t yet mastered, a feeling that he only flirts with in moments of extreme weakness. Moments like this one.
His voice is thick, roughened by the effort of his episode. “Don’t go,” he croaks, and it flays him alive.
Will just pats his back, gently tugs him forward. “Come with me, yeah? We’ll go together.”
Halting, almost shy, he nods.
Hannibal can’t find the wherewithal to look Will in the face as he guides them out of the bedroom, but he watches the other man from behind. Trailing in his shadow as Will descends the stairs, his bare feet padding against cool stone. All of their floors are stone, occasionally interrupted by ornate rugs as they move through their home. It’d seemed a practical choice until now, it traps less heat than carpet or wood. Why, why had they been so keen on warding off heat?
He shivers as he takes a seat at the kitchen island, his eyes tracking how Will’s nightgown shifts around every step. The other man is bustling about in an instant, completely at home in the space.
“Something sweet, I think,” Will mutters, pulling open their spice cabinet. “Something homey. You okay?”
Hannibal blinks. He locks eyes with Will for the first time since crumbling. There’s concern knitted into his handsome face, it makes Hannibal suddenly aware of himself. His arms are crossed, rubbing at his own skin as if to inspire warmth. He’s shivering. “Cold,” he replies simply.
Will nods. “It’s psychosomatic,” he assures, offering a gentle smile. “It’s eighty degrees out, at least. You’re alright.”
Of course. Logically, he is aware that they are far from the gruesome winters of his youth, both in space and in time. The chill claws at his senses, all the same.
“Don’t worry,” Will’s voice soothes, reading his thoughts with practiced ease. “We can bundle up in the den, if you want to. I’ll fetch the good blankets, and we’ll watch TV until you’re ready to turn in.”
Hannibal’s chest swells painfully. For how shocked he’d been, all those years ago, by his urge to care for Will Graham— he’s doubly surprised by how natural it is for Will to look after Hannibal in return. He sees Hannibal’s needs like a sixth sense, tends to them in his own warm, nurturing way. Not for the first time, he finds himself thinking that Mischa would have utterly adored him.
Still, being on the receiving end of this sort of attention doesn’t always come easily for him. It’s a disquieting thing, to place so much of himself into Will’s waiting hands. “You’re tired,” he argues, though it’s woefully halfhearted. “You should go upstairs and rest.”
Will doesn’t even look up from his task, stirring his concoction over their stove top with a tight-drawn frown. “Don’t be so difficult. I’m not leaving you alone, not when you’re upset like this. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”
He sighs, though beyond his own stubbornness he’s elated. Perhaps Will’s habit of resisting tenderness even when it’s wanted isn’t so strange, after all. “Of course not,” he concedes. And that’s that.
A handful of minutes later, Will deposits a hot cup before him. The steam of it rises in a curling plume, soothing his nerves like a balm. Hannibal breathes it in, and smells rich chocolate, cinnamon, nutmeg.
“Spiced cocoa,” Will announces with a gentle smirk. Teasing, but only just. “I can make whipped cream for it, if you want. I’ll even make it the French way, if your sweet tooth prefers.”
Hannibal laughs softly, the sharp exhale of it disturbing the surface of his drink. A deep, decadent brown. “This is perfect, darling, thank you.”
Will’s mischief smooths away, leaving him to eye Hannibal with a sweet, lopsided grin. He shrugs. “I like taking care of you,” he replies simply, as if it’s nothing. As if Hannibal hadn’t spent the better part of his life searching for exactly this. Then again, he’s beginning to understand that Will has been waiting, too. “We look out for each other, right? Someone’s got to.”
If Will sees Hannibal’s eyes turn wet and shining once more in response, then he’s too forgiving to acknowledge it. Instead he simply moves for the hallway, jerking his head in the direction of their den. “Come on. Cutthroat Kitchen or British Bake-Off?”
Hannibal groans about his options, much to Will’s amusement. But he collects his drink and follows nonetheless, trailing faithfully behind his beloved’s swaying brown curls in the dark.