Work Text:
The first Valentine’s Day after the fall, Hannibal gifted Will a single red rose.
The entire day passed without a single pretentious reference to Cupid, Venus, or St Valentine—and Will thought he’d escaped having to deal with the Gordian Knot of feelings tangled between them—only to discover the lonely bloom resting on his pillow when he went to bed.
Every man and their dog knew the meaning: love at first sight; 'you are the one’. Will, used to being gifted origami hearts shaped from the flesh of lesser men, couldn’t help but think it was amusingly unoriginal.
But the image stayed with him.
It stayed with him through the tentative venture of their first kiss. It stayed with him in times of darkness: both the cruel nights filled with screams and tainted by the scent of copper, and the kind nights blessed by devoted lips, wrapped up in each other’s skin. It stayed with him in times of light: bathing in the rays of dawn mid-voyage, sharing the warmth of their marital bed; lazy afternoons spent posing on the chaise-longue as Hannibal’s fingers attempted to define him in graphite and ink.
Long after its living counterpart wilted, Will would sometimes lay his head down on the pillow and remember that solitary red rose, preserved inside the halls of his memory palace.
It’s you, only you, forever.
Years passed. Two decades came and went in the blink of an eye...and then, on February 14th 2035, Will Graham judged that the time was ripe for reciprocity.
The tapping of Hannibal’s cane on the wooden staircase echoes through the villa as he makes his way slowly towards their master bedroom. Will has been out all day, doing God-knows what, seemingly having forgotten that it’s Valentine's Day. Hannibal tells himself that he doesn’t mind. Will has never been one for hallmark-card holidays; his complete lack of grandiosity is part of his charm… but still, it stings.
Hannibal eases his way onto the landing, wrinkled fingers clinging to the banister for balance. Then he spots something curious. A line of pink-white flower petals guards their bedroom door. Hannibal taps his way over and bends down to examine them, wincing as his back creaks in protest. Bewildered, he picks them up methodically and pockets them, before entering the bedroom.
Inside, he finds a single flower resting on his pillow next to Will’s.
“I can’t believe you actually picked them up.”
Hannibal turns, swallowing the lump in his throat. Will is on the landing, seemingly having materialised from thin air, grinning from ear to ear. His blue eyes beam just as brightly as they did in his youth, crow’s feet crinkling at the corner.
“That could be considered victimising the aged, Will,” Hannibal chides without malice, settling on the bed and patting the space beside him in invitation. Will saunters in, his gait considerably smoother than his husband’s. He sits down next to Hannibal and entwines their fingers, matching silver rings sitting side-by-side, giving him a light nudge to the ribs.
“Yeah well, gotta keep you limber somehow, right?”
Hannibal’s lips quirk. He picks up the flower to admire it: wide, heart-shaped petals tapering from pure white to pastel pink on the edges, with a shock of yellow stigma beaming at him from the centre. Hannibal is so taken with it that he accidentally nicks his thumb on a curled red thorn.
“A dog rose… an interesting choice for a Valentine's gift,” he muses, sucking the blood from the cut. Will’s eyes gleam, enjoying a private joke.
“Do you know what it means?” Will asks, purely to open the conversation. Out of the two of them, Will might be the resident gardener (read: the guy who digs the holes and plants the bulbs), but it’s Hannibal who decides which leafy green specimens are worthy of gracing their eyes each morning when they open their curtains. The man probably knows the meaning of every damn flower on the planet.
“It’s a wildflower native to the British Isles, rather than a cultivated rose,” Hannibal begins, sure of himself as expected. He twirls the sharp stem between his fingers. “Its petals symbolise resilience, devotion, tenacity, and courage; whilst the thorns represent protection and defence… much like a loyal hound. In fact, the original name comes from the Greek ‘kunórodon’, because the thorns were thought to resemble a dog’s tooth.”
Hannibal pauses, raising his gaze to meet Will’s. The latter’s features are slightly blurry to Hannibal’s ageing eyes, but he is loath to submit to his ailing body and obtain a glasses prescription. Still, Hannibal can make out his cunning boy’s wild curls and the penetrating power of his eyes; feel the roughness of his hands that have defended him from harm and made him come apart so many times. He can smell that god-awful aftershave that Will must be wearing to test his devotion. Hannibal brings Will’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles.
“Considering how many years you’ve been by my side, it’s a lovely choice.”
Will feigns coyness, looking up at his husband from underneath his greying lashes. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.
“Any other trivia that springs to mind?” he probes. Hannibal shoots Will an exasperated look tempered by fondness.
“Folklore associates the flower strongly with vampires. It’s said that when faced with the flower’s fallen petals, the vampire would be compelled to pick them up.”
“I always had my suspicions,” Will grins, turning Hannibal’s hand over to reveal the wound on his thumb, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Hannibal chuckles in turn, reaching up to caress Will’s thinning strands, bringing their foreheads together.
“Never change, Will,” he commands quietly. “Never.”
“What, this old dog?” Will rolls his eyes. Hannibal smiles and tickles the flower against his beloved's nose.
“It seems to me you’re still capable of a few tricks, dear boy.” Then Hannibal pauses. He grips Will tighter, voice and eyes welling with emotion, the lines on their hands bleeding into each other. “Thank you, Will… for remembering.”
A fond sigh follows. Will leans in, pressing their lips together.
“If you like it that much, maybe I’ll plant you one in another 20 years,” he jokes, noses bumping lightly as they part. The sweet tease contains a hidden barb, much like a wild rose disguising thorns beneath soft petals. Hannibal smiles to himself, impressed by Will's research. It's said that a dog rose planted on a vampire's grave would prevent resurrection.
Hannibal’s hooded eyes lift. His gaze is older and wiser than in the beginning, but always tinged with blood and darkness… and so terrifyingly alive. His lip curls, revealing the glint of an incisor.
“I will hold you to that, my love. Beware the consequences should you forget.”