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The boat rocks, swaying back and forth through the waves of the Atlantic. Rain beats down just gently enough on the roof of the cabin, swallowing the small bathroom in soothing white noise. The only light in the cramped space is a warm lamp on the countertop, inches away from where Will Graham sits, relaxed against the mirror. A candle, lit in the bedroom just feet away, fills the space with the rounded scents of apple, cinnamon, and coffee grounds.
Brown curls, sopping wet and chilling the scalp, are brushed reverently back with a soft towel and a softer touch. Hannibal forces down the urge to kiss the skin they leave exposed, focused on drying his love before the chill of the boat can settle into his precious flesh. Will stares at the unruly stitches on Hannibal’s arm, nearly healed completely but tugging slightly with every push of the towel through his hair.
Completely unclothed and laid bare before his god, Will is not afraid. He feels little in this moment. A short list could be compiled easily– Safe, tired, and perhaps naive. Being groomed by someone who could easily overpower him, who has tried to consume his flesh and brains before. But he feels as Hannibal’s gentle touch drags the towel across the gnarly scar on his forehead, caused by the same gentle hands that worship it in this moment, and he knows he is secure.
They have been at sea for just over a month, nursing their wounds and sharing quiet words in the small bed they share. Chiyoh had retrieved them from a dock just off the rocky coast, Hannibal having been lying on the sand holding an injured and unconscious Will. Chiyoh had been skeptical, unsure of whether bringing Will was the right choice, but it was Hannibal’s boat she was manning and him that she was loyal to. Cynicism was not an option for her in that moment.
Once the men had healed enough from their injuries to survive without constant assistance, Chiyoh had disembarked at a European port, leaving only her number and an air of gratitude in her wake.
The domestic limbo Will and Hannibal have found themselves at the center of has been complicated, but not uncomfortable. They haven’t spoken about it directly, only shared whispers in the middle of the night, promising never to hurt one another again. Hannibal promising to tie their hearts together, chamber by chamber, if only Will would allow it.
And now, it seems that he has.
An old-standing wall has crumbled between them, one that kept them always 6 inches apart, close enough to smell but never to touch. Now, they eat together, lie together, bathe together. Breathe together.
Sufficiently dry, Will finally meets Hannibal’s gaze, full of an emotion Will can only place as awe. A modern-day Adonis laid bare in golden light, allowing the devil to wash his feet with his hair.
Hannibal moves slowly, placing the damp towel on the closed toilet lid before stepping closer, standing between Will’s spread knees. Neither of them has any desire to break their eye contact, a rare form of intimacy that Hannibal has only recently been permitted to indulge in freely.
“Does it bother you?” Hannibal mutters, the two of them lying face-to-face in the darkness, ankles tangled under a too-warm blanket.
Will responds.
“Does what bother me?”
“When we lock eyes. Does it bother you?”
His response comes slow, honest. “It used to. But, now that I see you, see myself– Is there a difference?– I find it doesn’t matter anymore. There is… nothing to hide. No rooms in your mind palace that I haven’t explored. No walls I haven't tunneled under. I see you, Hannibal.”
Hannibal had shed a tear, willing his eyes not to spill over lest his vision become too watery to admire the navy pools staring back at him, hardly visible in the night but clearer than ever.
Wrapping a hand around his back, Hannibal gently applies pressure to the small of Will’s back, signalling that it is time to move out of the now moist air of the bathroom.
They move as one into the equally cramped bedroom, the sounds of rain only louder as Will sits on the unmade bed, watching as Hannibal pulls out two sets of pajamas.
The comfortable silence of the room is broken suddenly when Hannibal speaks– not with any malice, but as if a thought had just occurred to him, and he suddenly needed to know the answer.
“Do you regret your decision to throw us off that cliff, Will? Do you regret leaving behind Jack, leaving behind Molly, to be here with me?” There is a distinct vulnerability to Hannibal’s voice as he adoringly lifts one of Will’s legs to slide the first leg of the pants over his foot. Not out of necessity, but reverence.
There's a long pause as Will sits with the question, and by the time he responds, he has been dressed, leaving only Hannibal nude before him, literally and figuratively. He considers it for a moment, how easily they became comfortable being naked with one another, existing naturally, a unique and forgotten kind of intimacy. To see someone in their barest, most natural state and not feel just lust, but safety.
When his response comes, Will answers with his gaze fixed on the small window by the ceiling. Watching as the raindrops splat against the tiny pane, finding purchase on their small home.
“No, Hannibal. I don’t think I do. Maybe for a brief moment, as we were falling, before we hit the water, I considered it. That I was leaving my entire life behind. Everything I had fought for. But I think that all of it became insufficient the moment I met you. I think that I fought my own becoming for years, and now that it’s caught up with me, I am changed. I am not Jack Crawford’s toy army soldier. I am my own.” A beat after he finishes speaking, Will’s gaze moves, tracing the line of Hannibal’s neck as he swallows before meeting his darkened eyes.
Without another word and with a content smile, Hannibal turns from him, exposing his vulnerable back and showing the nasty branding job that Mason Verger had done on his upper back. He dresses, quickly and less methodically than he had done with Will, turning around to see that Will has stood and moved soundlessly closer, inches away from him. Breath fanning over Hannibal’s chin as he tilts his head upwards, smelling of expensive soap, sea salt, and expectation.
“I am your monster now, Hannibal. Made in your vision, sculpted in your hands. My question is, now that you have guided me to this point, what will you make of me now?”
It would be easy to wrap his hand around Will’s throat for his teasing, but it would be easier to take a leap of faith and lean down to meet Will’s cruel lips.
Hannibal frequently does the easier of two options.