Work Text:
The decanter was only half-full when Will started, but it looked dangerously close to empty now. The liquid inside—amber, heavy, deceptively calm—glimmered under the soft, warm light of Hannibal’s study, the crystal facets catching every twitch of Will’s hand as he poured again. And again. And again.
He wasn’t even bothering with the glass anymore.
The rim was wet where his mouth had pressed against it, the shape of his lips imperfectly outlined on the cut crystal. His fingers trembled around the neck of the decanter, not enough to drop it but enough to make the surface light jitter across the walls like trembling sunlight underwater.
It wasn’t night yet, not fully, but the room looked like twilight had already moved in: lamp light low, furniture carved out of slow, deep shadows, and Will—at the center of it all—moving with the kind of aimlessness that had nothing to do with indecision and everything to do with drowning.
He paced.
Then stopped.
Then paced again.
Each motion was abrupt, stiff, punctuated by the way his boots thudded against the hardwood floor. Too loud for the room. Too loud for the quiet breath of space Hannibal cultivated.
Will felt that too—felt how out of place he was, how wrong his energy was for this environment, and yet he kept going. A frantic orbit around his own collapsing star.
He laughed once, short and sharp, an ugly little burst that cracked against the shelves of books like an echo that didn’t belong. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth afterward, startled by the sound of his own voice.
“Stupid.” he muttered into his skin. “You’re being stupid.”
He wasn’t drunk enough. Not yet. His thoughts were still too loud. Still cutting through every sip he took. Still clawing at him from inside his skull like they were trying to get out through sheer force of will.
He raised the decanter again.
The burn slid down his throat like a punishment he thought he deserved.
His head buzzed. His vision softened at the edges, a slow bleed of watercolor darkness, but the center—his thoughts—still pulsed sharp and relentless. He wanted quiet. He wanted numb. He wanted anything except what he had: himself.
He let out a breath that almost felt like a sob but got tangled into a laugh instead.
“What you need,” he whispered to no one, “is silence.”
He tipped his head back, swallowing again, the liquid pooling warmly in his chest, heavy and full, but not enough—not nearly. The taste was too gentle, too smooth; he wanted something harsher. Something that felt like an impact.
He turned toward the nearest shelf and leaned against it, breathing through his nose, eyes half-lidded. His curls fell over his forehead, sticking slightly where sweat had started to gather. The room felt hot. Or maybe he did.
His shoulders slumped.
He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been drinking. Time was elastic, stretching thin and snapping back, leaving him staggered. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and the sharp bite of alcohol, and Will pushed his palm against the side of his head as though he could press the noise inside it into submission.
It didn’t work.
“It never works...” he muttered, gripping the shelf harder.
He pushed himself away, stumbling a step, catching his balance only because the chair behind him stopped his backward sway. He laughed again—this one softer, drunker, embarrassingly boyish. His body felt loose. His lips tingled.
“God...” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “You’re pathetic.”
He spoke out loud because the room was too silent, too watchful. Because Hannibal’s house always felt like it was paying attention even when its owner wasn’t physically present.
That made something inside Will twist—something warm and terrified and wanting.
He poured more.
His hand slipped once, the liquid splashing over his fingers and dripping onto the floor in soft, rhythmic taps. He stared at the droplets for a long moment, fascinated by the way they spread unevenly on the polished wood.
Then he snorted.
“You’re making a mess.” he told himself, voice slurring at the edges. “He’s going to hate that.”
But even that wasn’t enough to stop him from drinking again.
He sank into the nearest chair—one of Hannibal’s favorites, upholstered in dark, rich leather—and didn’t belong in it at all. He sprawled in directions the chair wasn’t meant for. Human chaos in a space designed for contained, cultivated elegance.
He rested his head against the back. The ceiling shifted a little. Tilted just slightly. He let out another laugh, helpless and small.
His eyelids fluttered shut.
He could almost hear his own pulse. Felt it in his throat. In his fingertips. In the dull throb behind his eyes.
He tried to think of nothing.
The worst idea he’d ever had.
Because the moment he tried, everything rushed in: the cases, the voices, the blood, Hannibal’s eyes, his touch, his voice saying Will’s name the way no one else ever had. It all collided in his head, a crashing wave that knocked the breath out of him.
Will squeezed his eyes tighter.
“Stop.” he whispered. “Please. Just—stop.”
But the thoughts didn’t care about pleading. They slashed through the haze of alcohol like bright, cold knives.
He sat up too quickly.
The room dipped sideways.
“Shit...” he muttered, grabbing the arm of the chair. “Okay. Okay. You’re fine.”
He wasn’t fine.
Not remotely.
His chest felt too tight, his hands too empty, his throat too hot. He needed something to ground him. Something real.
Something warm.
Someone.
The thought hit him too fast, too clear. It burned hotter than the alcohol.
He swallowed hard, the motion scraping painfully. A hysterical little giggle stuck in his throat and broke free.
“Oh no...” he said aloud. “That’s not— that’s not good.”
He pushed himself to his feet again.
Immediately regretted it.
The floor slid somewhere it shouldn’t have. Will grabbed the nearest bookshelf to steady himself, fingers splayed across the spines of Hannibal’s books. His thumb pressed against the embossed lettering of a title he couldn’t focus on.
He bowed his head, forehead nearly touching the wood.
“Why am I like this?” he whispered, voice cracking openly now. “Why do I—”
He stopped.
A sound broke the stillness.
A soft shift of weight on the floorboards.
A presence.
Will’s head jerked up, too fast, eyes wide even through the haze.
He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
He felt him.
The way he always did.
His pulse spiked. His breath stuttered. He laughed, too loudly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Guess I’m not alone after all...” he said, breathless.
He turned unsteadily, the room tilting again, and looked at Hannibal Lecter standing in the doorway of the study—measured, composed, framed by the soft glow from the hall like some impossible portrait.
Will blinked.
And blinked again.
Because Hannibal looked… devastating in the way that made something inside Will curl up and shake. His eyes were calm but sharp, cutting through the alcoholic fog with terrifying clarity.
“Evening...” Will said, his grin crooked and fragile and far too wide. “Caught me.”
His voice hiccuped on the last word.
He swayed where he stood, gripping the bookshelf harder to keep himself upright. The decanter dangled from his other hand like a threat or a plea.
His cheeks were flushed. His lips slightly parted. His pupils blown wide in a mixture of alcohol and emotion he couldn’t hide—not now, not ever.
Will laughed again. A soft, breaking sound.
“You’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing...” he said, voice slurred, warm, embarrassingly earnest. “Honestly? I… I’m not even sure anymore.”
He looked at Hannibal like he was gravity.
Like he was the one fixed point that could keep Will from flying apart.
The decanter slipped a little in his hand.
He tightened his grip. Too late.
Hannibal moved before it could fall.
Will watched the motion, dazed, breath catching in his chest.
“Huh.” he whispered, almost tenderly. “You always do that.”
His knees wobbled.
He laughed again, helpless.
Unsteady.
A little hysterical.
“I’m drunk, Hannibal.” he said unnecessarily, as though Hannibal couldn’t already see it in every trembling inch of him. “And I—I don’t wanna be.”
His voice broke openly.
“But I don’t know how else to stop thinking.”
He stepped forward.
Too close.
Too fast.
And the scene held its breath.
Hannibal didn’t speak at first.
He simply stood there, letting the silence settle—the kind of silence he used like a scalpel. Precise. Controlled. Designed to cut only what he intended.
Will felt it immediately.
Felt it more than he heard anything else.
His breath stuttered in his chest, his body instinctively swaying toward the calm source in the doorway like a plant reaching for light, drunk or not.
Hannibal stepped forward with the deliberate smoothness of someone who had never once stumbled in his life. His footsteps softened against the floor, barely audible but impossible to ignore. The study seemed to shift around him, its atmosphere rearranging itself to accommodate his presence—as if the room belonged to him so completely that even the shadows listened.
Will swallowed.
Hard.
His mouth tasted bitter and sweet at the same time, the burn of alcohol mixing with the strange, involuntary warmth that crept down his spine whenever Hannibal’s attention rested fully on him.
It was resting on him now.
Heavy.
Focused.
Unblinking.
“Will.” Hannibal said at last, his voice low, the kind of voice that slid under the ribs like velvet and steel. “You should stop.”
The words were simple, but they carried a weight that made Will’s fingers tighten involuntarily around the decanter.
It wasn’t a scolding.
It wasn’t an order.
It was concern, cloaked in the precise tone of someone who refused to beg.
Will huffed a laugh—sharp, breathless, too loud for the room. “That so?” His smile pulled a little wider, unstable, trembling at the edges. “Didn’t think you’d… notice.”
“I noticed the moment you walked in.” Hannibal replied. He moved closer, enough that Will could feel the faint shift of air between them. “You are not yourself.”
Will’s head tipped back slightly, his pupils dragging lazily across Hannibal’s face as though trying to focus through smoke. “Maybe I don’t… wanna be myself.”
The admission slipped out before he could catch it, drunken honesty cutting through the haze like an exposed nerve. He blinked quickly, as if he could rewind the moment by sheer force.
He couldn’t.
Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened—an almost imperceptible shift, a tightening, like a bowstring being drawn back. “What you want is relief. Not oblivion.”
Will laughed again, a sound too fragile to survive outside his own throat. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I know precisely what you want.” Hannibal said, stepping close enough now that the warmth of him brushed against Will’s skin. “And I know what you do not.”
Something hot twisted in Will’s stomach.
A pulse of anger, of shame, of longing—he couldn’t tell them apart anymore. They swirled together like storm clouds spinning too fast.
“Don’t pretend you understand me.” Will whispered. His voice trembled. Not from fear.
From everything else.
Hannibal tilted his head the slightest degree. His gaze didn’t waver. “Understanding you is the one thing I have never needed to pretend.”
Will let out a shaky breath.
The room felt too small.
Too warm.
Too close.
He tried to take a step back, but his body refused to cooperate, and instead he ended up tilting forward—just enough that Hannibal reached out, a single hand closing gently around Will’s arm to steady him.
The touch was light.
Almost reverent.
Will froze.
The heat of Hannibal’s fingers bled through the fabric of his shirt, steadying him more than the grip itself.
“Hannibal…” Will exhaled, eyelids fluttering.
Hannibal’s thumb pressed slightly—not enough to restrain, just enough to anchor. “You are shaking.”
“I’m drunk.” Will said, with a half-laugh that caught and broke halfway out of his mouth.
“You are distressed.” Hannibal corrected softly.
Will swallowed again, throat tight. He tried to look away, but his vision swam and he ended up blinking back at Hannibal anyway, caught in the gravitational pull he always pretended he didn’t feel.
Hannibal’s other hand lifted, slowly, deliberately, fingers extended toward the decanter. “Give it to me.”
“No.”
The refusal came too quickly, too reflexively, and Will held the bottle closer to his chest like a shield, his arm pulling instinctively away from Hannibal’s reach.
He immediately hated himself for it.
Hated the way desperation clung to his movements.
Hannibal’s brows lifted a fraction—disappointment, not anger. “Will.”
Will took a shaky breath, clutching the decanter tighter as though Hannibal were trying to take something vital from him. “I don’t want to stop.”
“You should.” Hannibal said calmly.
“I don’t care.” Will snapped, the words laced with a raw edge that startled even him.
He looked at Hannibal with wide, red-rimmed eyes—wild, lonely, a man on the edge of something he didn’t dare name.
“I can’t stop.” Will whispered, voice cracking down the middle. “I don’t… know how.”
“You are not beyond control.” Hannibal murmured.
Will let out a broken, humorless laugh. “You keep saying that like it’s true.”
“It is.” Hannibal replied.
“It’s not.” Will’s breath hitched, his grip on the bottle trembling. “You don’t—you don’t understand what it’s like inside my head, Hannibal. You think you do, but you—”
Hannibal stepped closer.
So close that Will could feel the warmth of his breath, could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. The proximity made Will’s stomach drop, made his fingers twitch, made his thoughts scatter like startled birds.
“Let me help you.” Hannibal said quietly.
Will stared at him, eyes glazed and shining, expression collapsing under the weight of everything he’d tried so hard to hold up.
“I don’t want help.” he whispered.
“Then what do you want?” Hannibal asked.
Will opened his mouth.
Closed it.
He couldn’t answer.
He didn’t have the words, or maybe he had too many, all crowding and choking at the threshold of his tongue.
His breath shook.
For a moment, he looked like he might cry.
For a moment, he looked like he might laugh.
Instead, he clutched the decanter harder and took another wavering step back—only to stumble against the arm of the chair, his balance faltering. Hannibal reached for him again, faster this time, a hand firm at Will’s elbow to keep him upright.
Will sagged into the touch with a soft, involuntary sound.
“Will...” Hannibal murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, “give me the bottle.”
Will finally looked down at it.
At his own white-knuckled grip.
At the trembling in his wrist.
At the reflection of his warped face on the glass.
Slowly, slowly, his fingers loosened.
Hannibal took the decanter from him with impossible gentleness, as though it were something fragile, something dangerous, something sacred.
Will’s hand hovered in the air for a moment after the weight left it.
Then it dropped to his side, lifeless.
He bit down on a trembling breath.
And Hannibal—still standing impossibly close—watched him with that calm, unnerving intensity that always seemed to peel Will open from the inside.
“You are not well.” Hannibal said quietly.
Will laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Yeah. No kidding.”
Hannibal didn’t smile. “Come sit.”
“No.” Will whispered, voice fraying. “No, I’ll—I’ll fall apart if I sit.”
“You are already falling apart.”
Will lowered his eyes.
His throat worked.
His breath shook again.
And when he looked up at Hannibal once more, there was a kind of desperation in him so raw it could have bled.
“Then stay close.” he said.
It came out before he could stop it.
Soft.
Pleading.
Too honest.
Hannibal inhaled slowly.
His expression didn’t change, but something shifted in the air between them—something that felt like tension drawing taut, like a string pulled to its limit.
He stepped closer.
Close enough that their bodies nearly touched.
Close enough that Will’s breath caught in his throat like a snare.
“Very well.” Hannibal said quietly. “I’m here.”
Will’s voice shook as he whispered, “Don’t leave.”
“I am not going anywhere.”
Will’s knees threatened to buckle.
And the room, for a moment, felt impossibly still—held in suspension between collapse and something far more dangerous.
Hannibal’s nearness was a gravity Will couldn’t fight—couldn’t even want to fight.
Not now.
Not when everything in him felt loose and burning and too close to breaking.
He swayed forward, just an inch at first, then another, as though drawn by a thread. Hannibal didn’t touch him again, didn’t guide him or steady him, but he also didn’t move away.
That, more than anything, made Will’s breath shudder out of him.
His hand lifted before he realized it.
Slow.
Uncertain.
Trembling.
The back of his fingers brushed the edge of Hannibal’s sleeve, a ghost of contact, and Will froze—half-expecting Hannibal to pull away, to scold him, to redirect him with a calm command.
But Hannibal didn’t move.
Will’s fingers curled, timid and unsteady, catching lightly on the fabric. A quiet, broken sound slipped out of him—half a breath, half a pleading noise he hadn’t meant to let exist.
“I—” Will started, but his voice cracked. He swallowed hard, blinked slow, then tried again. “I just… I needed…”
The words tangled.
Everything tangled.
He took a breath that trembled from start to finish.
Then he reached a little higher.
This time, his hand landed on Hannibal’s wrist.
His fingers wrapped around it poorly—too loose, too clumsy, as though he were afraid that squeezing harder would break something important. But the contact itself lit him up like a live wire.
Hannibal’s pulse beat steady beneath his thumb.
Will closed his eyes for a second and whispered, almost inaudible, “You’re warm.”
The admission fell from him like a secret ripped open.
When he looked up again, his eyes were glassy—wet, wide, overwhelmed.
“Hannibal…” His voice shook. “I’m so… tired.”
It wasn’t the kind of tired sleep could fix.
And Hannibal knew it.
Will saw that understanding flicker in his eyes—saw the way it softened something that never softened.
Will laughed then. A soft, helpless sound that slid into a shaky smile. “God, I— I sound pathetic, don’t I?”
“Not pathetic.” Hannibal said softly. “Human.”
Will sucked in a breath like the word hurt him.
He closed the small distance between them, letting his forehead nearly brush Hannibal’s collarbone—not touching, but so close it felt inevitable. His hand slid up Hannibal’s arm, fingers dragging clumsily, searching for something he couldn’t name.
He clutched Hannibal’s shoulder.
Held on.
“Don’t be kind to me.” he murmured, voice frayed. “I can’t— I can’t handle it.”
“You are distressed.” Hannibal repeated quietly. “I am being truthful.”
Will laughed again, wet and cracked. “Yeah. That’s even worse.”
He lifted his face—slow, unsteady, too honest.
Their eyes met.
And Will broke.
“I need you.” he whispered.
The words trembled out of him with no control, as if alcohol had dissolved every last barrier he’d built. “I keep trying to forget it. Push it down. Drink over it. But it’s still there. Every time I’m alone, or scared, or… thinking too much.”
He moved closer—too close, chest brushing Hannibal’s lightly, breath uneven against Hannibal’s neck.
“I don’t know why,” Will murmured, “but you’re the only place my head stops screaming.”
His grip tightened.
And Hannibal finally placed a hand on Will’s waist—light enough to guide, heavy enough to anchor.
Will inhaled sharply.
The warmth of that touch went straight through him, loosening something that had been knotted so tightly he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe.
He leaned in.
Too fast.
Too close.
His lips grazed Hannibal’s cheek—unsteady, accidental, but hungry.
Hannibal’s hand rose instantly, fingers closing gently around Will’s jaw, stopping him before he could angle his mouth the last inches toward Hannibal’s.
“Will...” Hannibal warned.
But Will only shook his head, a desperate little motion, his curls brushing Hannibal’s temple.
“No, please—don’t—don’t push me away.” he breathed. “Not now. I can’t—” His voice hitched. “I can’t take it if you do.”
“You are drunk.” Hannibal said, steady but not cold.
Will huffed a breathless laugh. “I know. You think I don’t know? I’m soaked in it. I’m miserable, I’m stupid, but I still—” He swallowed thickly. “I still know I want you.”
His hand slid weakly up Hannibal’s chest, fingers trembling as they fanned over the line of buttons, as if memorizing the shape of him through touch alone.
“I want—” Will whispered, “I want you to want me too.”
His eyes fluttered, unfocused and heartbreakingly open.
“That’s the worst part.” he said, voice thin but unbearably sincere. “Because I think you do.”
Hannibal’s breath caught—so slight a change that no sober man would’ve noticed.
Will, however, was past the point of misinterpreting anything; he felt it like a spark against his skin.
“You look at me like you’re starving.” Will went on, words spilling out faster now, rawer. “And then you pretend you’re not.”
He tried again to lean in, to kiss him, but Hannibal held him still with one firm hand against his cheek.
Will whimpered—a tiny, wounded sound he could never replicate sober.
“Don’t stop me.” Will pleaded. “Don’t—don’t tell me I’ll regret it. I won’t. I won’t. I’ve been wanting—”
“You are not yourself.” Hannibal said, though his voice was quieter now, richer, too full of withheld things.
“I’m exactly myself.” Will insisted, slurring but emotional clarity blazing through. “This is me without fear. Without… shields.” His fingers curled weakly into Hannibal’s shirt. “Without the part of me that keeps pretending I don’t want you.”
His forehead dropped against Hannibal’s.
Soft.
Unstable.
Their breaths tangled.
Will’s voice fell to a whisper, trembling and intimate:
“I need you, Hannibal. I need— I need someone who won’t let me drown.”
His lips brushed Hannibal’s cheek again.
Lower this time.
Too close to the corner of his mouth.
“Please...” Will breathed. “Just— let me kiss you.”
Hannibal’s thumb stroked once along Will’s jaw—gentle, unbearably gentle.
“I cannot,” he said softly, “allow you to do something you might regret.”
Will let out a sound halfway between a sob and a broken laugh.
“I regret everything except you.” he whispered fiercely.
His knees buckled. Only Hannibal’s grip kept him upright.
And Will pressed his face into Hannibal’s neck, shaking, whispering against his skin:
“Don’t leave me tonight. Please. Please don’t leave.”
Hannibal closed his eyes.
Something in him finally—quietly—fractured.
“Very well.” he murmured into Will’s hair. “I will not leave.”
Will sagged against him, trembling relief spilling out in a breath that shook through both of them.
And Hannibal held him there—firm, controlled, unyieldingly present—while Will clung with a desperate, drunken need that bordered on worship.
Will sways toward him again, the bottle abandoned now, his balance held together only by the gravity Hannibal seems to exert. His pupils are blown, shimmering with something between sorrow and hunger, and his breath catches as he tilts his head up—and suddenly he’s too close, the distance between them thinning to a mere breath.
His voice slips out, unsteady, cracked:
“Why… why do you always look at me like that?”
Hannibal doesn’t step back, though every instinct in him is alert. “Like what, Will?”
“Like you—” Will laughs, high and startled, as if tripping on his own thoughts. “Like you’re waiting for me. Like I’m something you want to… to keep. Or fix. Or hold.” His fingers curl uselessly near Hannibal’s chest before brushing against the fabric, tentative, searching. “And I want—” He stops, blinking hard, as if the room tilts again. “God, I want something too. I want— I don’t even know.”
His breath trembles.
Hannibal does know. He sees it in every trembling muscle, every flicker of Will’s eyes, every time he leans and pulls away and leans again like a moth circling the warmest flame in the dark.
Will swallows, his throat working, and suddenly he reaches up, cupping Hannibal’s cheek with a shaking hand. His palm is warm, clumsy, but undeniably tender.
“Why are you so kind to me?” Will whispers. “You shouldn’t be. I don’t deserve it. I don’t—” His voice thins, cracking into a raw, boyish honesty he’d never allow sober. “But I… like it. I like when you look at me. When you talk to me. When you notice me.” A trembling laugh escapes him—half hysterical, half heartbreakingly sincere. “I shouldn’t need you this much.”
Hannibal’s breath pauses, subtle but real.
Will leans closer still, his forehead brushing Hannibal’s cheekbone, his lips grazing the air just beside Hannibal’s mouth—ghosting, almost accidental, almost deliberate. His fingers slide to the back of Hannibal’s neck, clumsy but possessive, and he tries to pull him in.
“Let me…” Will murmurs, eyes unfocused and dark. “Just once. I want to— I want to kiss you. I’ve wanted to—” His laugh is wet, broken. “God, for so long.”
He tilts his face up again, aiming for Hannibal’s mouth but missing slightly, brushing instead against the corner of his lips. He breathes in sharply at the contact, as if the mere proximity burns him in a way nothing else can.
“Please…” Will whispers, a confession carved out of desperation and liquor. “I need something real tonight. I need you.”
His fingers tighten, urging—almost begging.
He tries again, his lips now so close Hannibal can feel the heat of them, the trembling anticipation, the longing heavy enough to bow his spine. Will’s mouth brushes his in a soft, unsteady, aching line—a kiss that doesn’t quite land but tries to, again and again, dizzy and needy.
“Let me...” Will says again, broken and intimate. “Let me have this. Let me have you.”
Hannibal’s hand rises—not forceful, not abrupt, but steady as a wall built of intention. His fingers close around Will’s wrist, halting the movement before the trembling mouth can find its mark.
“Will.” he murmurs, voice low and rich, a calm ripple against the storm unraveling in front of him. “Not like this.”
Will blinks, confused, his lips still parted, his breath thick with desire and alcohol. He leans forward again, instinctively, hopelessly, but Hannibal’s hand on his wrist and the other on his shoulder keep him exactly where he is.
“Let me...” Will whispers, the words fraying. “Please. I want— I want to feel something that isn’t…” He swallows, eyes glassy. “Everything inside me.”
“I know.” Hannibal says softly. “But you are not yourself tonight.”
Will huffs a shaky laugh that dissolves into something like a whimper. His face folds into a frown, and he presses his forehead to Hannibal’s shoulder as if gravity drags him there. This time Hannibal doesn’t pull away. He lets Will rest against him, lets the weight settle.
“Why won’t you let me?” Will mumbles into the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt, clinging now—arms sliding around his torso, grip strong despite the tremor in his fingers. “You don’t want me?”
“That is not the issue.” Hannibal murmurs. And Will hears something in his tone—something true, something dangerous and warm and controlled.
Will tightens his arms, pressing closer, his breath hot against Hannibal’s collarbone. “Then hold me.” he pleads, raw and unguarded. “Just—just don’t let go.”
For a moment, Hannibal allows it. Allows the embrace. Allows Will’s desperate strength, his shaking breath, the way his face presses against Hannibal like a drowning man clutching the only solid thing in the world.
But then Hannibal draws back just enough to cup Will’s jaw—not to guide him into a kiss, but to steady him, to anchor him.
“You need rest.” he says. “Your body cannot tolerate more distress.”
“I’m fine.” Will insists, though he sways, his pupils slipping out of focus.
Hannibal slides an arm around Will’s back, supporting almost all of his weight. “Come.” he says gently. “You’re exhausted.”
Will tries to protest, but the attempt collapses into a laugh, then into a soft, disoriented sigh as Hannibal turns him toward the hallway. His legs stumble, so Hannibal keeps one hand firm at his waist, the other guiding his shoulder.
“You don’t have to take care of me.” Will mutters, voice thick.
“I choose to.” Hannibal answers.
The hallway light catches Will’s face—flushed, softened, vulnerable. He leans heavily into Hannibal, head brushing his shoulder with each uneven step.
When they reach the bedroom, Will stops at the doorway, blinking slowly. “This isn’t—this isn’t my house.”
“No.” Hannibal confirms. “You are safer here tonight.”
Will gives a clumsy nod, as if that explanation settles something deep inside him.
Hannibal leads him to the bed and begins unbuttoning his shirt. Will watches, dazed, eyes lowered, breath slow and hitching. “You don’t have to… undress me.”
“Your comfort matters.” Hannibal replies. “And you won’t rest in rumpled, sweat-damp clothes.”
Will tries another laugh, but it dies in his throat, turning into a sigh that borders on relief. His arms lift limply when Hannibal eases the shirt off his shoulders, fingers brushing warm skin. Hannibal’s touch is careful, almost clinical—but there is nothing cold about it.
“You’re warm...” Will mumbles.
“You’ve been drinking.” Hannibal says.
Will smiles faintly, as if that explains the universe.
Hannibal helps him sit, removes his boots, his socks, then guides him to lie back on the cool sheets. Will sinks into them, muscles unwinding all at once, his breath slowing. He looks up at Hannibal with something painfully tender.
“Stay...” he whispers.
“For a while.” Hannibal answers.
He sits on the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly on Will’s arm—steady, grounding. Will’s eyes flutter, opening and closing as if fighting sleep, unwilling to let the world blur without Hannibal still there.
“Don’t leave yet.” Will murmurs, almost childlike in his exhaustion.
“I am here.” Hannibal assures him. “You’re safe.”
Will’s hand shifts, searching weakly until his fingers find Hannibal’s sleeve. He holds onto the fabric like a lifeline.
Hannibal doesn’t move. He watches Will’s breathing settle, slow and rhythmic. Watches the tightness in his brow ease. Watches the vulnerability soften into something peaceful.
Only when Will’s grip on his sleeve loosens, his hand slipping away into the blankets, does Hannibal rise with deliberate, soundless care.
He stands at the doorway for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of Will’s chest.
Then he steps away, leaving the door open a fraction—just enough to hear if Will stirs.
Just enough to return immediately if needed.
Will surfaces from sleep in fragments—first the warmth, then the weight of blankets, then a soft, unfamiliar stillness. It takes a few breaths before his mind sharpens enough to understand that something is off.
The bed is too soft.
The sheets smell faintly of cedar.
The silence is clean, neat, curated.
He inhales again, slower this time. Not his bed. Not his house.
Not last night.
His stomach curls.
Will drags a hand over his face, eyes finally blinking open to warm morning light filtering through thin curtains. His body feels heavy, the dull ache behind his eyes pulsing in rhythm with a hangover he absolutely deserves. He shifts—and freezes when he realizes he’s not wearing his own clothes.
Someone—Hannibal—has dressed him in soft, loose cotton lounge pants and a long-sleeved shirt that smells faintly of laundry soap and spices. The fabric is smooth against his skin, a stark contrast to the rumpled, alcohol-sour clothes he hazily remembers.
He pushes himself upright slowly, breaths shallow, eyes adjusting.
A blanket slips off his shoulders. He’s barefoot.
His cheeks flush.
He remembers… flashes.
His voice raised.
His fingers on Hannibal’s shirt.
The almost-kiss.
The begging.
He groans softly into his hands. “God...”
The room is dim, quiet, and warm—yet Will feels exposed, like the air itself remembers his humiliation. It isn’t until he shifts his legs out of bed that he notices something else: water and painkillers on the nightstand, arranged neatly. A folded towel. A note in Hannibal’s handwriting: When you wake, drink.
He stares at it, throat tightening.
He does as instructed, sipping the water until his stomach settles. When he can finally stand without feeling like gravity is trying to pull him through the floorboards, he steps into the hallway—still barefoot, sleeves a little too long on him, hair mussed beyond salvation.
Then he freezes.
A scent curls through the air: rich, dark, unmistakable.
Coffee. Freshly ground. Hannibal’s coffee. It pulls him forward like an invisible thread.
He walks slowly, each step sinking into the quiet house. His heartbeat is too loud in his chest; shame presses behind his ribs like a lodged stone. But he keeps going, following the warm aroma until he reaches the kitchen doorway.
Hannibal stands at the counter, back to him, the morning light outlining him in soft gold. He’s pouring coffee into two cups with practiced elegance, as if this morning were perfectly ordinary.
It feels anything but.
Will swallows hard.
Hannibal doesn’t turn, but his voice drifts back: “You’re awake.”
Not a question. A gentle acknowledgement.
Will’s fingers curl at his sides. “Yeah...” he murmurs, voice still rough. “I… woke up.”
Hannibal turns then, meeting Will’s eyes with a steady, unreadable calm. He takes in the sight—Will barefoot, drowning a little in borrowed clothes, hair messy, eyes shadowed—and something soft flashes across his expression, though it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“There’s coffee.” Hannibal says. “Come sit.”
Will steps in slowly, pulling a chair back with the quietest scrape he can manage. Hannibal sets a cup in front of him and sits across the table.
Silence stretches—gentle, but heavy.
Will stares down into the steam curling from the coffee, avoiding Hannibal’s gaze. His breath trembles before he can stop it.
“About last night…” he begins, then stops, jaw tightening. Shame crawls up his neck. He sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Hannibal says immediately, quietly.
Will huffs a humorless laugh. “I was drunk. Really drunk. And I—” His voice stumbles. “I acted like an idiot.”
“You were distressed.” Hannibal replies, tone even. “And vulnerable.”
Will winces. “That doesn’t excuse what I did.”
“Will,” Hannibal says gently, “you didn’t harm me.”
Will finally looks up—and regrets it instantly. Hannibal’s gaze is warm, controlled, patient. There is no judgment in it. No mockery. Just understanding.
But Will feels everything he did as if it’s carved onto his skin.
“I tried to kiss you.” he whispers, shame curling through every word. “I clung to you like—like I don’t even know what. It wasn’t fair to you.”
“It was an expression of pain.” Hannibal says softly. “And longing. Neither is shameful.”
Will swallows hard. “It felt shameful.”
Hannibal’s eyes soften, just slightly. “Because you remember wanting it.”
Will’s breath catches.
He looks away again, fingers tightening around his cup. “I do.” His voice is quiet but steady. “I remember… wanting you.” His cheeks flush, but he forces himself to continue. “That part wasn’t the alcohol talking.”
Hannibal doesn’t react outwardly, but the air shifts—subtle, charged.
Will exhales shakily. “I’m sorry I put you in that position. I’m sorry you had to look after me. I—”
“I chose to look after you.” Hannibal interrupts, voice low but firm. “And I stopped you because you were not in a state to make decisions you would be comfortable remembering.”
Will presses his lips together, nodding slowly.
Hannibal leans forward slightly, hands folded with that terrifying composure only he can maintain. “But I did not stop you because the desire was unwelcome.”
Will’s heart stumbles—literally skips.
He looks up sharply, confusion flickering through his expression. “What… what do you mean by that?”
The morning is still. The steam from their cups curls between them like breath.
“We can speak of it.” Hannibal says. “If you wish to.”
Will hesitates—breath unsteady, pulse loud in his ears.
Then he nods.
Very slowly.
Very honestly.
“Yes...” he whispers. “I want to.”
Will sits there for a long moment, cup cradled between his palms, eyes fixed on the swirling steam as though it might shield him from the weight of Hannibal’s attention.
But nothing shields him.
Not here.
Not with this man.
He lets out a slow, painful exhale. His voice comes out raw, quieter than before:
“Last night… I wasn’t myself. But the things I said—what I wanted—they weren’t accidents.” He swallows hard. “They were… amplified. Not invented.”
Hannibal remains perfectly still. The only motion is the tilt of his head, the way his gaze sharpens—not predatory, just deeply attentive.
Will continues, the words trembling out of him.
“I’ve been wanting something from you for a long time. Longer than I’d ever admit sober.” He laughs softly, bitter, embarrassed. “I kept pushing it down. Telling myself it wasn’t real. That it was projection, or… trauma, or loneliness.”
His fingers tighten around the cup.
“But being drunk ripped everything open. Nothing left to hide behind.”
Hannibal’s voice enters the space like warm velvet.
“And what were you hiding, Will?”
Will meets his eyes—finally.
Awkward, scared, but determined.
“That I wanted you,” he says, barely more than breath.
The truth hangs in the air—fragile, luminous, terrifying.
He forces himself to go on.
“I wanted your attention. Your approval. Your… presence.” His throat tightens. “I started needing it. Craving it. And I hated myself for it.”
His jaw trembles, emotion cracking through his composure.
“I’m not good at wanting things. And I’m worse at wanting someone I shouldn’t.”
Hannibal’s gaze softens, but he does not interrupt. He lets Will unravel at his own pace.
“And I thought if I ignored it, it would go away.” Will whispers. “But every time you looked at me, every time you talked to me like I mattered, every time you—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I felt something I didn’t know how to control.”
He drags a hand through his hair, frustrated and exposed.
“Last night I was drunk enough to stop pretending I didn’t want you. And that scares me. It scares the hell out of me.”
Silence settles around them—thick, but not suffocating.
Hannibal studies him for a long, contemplative moment. Then he speaks softly:
“Wanting someone is not a weakness, Will.”
“For me it is.” Will mutters.
“Because you fear what vulnerability allows.” Hannibal replies. “You fear being seen. Being known. Being held.”
The words hit too close. Will looks away.
“You told me last night that you needed something real.” Hannibal continues. “Something that would quiet the storm inside you.”
Will’s breath stutters. He nods, ashamed.
“I did.”
“You still do.” Hannibal says, calm and certain.
Will’s eyes flick up, startled.
Hannibal’s voice lowers, almost gentle.
“What you sought in your drunkenness was not merely comfort. It was truth—stripped of inhibition.”
Will swallows hard. “And you? What did you think?”
Hannibal folds his hands, leaning slightly forward, his gaze steady as bedrock.
“I thought,” he says slowly, “that you were reaching for me because some part of you has always wished to. But I also knew that touching you then would be a betrayal of your trust. I would not take advantage of your vulnerability.”
Will’s throat tightens—something like relief, something like longing.
“But make no mistake, Will,” Hannibal adds, voice lowering, warm as embers. “The desire you felt was not one-sided.”
Will’s breath halts.
He stares.
Disbelieving.
Shaken.
Hannibal continues: “I did not reject you. I merely refused to let alcohol speak for you.”
The room feels suddenly smaller. The morning light warmer. The air thicker.
Will’s voice comes out as a whisper.
“So… what happens now?”
“That depends.” Hannibal says calmly, “on what you want. Now. With clarity.”
Will inhales slowly, chest rising. He looks down, then back at Hannibal, something steadier settling in his expression.
“I want to talk about it.” he says. “Honestly. Without running from it. Without pretending it’s just tension or confusion.”
Hannibal nods once, approving.
“And what do you wish to understand first?”
Will takes a long breath, gathering courage.
“I want to know,” he says slowly, “why you didn’t pull away sooner. Why you let me touch you. Why you… looked at me the way you did.”
Hannibal’s eyes warm, unmistakably.
“Because,” he says, voice soft but unwavering, “I care for you, Will. More deeply than I have cared for anyone.”
Will’s breath trembles, but he doesn’t break eye contact.
“And because,” Hannibal adds, “I wanted to know if you would still feel the same in the morning.”
Will exhales—a shuddered, vulnerable breath.
“And I do.” he whispers.
The silence stretches between them again—no longer heavy with shame, but taut with possibility. Will breathes in slowly, steadying himself, fingers tapping lightly against his cup.
“Last night…” he begins again, voice lower, steadier, “I was drowning. Everything I said was blurred, but the feelings behind it weren’t.”
“I know.” Hannibal replies softly.
Will exhales shakily. “And I kept thinking—if I said it out loud, if I just… let it out—it would go away. But it didn’t. It’s worse now.” He huffs a weak laugh. “Clearer.”
Hannibal’s fingers press lightly against the table, patient, unmoving. “Desire often becomes sharper in honesty.”
Will looks down at his hands—scarred, restless, human. “Part of me was terrified you’d be angry. Or disgusted.”
Hannibal’s eyebrows lift a fraction, a soft expression of disbelief. “I could never be disgusted by your affection.”
Will looks up, startled by the certainty in his tone.
Hannibal continues, “Nor by your vulnerability. They are… precious things, Will. Rare in you.”
Will’s throat tightens. He swallows. “I’m not good at letting people close.”
“You allow me closer than most.” Hannibal says. “Even when you try not to.”
Will gives a small, helpless shake of the head. “I don’t know why.”
“I do.” Hannibal says gently. “You trust me.”
Will goes still. He almost denies it. It sits too deeply in him to reach comfortably. After a moment, he nods once, tiny but true.
“I do.”
Hannibal’s gaze warms, like a hand resting over his.
“You asked me earlier why I looked at you the way I do. The answer is simple: because you matter to me.”
Will draws in a breath, unsteady. “You matter to me too.” he whispers.
They sit with it—bare, tremulous truth—until Will’s voice returns, even quieter: “And yesterday… the reason I tried to kiss you… the reason I kept reaching for you…” He stops, breath trembling. “I wanted to. I want to. Not because I was drunk. Not because I was upset.”
He looks Hannibal in the eyes, letting the words settle in the space between them: “I wanted to kiss you because I want you.”
Hannibal’s breath shifts ever so slightly—an invisible, controlled reaction. The kind that means a great deal in a man like him.
Will continues, soft but determined: “I’m not drunk now. I’m not confused. I know what I’m saying.”
He hesitates, fingers curling nervously around the edge of the table.
“I don’t want last night to be the closest I ever get to you.”
Hannibal studies him. Not with clinical detachment, but with an intensity softened by genuine affection.
“What do you want now, Will?”
The question is gentle, but it cuts straight to the truth.
Will’s breath catches. His chest rises and falls once—slow, deliberate—as if he’s gathering every fragile piece of courage he has.
He stands from his chair.
Not confidently.
Not boldly.
His steps are hesitant, almost shy, as he circles the table.
But he moves.
He chooses.
He stops right beside Hannibal, close enough that the warmth between them feels like a living thing.
“I want to come closer.” he says quietly. “But you’ll have to let me. I’m… not as brave as I was last night.”
Hannibal turns slightly in his seat, angling toward him. His voice lowers, warm and certain:
“I am not going anywhere.”
Something loosens in Will’s chest.
Slowly—so slowly Will can hear his own pulse in his ears—he reaches out. A trembling hand, fingers barely touching Hannibal’s shoulder at first, testing, waiting for resistance.
Hannibal does not move away.
Encouraged, Will steps into the space fully, breath unsteady but eyes clear.
His fingers slide from shoulder to jaw—careful, reverent, nothing like the frantic desperation of the night before. This is conscious. Chosen. Terrifying.
He leans in—not fast, not boldly, but with a kind of fragile determination, like he’s afraid the world will shatter if he moves too quickly.
Hannibal tilts his head slightly toward him.
Not pulling him.
Not guiding.
Just inviting.
Will’s breath brushes Hannibal’s cheek; his forehead almost touches Hannibal’s. Their mouths are close—but Will stops there, hovering, trembling, waiting for a sign that he isn’t overstepping.
His voice comes out as barely more than breath:
“Can I…?”
The words trembled out of him, unfinished, suspended heavily between them.
Hannibal didn’t move. “What is it you want to ask, Will?”
Will’s jaw tightened, like he was wrestling himself more than the question. He exhaled shakily.
“Can I—come closer?”
Hannibal studied him for a beat too long, enough for Will’s breath to hitch. Then he inclined his head, slow, deliberate. “Yes.”
Will stepped forward—hesitant, but drawn as if by gravity. He stopped only when he was close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from Hannibal’s body. His fingers twitched, and he wet his lips nervously.
“I remember trying to touch you.” he murmured, voice low, hoarse. “And you… stopped me.”
“You were in no state to make decisions.” Hannibal replied quietly. “I would not allow you to wake with regret.”
Will’s laugh was a barely-there exhale, humorless. “I regret the opposite.”
Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but something in the room did—the air thickened, denser, warmer.
Will’s breath wavered. “I wasn’t lying. Not last night. Not about any of it. The things I said… the things I tried to do.” His voice dipped. “I meant them. I still mean them.”
“Will,” Hannibal said, softer now, “you are sober this morning. Your mind is clear. That matters.”
“It’s because my mind is clear that I’m terrified,” Will confessed. “But I’m still here. And I still want…”
He cut himself off, shoulders shuddering with the effort to speak. Then, quieter: “I want you.”
Hannibal’s eyes flicked down—subtle, almost imperceptible, but Will felt it like heat along his skin.
Will took another slow, unsteady step. Their chests were only inches apart.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Can I touch you?”
Hannibal didn’t make him wait. “Yes.”
Will raised a trembling hand and pressed it lightly to Hannibal’s chest—just the tips of his fingers at first, like he was afraid the contact would burn. Hannibal didn’t pull away. He stood still, steady, letting Will feel the calm rise and fall of his breath through the soft fabric of his shirt.
The touch emboldened him. Will slid his palm fully against him, chest constricting with something painfully tender.
“I’ve wanted this for longer than I can admit.” he whispered.
Hannibal’s hand lifted slowly, deliberately—giving Will every possible chance to retreat. When it touched his waist, Will’s breath broke audibly, a small, helpless sound.
“Will...” Hannibal murmured, “you’re trembling.”
Will laughed, breathless. “I know. I’m…” He sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m terrified of wanting you. And even more terrified you don’t want this.”
Hannibal’s thumb brushed, feather-light, against Will’s hip.
“If I did not want this,” he said calmly, “you would not be standing this close.”
Will closed his eyes, relief and longing sweeping visibly through him.
When he opened them again, something had shifted—resolve beneath the trembling.
“Can I…?” he whispered, voice breaking for a second time. “Can I kiss you?”
This time Hannibal didn’t answer with words.
He lifted a hand, cupped the side of Will’s face with an exquisite gentleness that made Will’s knees weaken. He brushed his thumb lightly across his cheekbone, guiding him closer.
Permission. Invitation.
Will leaned in slowly, painfully slowly, the tip of his nose brushing Hannibal’s. He hesitated one last time—breathing him in, feeling the world pull tight around them.
Then Will closed the distance.
The kiss was soft at first—tentative, trembling, full of held breath and finally, finally letting go. Will’s fingers curled tighter into Hannibal’s shirt, pulling him closer. Hannibal answered with quiet, deliberate pressure, steadying him, grounding him, deepening the kiss with a slow inevitability that made every nerve in Will’s body ignite.
Will exhaled against his mouth, a quiet, raw sound—relief, desire, surrender all tangled together.
He pressed closer, no longer hesitant, only hungry in a fragile, honest way.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads still touching, Will’s breath came fast and uneven.
“God...” he whispered, eyes half-lidded. “I… really wanted that.”
Hannibal’s voice was a low murmur, warm against his lips.
“I know.”
Will swallowed, chest tight but lighter than it had been in months. “Can I kiss you again?”
Hannibal’s hand slid to the back of his neck, drawing him in with a quiet certainty.
“Yes, Will.” he said. “You may.”
And Will did—without hesitation.
Will didn’t wait for another invitation—he leaned in again, kissing Hannibal with a little more certainty this time, though his hands were still trembling where they clutched at Hannibal’s shirt. The second kiss wasn’t deeper, but it carried more weight: the kind that settled in the chest and pulled everything else with it.
Hannibal responded with the same measured care, thumb stroking the back of Will’s neck in a slow, grounding rhythm. It made Will shiver, a warm ache running down his spine. When they finally separated again, Hannibal didn’t let him pull back far; he kept their foreheads touching, breaths mingling.
Will blinked at him, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed.
“I didn’t think… I mean, I hoped, but—”
He broke off, laughing softly, incredulously. “I’m not used to wanting something and actually getting it.”
Hannibal’s fingers slipped lightly into the curls at the nape of Will’s neck. “You have wanted many things, Will. You simply deny yourself more readily than you should.”
Will’s breath caught. “And you?” he whispered. “Do you deny yourself?”
Hannibal’s mouth curved faintly, dangerously. “Less often than you.”
Will swallowed, a little dazed by the nearness, the warmth, the pull. His hands finally loosened on Hannibal’s shirt, sliding upward, palms flattening against his chest.
His voice softened. “So you wanted this too. Not just last night, now.”
A slow inhale.
“Especially now.”
That answer hit Will almost physically. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he leaned—instinctively, helplessly—forward until his cheek brushed Hannibal’s. Hannibal allowed the contact, shifting slightly to accommodate him.
Will’s voice was a murmur against his jawline.
“I still feel like I’m going to wake up in your guest room and realize none of this happened.”
“You are awake.” Hannibal said.
The warmth of his breath ghosted over Will’s ear, sending a small tremor through him. “And entirely present.”
Will exhaled sharply, a small sound escaping him—part relief, part want, part disbelief. He pulled back just enough to look at Hannibal properly.
“What happens now?”
It wasn’t fear anymore. It was vulnerability laid bare.
Hannibal brushed a fingertip along Will’s jaw, slow and thoughtful.
“Now,” he said, “you tell me what you want.”
Will’s lips parted, but no sound came out at first. He searched Hannibal’s face, as if reading every subtle tension, every quiet permission.
“I want…”
His throat tightened.
“I want to stay close. Not like last night—” He grimaced. “Not… sloppy and desperate.”
Hannibal’s brows lifted slightly. “And how do you want to be now?”
Will stepped closer until his chest met Hannibal’s again—no trembling, no hesitation. Just quiet determination.
“Gentle.” Will said, almost surprising himself. “And sure. I want to… be with you, without feeling like I’m falling apart.”
Hannibal’s hand slid from Will’s jaw to cradle the side of his neck with exquisite softness.
“Then be with me.” he said simply.
Will’s breath hitched. He leaned in again, lips brushing Hannibal’s in a whisper of a kiss—barely there, more a question than an action.
Hannibal answered it. His hands settled on Will’s waist, steady and careful, pulling him closer in a way that felt deliberate but not demanding.
The kiss deepened slowly, naturally—no rush, no urgency, just the growing heat of understanding. Will sighed into it, fingers curling over Hannibal’s shoulders, his body relaxing in a way he rarely allowed around anyone.
When they finally parted once more, Will stayed pressed against him, eyes soft and unfocused.
“Hannibal?” he murmured.
“Yes, Will?”
“Last night I was… loud. Messy. Clinging to you.” A pause. “And today I’m scared you’re going to think that side of me is all I am.”
Hannibal shook his head, thumb sweeping a slow arc against Will’s waist.
“Last night you were hurting.” he said. “This morning you are honest.”
His gaze softened. “Both are you. And both are welcome.”
Will’s throat tightened again, but the emotion was quieter this time—less frantic, more grateful.
He pressed his forehead to Hannibal’s shoulder, breathing him in, grounding himself in the scent of coffee and something warmer beneath it.
After a long moment, Will’s fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt.
“Can we… sit down?” he asked, voice low, shy again. “I don’t want to stop being close, I just—my legs feel like they’re about to quit.”
A small, warm laugh escaped Hannibal—one of those soft, rare ones that seemed to exist only for Will.
“Of course.”
He guided Will toward the small sitting area near the kitchen, not letting go of him even for a moment. Will practically folded beside him on the couch, curling slightly toward him, still unsure how much closeness he was allowed until Hannibal’s arm slid behind him—an invitation that Will accepted instantly, leaning into him with a quiet exhale.
“Better?” Hannibal murmured.
Will nodded against him. “Much.”
Hannibal’s hand rested lightly on Will’s shoulder. Will inched closer.
“So...” Will added softly, not lifting his head, “we’re doing this now.”
Hannibal’s fingers traced a slow line along his upper arm.
“We are.”
Will let out a long, shaky breath—half relief, half wonder.
“Good...” he whispered, and tilted his head up for another kiss.