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They haven't spoken a single word to each other since Will woke up. It's been a month since the fall and three weeks since the morning with Hannibal in Will’s bedroom. Those two things are the only things Will thinks about these days.
He often catches himself staring at the wall, bits and pieces from both nights flashing in his vision like an old neon casino sign. Hannibal hand-feeding him when he could barely move. Hannibal leaning in as they plummet from the cliff. Hannibal gripping his hips as he rutted against the other man’s thigh. Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal. It's killing him.
Usually, the problem thoughts are from the morning they spent together three weeks ago. Today, though, it's the fall. The firm kiss that Hannibal gave him just before they hit the water. Will can almost feel pressure on his lips. He brings a hand up, gently touching his bottom lip and shutting his eyes so he can focus on the phantom sensation.
He's snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of the front door opening and closing, the rustling of paper bags coming from the kitchen. Hannibal has been in and out of the house nearly every day, buying groceries, doing something or other while Will sits at home with nothing to do but think.
Well, that's not entirely true. Hannibal sometimes leaves things on Will’s night stand before he wakes up, even though he hasn't stayed the night with Will since the morning they spent together. Last week, it was a small sketchbook, a pencil, a sharpener, and an eraser. Will has never been much of an artist, not at all like Hannibal, but he's been doodling as of late. Deer antlers. Dogs. He tried to draw Hannibal from memory once three days ago, but it didn't turn out. He stuck to copying what he saw around him after that, clocks and windows and the design on the plates Hannibal feeds him off of.
Will eyes the sketchbook from his spot on his bed, but decides against it. Instead, he lays back and shuts his eyes. He's got no real intention to sleep, just wants to block out the world for a little bit. He still doesn't know where they are, is barely aware of the time that's passed and what day of the week it is.
The same montage, frames of the fall, begins to play in his head again the second his eyes are closed. He remembers the sound of Hannibal’s heartbeat--the gentle thud-thud he could hear through the other man’s chest--and the smell of the blood. It's overwhelming, thinking about that night.
Eventually, his thoughts settle back to the kiss Hannibal gave him right before they hit the water and his memory goes black, and right after that, to when Hannibal gripped his hips and guided him until he finished in his pants like a teenager. He'll never admit how often he thinks about the second thing.
The room is dead silent. Will takes a moment to weigh his options before he makes a decision, even though he knows he'll make the same choice regardless of the pros and cons. He opens his eyes, stands up, and carefully pushes open his door. Not even that makes a sound.
What he can hear is a soft noise, barely there, from the kitchen.
Will shuffles into the kitchen with a horrible anxious feeling in his stomach. He peeks around the corner of the refrigerator, sneaking a look at Hannibal, who holds a small paring knife as he peels potatoes for lunch. When he's noticed, he shrinks in on himself. He looks at his feet, past the soft swell of his stomach, as they take careful steps forward to meet Hannibal behind the island. When Will looks up, Hannibal gives him a quizzical look, tilting his head ever-so-slightly to one side like a dog.
Will’s pulse stutters and picks up speed. His mouth goes completely dry and his heart jumps to his throat. He shouldn't be doing this, but hell, he's gotten this far. Hannibal is a cannibalistic serial killer, but he's also the man that nursed Will after the fall, that lets Will eat directly from his fingers. What has he got to lose anymore? His life? He would be nothing without Hannibal.
When he opens his mouth to speak for the first time in a month, his voice is hoarse.
“Kiss me?”
Hannibal freezes for a second or two, then sets down his knife and the potato he's been peeling. He wipes his hands thoroughly on a tea towel and turns his entire body to face Will, who shies away from his stare. He inspects the younger man’s face, and once satisfied, brings his hands up to cup it in his palms. Will tenses under Hannibal’s fingers.
And then Hannibal starts to lean down, and Will doesn't have any time to feel regret. He lets his eyes fall shut. Hannibal's lips gently brush against his once, twice, and then they press forward.
It's soft. Warm. Chaste. Hannibal pulls away far too quickly for Will’s liking.
Will, otherwise frozen, looks up at Hannibal with a wide eyed expression as heat rushes to his cheeks. His hands begin to twitch at his sides as Hannibal stares at him, itching to do something. He can't stop himself from gripping either side of Hannibal's head and pulling him down.
When their lips meet for the second time, they move against each other. Hannibal is quick to slide his tongue into Will’s mouth, to lick the inside of his teeth. Will makes a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat. He slides his hands down to Hannibal's neck, pressing lightly, holding him in place. Hannibal allows it, his own hands finding Will’s waist and pulling the man flush up against him. He sighs softly into the kiss.
Hannibal pulls back ever so slightly, kissing either corner of Will’s mouth before resting their foreheads together, holding eye contact. He doesn't take for granted the fact that he's one of very few, if not the only one, that Will was ever willing to look in the eye. Will looks devastating from this angle. His eyes are clear, pupils dilated, flush about his cheeks. Will offers a slow, awestruck blink. Hannibal’s pride swells.
Will releases Hannibal’s neck, resting his arms over the other man’s shoulders. Hannibal's hands slide up Will’s back, over his grey T-shirt, and holds him tightly against his chest. Will tucks his face into Hannibal’s neck.
They stay like that for several moments, the meal Hannibal was preparing forgotten on the kitchen island beside them. Will pulls away first, but not very far. Just enough to see the other’s face again. Hannibal’s gaze is tender.
Will wants to die here, pressed into Hannibal. He wants to be here for so long that they rot into one single puddle of sludge. He wants their bone fragments to be mixed. For it to be impossible to separate them, no matter how hard anyone tries.
Will’s hoarse voice is no clearer than before, still quiet.
“What else would you do? If I asked you, I mean.”
“Anything you want, dear Will.” Hannibal says softly, “Anything you want.”