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Will is floating. The water is cloudy and warm, turning his skin seashell pink and filling the air with tall, thin pillars of steam. As though he were cooked alive, slowly enough not to notice. Closing his eyes, he lets his mind drift, touching his face with pruned fingertips, tracing the shape of his chapped lips, his stubbled jaw, the wrinkles that lie in wait in the smooth skin at the corners of his eyes.
With his eyes closed, he can imagine his touch belongs to someone else. The light graze of his fingertips against his cheek becomes the tickle of eyelashes as someone leans in to kiss him, lips soft and damp against his. Behind closed eyes, he can search the silky warmth of the water and find a set of loving arms.
Will floats and drifts, buoyed by his imagination, until the waking world grows dim. Then he jerks awake to find his fantasies shattered. The water has grown cold and the room is dark, no light from the outside making it past the half-open bathroom door. He sits up straight, sloshing water onto the floor, and tries not to think about how he fell asleep in the tub while daydreaming about someone touching him. Tries not to think about how he still feels the ghost of gentle fingers on the side of his face, forcing himself to face reality for what it is.
He is alone. No matter how badly he wants his fantasies to be real, the tender touch to his cheek only ever belonged to him. His skin, stiff and pale like a corpse’s skin in the chilled water, aches with the knowledge, and his frustration builds and builds until he could scream, but he doesn’t. He kneels on the bathroom floor, shivering, and wipes up the mess he made with a towel while the water drains from the tub.
After rubbing his hair dry with another towel, Will puts his sleep clothes on, brushes his teeth and goes straight to bed. Even with his blankets pulled all the way up to his chin, he’s cold and shivering, and the bone-deep ache inside doesn’t go away. His dogs mill about the bed trying to find unoccupied spots of the floor, reminding Will of their presence, but it isn’t enough.
He thinks about drinking. He thinks about crying or screaming or hurting himself, just to get a release of pressure, but that’s not the way he broke, and none of it is his brand of self-destruction.
Wrapping the blankets snug around his body, Will closes his eyes and hopes for sleep, dark and vast and dreamless.
*
Will has always been alone. It’s not what he’s always wanted, but he wouldn’t change it. He has suffered through enough awkward attempts at intimacy to last him a lifetime, and more than anything, they’ve made him realize it’s better this way. Most of the time he even prefers it, except certain days.
Days where he comes home to an empty house after spending hours picking truths out of dead people, where there’s a scream locked in his throat and he’s stuck in a perpetual freefall. Days where he longs for the comforting bustle of another person in the house, and, most importantly, the feeling of someone else’s skin on his skin.
He has his dogs. He has thick, soft blankets that weigh him down in bed, almost like another person draped on top of him. On particularly bad days, he has his baths, so warm and sweet-smelling it’s like sinking into an embrace.
Still, these are all temporary reliefs. There are times when Will lies awake at night and imagines going out to find someone who will touch him, even just for the night, but he knows it wouldn’t end well. Every human connection plays out like a crime scene to him and he can’t help but treat the living like the dead. Their eyes bare secrets that aren’t for him to know.
So he stays home, and he stays alone.
*
Hannibal enjoys watching Will. There is an anxious sort of aggression to him with few performative elements, reminding Hannibal of when he used to watch animals at the zoo as a child. The metaphor strikes him as particularly apt when Will shows up to their appointments, bound by professional obligation to stay for an hour.
Tonight, Will isn’t talking much. He merely sits across from Hannibal in his favored armchair, looking down into his lap with his arms crossed over his chest. It looks almost like an attempt to hold himself together, and every so often his fingers trail down his own arm; a slow, absent caress.
Hannibal has noticed Will is tactile. Not with other people, but during therapy he is prone to wandering the confined space of Hannibal’s office, taking books out of his shelves, turning trinkets in his hands, giving the soft fabric of Hannibal’s furniture lingering touches. It could be attributed to fidgeting, but Hannibal doesn’t think it’s a nervous tic. The absent touches Will affords himself now confirm Hannibal’s suspicions. They’re habitual and practiced, self-soothing, though Hannibal can’t pinpoint the source of his distress.
“Are you cold?” Hannibal asks, feigning polite concern. Will is startled out of his near-trance, shaking his head briskly before letting his arms drop.
“I’m fine,” he says, a touch too quickly. A look of uncertainty crosses his face and he runs a hand over his thigh. “I don’t really have anything to talk about today.”
“No new developments on the case?”
“Not really, no.”
“And privately?” Will’s gaze flicks up and Hannibal lets his hands fan out. “You seem agitated. I figure something must be amiss.”
“There’s no point separating my work life and private life,” Will says and rubs his palm over his thigh again. “They bleed together.”
“Surely there is some distinction,” Hannibal says. “Your dogs, for one, belong solely to your private sphere.”
“You want to talk about my dogs?” Will eyes him skeptically. Hannibal smiles.
“We can talk about anything you like. Are they all well?”
Will hesitates for a moment, then shrugs. “I took in another stray recently. My vet called today to let me know his tests came back. Everything looks good, so that’s a relief.” He pauses. “His name is Winston. The dog, I mean.”
“Winston,” Hannibal says, appreciative. “A fine name.”
“Yeah.” Will gives one of his rare smiles, flashing pearly white teeth. “He’s a good boy. Been practically glued to my side, would probably sleep with me in my bed if I let him.”
“You don’t?”
Will smiles again, shaking his head. “If all my dogs jumped into bed with me, I’d be smothered. I’d rather share it with an actual person.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Will’s smile dies abruptly on his lips. Hannibal can almost feel him withdraw, becoming reticent and wary once again. Hannibal must have touched a nerve, although Will took him past the gates to this forbidden territory himself.
Driven by curiosity, Hannibal gets up from his chair and walks over to his desk, making a show of rifling through some paperwork until he finds what he’s looking for.
“Jack told me to pass this on to you,” he says, holding up a file he planned to give to Will at the end of their appointment. “It’s a forensic analysis of the Hobbs scene. He told me to make sure you take a look.”
As he leans down to give Will the file, Hannibal puts a hand on Will’s shoulder. Will stiffens beneath him, almost startled, but then he lowers his gaze and his shoulders drop, slowly, with a sigh-like release of breath.
A brief touch and a split-second reaction, but enough to spark Hannibal’s interest. This is a subject that can’t be breached, judging by Will’s response when he thought he said too much, but it doesn’t matter. Hannibal will breach it in time.
*
There is a bluntness to Will that Hannibal tends to forget. Between the comfortable rhythm and flow of their usual conversation, Will can cut to the heart of the matter with an almost uncomfortable immediacy. Over the next few days, Hannibal makes sure to touch Will as often as he can reasonably get away with, and he watches Will stiffen and then relax every time, face going soft and vacant. But as expected, Will notices. As expected, he is blunt.
“You touch me a lot,” he says, the moment after Hannibal has showed Will into his office with a gentle touch to his arm.
Hannibal pauses, at a loss. Will only leaves him hanging for a moment before he scoffs and shakes his head. “Is there a reason?”
Hannibal weighs his options carefully, torn, as always, between outright lying and telling Will a version of the truth.
“I noticed touch has a positive effect on you,” he finally says, compromising.
Will squints at him. “A positive effect?”
“Touch can be essential to forming meaningful social bonds. Meaningful social bonds, in turn, create the foundation of meaningful existence.” Hannibal pauses. “There is no shame in having basic human needs met.”
Will looks incredulous and near-offended, like he’s on the verge of arguing. But then he seems to deflate. He sits down in his usual armchair, rubbing his forehead, looking up at Hannibal with furrowed brows and confusion in his eyes.
“I don’t appreciate mind games,” he says, uncertainly, like he isn’t sure that’s what it is. Hannibal approaches him slowly, sitting down in the armchair opposite to him.
“You assume I had some ulterior motive?” he asks.
“You touched me to estimate what effect it might have on me,” Will says. “Who does that?”
Hannibal turns away, letting Will think he is embarrassed to have been caught. “I’m your friend, Will,” he finally says. It isn’t a lie. “To reduce my motivations to that would be an oversimplification.”
Will falters. “How?”
“I’ll admit there is an element of selfishness,” Hannibal says, trying to make it sound like a confession. He reaches out, placing a gentle hand on Will’s hand where it’s grasping the armrest. “Do you truly object?”
“To being a test subject?” Will still looks uncertain and more than a little surprised. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to do.”
“I imagine that’s novel for you,” Hannibal says.
Will huffs. “You don’t even know.” He pauses for a moment. Then he carefully lifts his thumb from under Hannibal’s hand, stroking it tentatively over the side of Hannibal’s finger. His skin is rough, calloused, but it’s a gentle touch, almost sweet in its uncertainty.
“I really don’t understand what we’re doing,” Will says.
“I don’t have a clear idea myself.”
Will seems to relax at the idea. He stops stroking Hannibal’s hand, but he doesn’t remove his own, letting Hannibal hold onto it like they’re friends, perhaps even lovers. Hannibal braids their fingers together, wondering where his actions are taking them. He had been honest: he doesn’t have a clear idea himself. The possibilities spread like the pages of a book in front of him, blank, waiting to be filled.
*
Will thinks about Hannibal’s hands. Delicate yet labor-rough, veins pressing close to the surface of tanned skin. Warm even through Will’s clothes, big enough to cover his upper arm, to engulf his shoulder entirely in comforting heat.
He thinks about Hannibal in general. The strangeness of their relationship, whatever it is; professional or private. These spheres seem to bleed together more than ever for him since they met. He isn’t sure what Hannibal wants, and he’s even less sure what he himself wants.
Not once has he instigated physical contact in the short period of time they’ve known each other. It’s all Hannibal, putting warm hands on his shoulders, his arms, anywhere he deems safe to touch. Will replays their conversations in his head, trying to understand what Hannibal’s endgame might be, but he can’t reach a satisfying conclusion. There’s a piece of the puzzle missing.
He wonders if Hannibal wants to touch him more, in other ways. He wonders if he himself would like that. He has never been attracted to men before, and he doesn’t think he’s attracted to Hannibal that way. More than anything, he wishes he could isolate Hannibal’s touch, separate it from the man who is his psychiatrist and possibly his friend. To avoid one thing bleeding into another, as they always do for him.
Will still likes his hands. It can be as easy as that, he tells himself. He closes his eyes and dreams about them sheltering him, keeping him safe. Will wraps the dream around him like protective armor, recalling the warmth Hannibal presses into his skin with every touch.
(When he startles awake in the morning, he tries not to think about how it ended with Hannibal’s fingers on his face, on his jaw and cheeks and lips, beneath the waistband of his underwear. Suffusing him in warmth, fluid and all-encompassing, like bathwater.)
*
“Do you think it’s inappropriate to keep our appointments?” Will asks the next time they see each other, after his dream about Hannibal’s hands. He has started feeling vaguely guilty coming to his office, like there’s suddenly an air of the illicit to their involvement.
“You feel it is?” Hannibal asks, unruffled as always. Will angles his gaze away, shrugs.
“You usually hold hands with patients?”
Hannibal smiles. “We haven’t done anything technically against the rules, but you may be right. The professional integrity of our relationship has been compromised.”
Will wonders if he’ll have to stop seeing Hannibal altogether if he stops going to therapy. Without the appointments, he has no real reason to come to him. He tries not to feel disappointed, wandering around the office for a moment before stopping by Hannibal’s desk. He leans back against it, and Hannibal joins him, sitting down on the edge with his hands clasped in his lap.
“Transference,” Will says, stating it as a fact.
“And countertransference,” Hannibal says. “Traditionally, in psychotherapy, it is not necessarily a negative thing. It can be refashioned into a tool.”
“Careful, Doctor,” Will says, not bothering to keep the note of humor out of his voice. “That’s sounds like a set-up to rules being broken.”
“Would you tell?” Hannibal says with a matching note of humor in his voice, and it occurs to Will that they may be flirting with each other. He shakes his head, smiling.
“I don’t want intimacy reduced to a tool,” he says.
“Intimacy only for the sake of intimacy, then?”
“Otherwise it isn’t truly intimacy, is it?”
“I believe I may have to disagree,” Hannibal says, a smile hidden in the corners of his mouth, “but I have somewhat unconventional views on romance.”
“Do you want to have dinner with me sometime?” Will says it without thinking, but it’s what he wanted to ask, so he doesn’t take it back. Hannibal only looks mildly surprised, searching Will’s face for a moment before replying.
“May I invite you to my home?” Will opens his mouth to possibly argue, but Hannibal holds his hand up, smiling faintly. “I’d be happy to cook for you. Like I said, I prepare most meals myself. That’s what I prefer.”
Will nods. He smiles as an afterthought. “Alright, then. When?”
“This Friday at seven?”
“Sounds good.” Will shifts his weight from one foot to the other, considering. “I’ll tell Jack I’ll need another therapist.”
“Don’t concern yourself with Jack.” Hannibal moves a little closer, placing his hand on Will’s shoulder and rubbing it lightly with his thumb. “I can take care of it.”
The touch is grounding, even though it makes Will’s heart skip a beat. He nods and they spend the rest of their appointment discussing less personal matters, and even though it’s nothing different from how it usually is, it still feels different. Something shifting into place, like the gentle click of a key turning in a lock.
*
Will runs late on Friday, bogged down by paperwork and phone calls and staff meetings. He calls Hannibal in the car just after six to tell him he’ll be late, because he likely will be, considering how far he has to drive to get to Hannibal’s address.
“Thank you for calling to let me know,” Hannibal says. “Dinner will keep, so don’t rush. Drive safe.”
Will promises he will, but he still struggles not to go past the speed limit. He isn’t sure why he’s so anxious. Maybe because he isn’t sure what he signed up for when he asked Hannibal to have dinner with him. He hasn’t had a date in years, and never with a man. If this even counts as a date. The time he’s spent apart from Hannibal has made him doubt his impressions, and it’s entirely possible he has misunderstood.
He finally arrives at Hannibal’s house half an hour late in wrinkled work clothes, without the wine he’d bought to take with him. Hannibal smiles at him anyway, taking his coat for him and showing him into the dining room.
“Come,” he says, “you must be hungry.”
He is, and as Will might have guessed from the breakfast they shared in his motel room, dinner is delicious. He tries to pace himself, occasionally sneaking glances up at Hannibal, who looks comfortable and put together as usual, watching Will over his wine glass with an almost amused smile on his face.
“You’re a very good chef,” Will says once he’s finished eating. “Bet no one ever tells you that.”
Hannibal smiles in earnest. “I never cease to be charmed by flattery.” He puts his hand over Will’s hand, and Will can’t help but blush. Hannibal has touched him like this many times before, but it seems different now that they’re alone in Hannibal’s home rather than his office.
“We never truly did address this in therapy,” Hannibal says, glancing down at their entwined hands.
“What’s there to address?”
Hannibal tips his head slightly to the side. “I told you we’re social creatures. Being deprived of affection, of touch, can have detrimental effects on mental health. I’m guessing your isolation is voluntary to some extent, but the body needs what it needs.”
Will’s hand twitches under Hannibal’s. “Neglecting this particular biological cue isn’t going to kill me.”
“But why should you suffer needlessly?” Hannibal holds his hand firmer, keeping their eyes locked together. “Don’t you enjoy it when I touch you?”
Will feels his resolve crumble slightly. “It’s the involvement I can’t stand,” he says. “My life tangling with someone else’s. It gets… messy.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
Will laughs, a humorless thing. “It does, for me.”
Hannibal turns Will’s hand until his palm faces the ceiling, rubbing gentle circles into the pale, calloused skin. “Do you do something to alleviate it? Your touch deprivation.”
Will suppresses a shudder. “I take a lot of hot baths.”
Hannibal nods. “Studies show they raise the oxytocin levels in the body.”
“It’s a poor substitute,” Will admits. “Still, better than nothing.”
“Better than nothing,” Hannibal agrees. “Had I been aware, I might have attempted it myself. At one point in time.”
Will tilts his head to the side, feeling a stir of intrigue. “Tell me?”
“Some other time.” Hannibal squeezes around his hand. “How far will you let me push?”
Will’s stomach twists with anticipation. He shrugs. “Try me.”
Hannibal’s eyes drift shut and he raises Will’s hand to his mouth, looking, for a moment, like he’s smelling an expensive wine or a bouquet of flowers. Then he places a kiss on the back of Will’s hand. It tickles, Hannibal’s lashes sweeping over the delicate skin, his lips brushing past his knuckles. Will feels warmth pool in his stomach and realizes, with a pang of embarrassment, that he’s getting hard.
He doesn’t snatch his hand back. He lets Hannibal pull his sleeve up and kiss his wrist, just above his pulse point, where the skin is fragile and lined with blue veins. Their eyes meet and Will almost flinches from the desire he sees in Hannibal’s wine-colored eyes, blowing his pupils wide. He isn’t sure how he missed it until now, feeling slightly concerned Hannibal has been able to hide it so well. The want in his face is diluted by need, growing more persistent by the second.
“I have a request you may think odd,” Hannibal says.
Will swallows. “What is it?”
“Take a bath. With me.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Will bites the inside of his cheek, considering. The question startles him into the present, anchors him to the real world. He drops his gaze, looking away from Hannibal’s face.
“You should know I’ve never—with a guy,” he says.
Hannibal tips his head. “Do you think of yourself as heterosexual?”
“Yeah.” Will flushes. “It’s not that it’s really that important to me. I just don’t know what I’m doing.” He looks up at Hannibal. “It wasn’t my intention to—lead you on, when I asked you to have dinner with me.”
“You’ve done no such thing. Or do you intend to leave?”
“No.” Will grimaces. “But you shouldn’t have to date someone who doesn’t have these things figured out. I’m too old to be doing this now.”
Hannibal surprises Will by taking both his hands and seeking his gaze, smiling reassuringly once he catches it. His eyes are still filled with desire, but it’s muted now, none of the intensity of before.
“I believe you’ve reached more significant clarity than you give yourself credit for,” he says. “If you’re uncomfortable being touched or touching me, we needn’t pursue it. I suggested the bath because I think you’d enjoy it. I don’t expect anything from you in terms of sexual intimacy.”
Hannibal’s voice wrapped around the words sexual intimacy sets Will’s heart pounding and he feels his face warm all the way up to the tips of his ears. As uncomfortable as he is, it’s hard to deny the pressure between his legs that has been building since he felt the warmth of Hannibal’s lips on his wrist. He gives a shaky nod.
“Okay,” he says. “A bath.”
Hannibal smiles, looking pleased. There’s a dangerous pleasure in getting Hannibal’s approval: Will instantly wants more of it.
Will trails after Hannibal as he walks them through the house, eventually coming to a stop in the large, white-tiled bathroom connected to Hannibal’s bedroom. Will stands awkwardly to the side as Hannibal turns the tap on and pours bath salts into the tub along with soap, quickly filling the room with a sandalwood scent that fogs the mirrors.
When the tub is halfway filled, Hannibal starts undressing, so Will does too. He isn’t sure where to look, but he figures they’ll be naked together in a bathtub soon, so looking at Hannibal can’t be too off-limits. Hannibal definitely watches him once he starts taking his clothes off, eyes sliding like water over Will’s skin as it’s slowly bared to the humid air. Will angles his gaze away, fighting the immature urge to cover himself with his hands.
Hannibal steps into the tub first and leans back against the pristine porcelain wall. “Sit,” he tells Will. “Lean against me.”
Will’s stomach gives a harsh twist, but he does as he’s told, getting into the tub with as much grace as he can manage. He can’t bear putting his full weight behind it when he leans back against Hannibal, but an arm soon wraps around his waist to pull him close, making him lose his leverage. Will shivers, partly from the prickle of Hannibal’s chest hair against his back, partly from the warmth of the water.
“When you bathe at home, what do you do?” Hannibal asks.
“Nothing, really,” Will says. “I just try to relax. Sometimes I can hear the radio if it’s on in the kitchen.”
“Do you think about anything in particular?”
Will doesn’t want to tell him. Truth be told, he feels vulnerable enough as it is. “No.”
Hannibal hums. His hands roam across Will’s upper body, trailing from the base of his neck to his chest and arms and stomach. It feels so good Will barely has room left to feel self-conscious. All he wants is for Hannibal to keep touching him.
“You are lovely, Will.” Hannibal sighs. “You should be touched with reverence.”
Will doesn’t even know what to say to that. He squirms slightly as Hannibal’s hands move lower, beneath the milky water where his cock bobs half-hard between his legs. He lets his head drop on Hannibal’s shoulder, unable to keep himself from nuzzling the side of his face against the soft skin there.
“You can’t possibly mean that,” he mumbles. “You don’t even know me that well.”
“In the interest of fairness, I was remarking on your looks.” Will hears the smile in Hannibal’s voice and huffs. “Although I do hope to get to know you better in time.”
Will bites back a moan as Hannibal’s hands follow the V shape of his hips, stopping before they venture any further.
“May I?” Hannibal asks.
Will nods. “Yeah.”
Hannibal’s hand wraps around Will’s cock, and it’s almost too much. He’s hard instantly, and he can’t stop himself from moaning as Hannibal rubs the sensitive tip, swiping his thumb over the slit before moving down to stroke the shaft, slow and firm under the hot, soapy water. Hannibal keeps him tucked against his body with an arm around his waist, occasionally cupping Will’s chest, testing the give of the soft flesh. Will can’t help but arch into it, and when Hannibal pinches lightly around his nipple, Will’s hips jerk forward on their own accord.
“Mmh—” Will bites his lip until it hurts, trying to stifle another moan. Hannibal makes a soothing sound, rolling his nipple between his fingertips.
“Let me hear you,” he says, breath tickling the side of Will’s neck. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”
He takes his hand off of Will’s cock to pump soap into his hands, then he sits back and starts jerking him off again. Will watches Hannibal’s hand sliding wet and slick over his cock, jutting obscenely out of the water, then he squeezes his eyes shut as his nipple is caught between soapy fingers once more.
“Ah,” Will’s feet slip over the porcelain and he grips the cold edge of the tub with one hand, trying to brace himself. “Hannibal, I’ll come.”
“Whenever you like.” Hannibal pushes him back against his chest and Will can feel the firm line of Hannibal’s hard cock against his lower back, and that finally tips him over the edge. He spills all over Hannibal’s hand, shuddering and moaning, watching milky-white strings of come stick to Hannibal’s fingers like cobweb.
Hannibal reaches for a conveniently placed towel and wipes his hands on it with precise movements, and Will is too content to feel embarrassed, even watching that. He slips lower beneath the water, resting his cheek against Hannibal’s chest just to listen to his heartbeat.
For a blissful moment, everything seems uncomplicated. There is only closeness, the uneven sound of twin heartbeats, the trickling sound of water. He is dimly aware of Hannibal lathering him up with soap, and he inwardly sighs with relief at every pass of his hands over his skin.
He floats. He drifts. Nothing shatters.
Once the water has cooled, Hannibal pulls the plug to let it drain. They rinse off and Will is given a terrycloth robe and slippers, like they’re in a hotel, except everything smells like Hannibal beneath the scent of clean laundry. Will’s embarrassment catches up with him as he’s toweling off, and he can’t help but feel self-conscious about what happened. Especially when Hannibal’s proximity is enough to get him half-hard again, aching to be touched, even though Hannibal has done little apart from touching him the past hour.
“Is everything alright, Will?” Hannibal asks. His damp hair is combed back from his face and there’s mild concern in his eyes. Will nods, only a touch too energetically.
Hannibal steps closer, and Will doesn’t back away fast enough for Hannibal not to feel his erection through his robe. He looks down and away, cheeks burning.
“Sorry,” he says and tries to laugh, but it sounds dejected even to him.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Hannibal says, smiling ever so slightly, in a way that feels like approval. “Come, let’s go to bed.”
Hannibal makes the short walk to his bedroom with Will in tow, and there, Hannibal grasps Will’s face between his hands and kisses him on the lips for the first time. Will tries not to moan into it, but Hannibal is pushing their hips together, grinding against his thigh and squeezing around his ass until Will can feel wetness gathering at the head of his cock, and it’s impossible to keep quiet. The back of his knees bump against the bed and Hannibal gently pushes him down on it, taking off his robe before leaning down to rid Will of his too.
“Oh, God,” Will gasps as Hannibal gets on all fours above him, leaning down to suck a chain of red marks into his neck. A rough hand twists between their bodies and suddenly Will can feel their cocks rubbing together, both of them held firm in Hannibal’s grip. It’s slick, so he must have had time to grab lube somehow, or there’s simply so much precome it isn’t needed. The thought makes Will flush and he throws his head back, resisting the urge to cry out.
“At some point, I’d like to be inside you,” Hannibal murmurs against his bruised neck. “I think you’d enjoy it. Being held, taken. No space in you left unoccupied.”
Will pants and wraps his arms around Hannibal’s neck, trying to imagine it. Hannibal’s hands spreading him open, holding him down. It’s an image he can conjure with shocking clarity, but he has no frame of reference for how it might feel.
“Or perhaps you’d prefer to be inside me,” Hannibal says. “A more familiar sensation to you, I suppose. Either way, a sense of entanglement.”
Will closes his eyes and tries to imagine it. Burying his cock in the tight, slick heat of Hannibal’s body, feeling his narrow hips beneath his hands. He thinks about Hannibal’s face slack with pleasure, wondering what kind of sounds he would make.
“Would you… like that?” Will says, struggling to get any words out at all.
Hannibal’s eyes flash. “I’m ready for you if you are,” he says, and Will feels his stomach flutter. “Just say the word.”
“Yes,” Will says, instantly, “yes, fuck, please.”
Hannibal smiles and leans over him, getting a small bottle of lube from the bedside table. A cool palm wraps around Will’s cock, smearing slickness over the shaft, and then Will watches Hannibal reach behind himself. Will can’t see what he’s doing, but it makes Hannibal’s face go soft, brows smoothing out and mouth falling open. Before Will has time to reflect on it, Hannibal straddles his hips and puts a steadying hand around the base of his cock, slowly starting to sink down on it.
“Fuck, shit,” Will feels like the air is punched out of his lungs, hands flying up into his hair on reflex as he’s sheathed in tight, velvety warmth. It’s so good he can’t stay still, but Hannibal squeezes his thighs around his hips and pins his wrists down over his head until he can’t move at all, only lie there and let Hannibal do as he pleases.
Through the sound of rushing blood in his ears, Will hears Hannibal hush him. “It’s all right,” he says, hair falling into his eyes with every wave-like roll of his hips, “I’ve got you.”
Will nods and doesn’t say anything, because he can’t. A soft whimper escapes him and he writhes, torn between wanting more and wanting to get away, sensitive and overwrought and overwhelmed. He can’t sort through his impressions enough to find a focus, everything blurring together. Hannibal’s strong hands around his wrists, the heavy warmth of his thighs, the silken heat squeezing around his cock.
Letting his gaze flick up, Will watches Hannibal’s face through the blur of his vision, wondering what he’s seeing, looking back at Will. Warmth slides down his face and dampens the pillow, and Will realizes he’s crying.
“Hush, now,” Hannibal says, voice low and fond, stroking Will’s wet cheek with his thumb. Will blinks, feeling his lashes stick together, but he doesn’t miss the moment Hannibal puts his thumb in his mouth, following the curve of it with his tongue. A slow smile spreads over his lips, and then he picks up the pace, fucking himself on Will’s cock hard and fast enough for the mattress to creak beneath them.
“Ahh—” Will twists, rubbing the side of his face against the damp pillow, and then he’s coming, and coming, and it’s so good, so unlike any other orgasm that it feels like it’s the first one he’s ever had. Moments after, he feels wetness on his belly and looks up, dazed and disoriented, only to find Hannibal holding his spent cock in a loose grip, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
There’s a few seconds of silence, disturbed only by the sound of their disjointed breathing. Then Hannibal lifts himself up and lies down on his side next to Will, moving slowly, almost cautiously. Will wonders if it hurts, doing what he just did. He doesn’t truly know, after all, although he can imagine.
“Was that—” he starts, and then clears his throat, hoarse and thick from moaning or crying or both. Jesus. “Was that good for you?” he asks, because he figures it’s the polite thing to do. He hears Hannibal laugh softly beside him.
“Very good,” he says. His fingers trail lightly down Will’s arm, but he doesn’t ask him the same question. “I think I’ll go get ready for bed. You just rest. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Will nods and Hannibal leaves. Will swings his legs over the edge of the bed and rests his face in his hands, trying to make sense of what just happened. It’s simple and difficult at the same time, but while he’s still in Hannibal’s home, surrounded by him, there’s no use trying to untangle what he’s feeling.
What he knows is that Hannibal made an effort to make him feel good, and it worked. That’s all he needs to focus on tonight, he tells himself.
Once Hannibal returns and Will gets up to go to the bathroom, he is offered a set of pajamas and a toothbrush. Will ducks his head and accepts them, hurrying past him, too aware of the tears still drying on his cheeks. He washes his face as soon as he closes the bathroom door behind him and gets ready as quickly as possible, slipping into the soft, silky fabric of the pajamas. It’s iridescent white and so thin it’s almost translucent, looking like something Hannibal might wear, except it also doesn’t.
Storing that piece of information away for future evaluation, Will gets back to the bedroom, finding Hannibal is already under the covers. Will gets under them too, and Hannibal sweeps him up in his arms immediately, holding him tight.
Will hears his own heart beating and thinks Hannibal must too, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s a strange familiarity to the way he’s holding him, like this is what they do every night, even though they hadn’t even kissed until today.
“I can hear you thinking,” Hannibal says, just next to his ear.
“What happens when I go home?” Will asks, because he can’t help himself.
“Things go back to how they have been, with the exception that we hopefully see each other outside of work.” Hannibal pauses. “I was thinking of asking you to go to the opera with me.”
That startles a little laugh out of Will. “You like to decide what to do. Control freak?”
“No more than you.” He kisses Will’s hair. “I’ve noticed.”
Will smiles. Then it drops with the memory of a previous conversation.
“You implied you were touch deprived too,” Will says. “Will you tell me about that now?”
He feels Hannibal sigh. There’s a moment of anticipation before he speaks.
“I lost my parents when I was very young. I eventually got loving guardians, but there were years when touch without cruelty was rare.” He stops, tightening his grip on Will’s middle. “I can’t remember missing it, but I do remember the relief when someone I loved finally held me. Like a release of pressure. Almost too much, yet not enough.”
“Yeah. That’s exactly how it is.” Will tucks his head under Hannibal’s chin, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I asked.”
“I wanted to tell you.” Hannibal runs a hand through Will’s hair, kissing his ear. “Let’s sleep. I’ve got you.”
And he does.