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It often starts as early as late October, long before the first frost. The trees still wear their autumn finery as the first of the onslaught begins.
Christmas.
It was more than a day or two at the end of the year. It was a season. Somewhere along the way people adopted the holiday as a separate religion, an unusual amalgam of spiritualism and commerce. Pagan houses of worship beckon believers with 50% markdowns and early bird specials. Squint and you might see the baby Jesus, smaller now than the Santa Claus that shares a space with Him in the manger. Christmas was about money and gaudy decorations and humanity's affinity for celebration. Hannibal took a sip from the crystal tumbler in his hand.
Christmas was about family.
Hannibal had few memories of Christmas with his family. His father, a stoic and solemn man of very few words was particularly so in winter. His mother was nothing more than a kaleidoscope of abstract memories, fractal sketches of hands, hair, and the smell of her perfume. Her room in his memory palace was small and poorly lit. Christmas was about Jingle Bells clumsily played by small fingers, and roast turkey and his mother’s lumpy gravy. And Christmas was about laughter. Mischa’s laughter as the dog licked her face, and his, bubbling from the deepest part of him, a source that had been capped off, a vein that had long run dry.
Christmas was laughter, music, and family. It was light and warmth and knowing…knowing you belonged to someone and that they belonged to you.
He closed his eyes against the cold he could feel even through the window pane. It was snowing, and he watched the flakes swirl, momentarily suspended against the inky black before they scattered on the wind and were gone.
He pursed his lips. A splash of color pierced the darkness, a smudge of merlot, of pomegranate and black.
Will.
His white face materialized, floating briefly in the void before he stepped into the light of the street lamp. He was wearing a dark winter coat and a black woolen hat pulled down over his ears.
Hannibal watched him stop and look up into the vacant eyes of the windows. He did not see him, he was sure. There were no lights on in the study, so his silhouette would have been a mere shadow, an untethered curtain swallowed by darkness.
When the knock came at his door, he was still by the window. “Come in,” he said hoarsely, without ever taking his eyes off the weather.
Will turned the knob and stepped inside. The room was not overly warm with no fire lit, but comfortable enough for him to divest himself of his coat and hat. He wound the end of his scarf around his gloved hand and pulled it through the collar of his coat. “Hey,” he said as he draped it over a nearby chair.
Hannibal turned around. Will’s face was ruddy in patches from the cold, but also pale. His eyes sparkled, two pieces of ice glinting in a bank of pure snow. His lips were the color of berries.
“What are you doing here,” Hannibal said. It was not what he intended to say. He swallowed against the knot in his throat at the mere sight of him.
Will smiled without showing any teeth, a delicate quirk of his mouth. It was the same smile he gave him when he was trying to convince Hannibal that he was fine and that he shouldn’t worry.
“I brought you something,” Will said simply, and withdrew a small bundle he hadn’t noticed tucked beneath his arm.
Hannibal looked only at his face. He closed the distance between them, his arms hanging at his sides. He glanced briefly at the parcel Will held out to him without any real interest. He sat it down on a nearby table, looking at him curiously.
Wordlessly, he slipped an arm around him, his face finding his hair. His eyes slipped closed, lost in the ceremony of touching him. It was not often that he did this, but it was accepted now, and tonight of all nights he needed to feel Will, to see that he was real and with him...that he was safe and his. Hannibal felt the rigid frame of Will’s body relax against him, and the hollow ache that was his constant companion sang a little for want of filling. He sighed without bothering to hide it.
Will smelled like the wind, and frost, and something earthy and masculine. The cold from his clothes prickled his skin, and he wanted suddenly to warm him, to stoke life into Will as he had done for him.
“I hope that isn’t a Christmas present,” he murmured quietly, “because I don’t believe in it.”
He felt Will chuckle against him, and the sensation was a welcome one. “Belief is for when reality is in question,” he said lightly. “Christmas is on the calendar, Hannibal. It is very much real.”
He withdrew then and shrugged out of his coat. Will reached for his hat, his hand arriving at nearly the same time as Hannibal’s did. Will’s gloved fingers closed over his wrist, and he looked at him for a moment before allowing him to gently remove it.
Hannibal smiled, though there was no humor there. He smoothed his curls with the palm of his hand, and only then did he notice the faint puffiness of his eyes, the cheeks that were burned by salt and not by the winter wind. Will had been crying. He pursed his lips but remained silent.
Will pulled away from him, grabbing the parcel he had walked in with. It was cylindrical and wrapped in a scarf. He began to remove the material to reveal the shiny silver thermos beneath.
“Where are your mugs?” he called as he walked into the kitchen, turning on lights as he went. Will was opening cabinets and drawers and before he had time to answer him, he had two mugs on the counter and was unscrewing the lid of the thermos.
Hannibal sat down on the bar stool and watched him.
“I’m afraid to ask what that might be,” he said in an overly serious tone. Will poured two mugs full of steaming liquid and looked up at him, a twinkle in his eye.
“You don’t trust me Hannibal? Of all the times I’ve eaten your food, ingesting God-knows what? But did I complain?" Will shook his head for effect, then looked thoughtful. "Well, maybe once or twice.”
Will smiled at him genuinely then, a full and beautiful smile that lit his face with the memory of hundreds of hours spent in each other’s company…in conversation, at a crime scene, sharing a meal, of time spent in adjoining hotel rooms, lying in bed at night listening to him breathe on the other side of the wall.
Hannibal opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it again. Will laughed softly. “I like to call this ‘Christmas Cheer'--my father’s recipe.” He proffered a mug, smiling. “Go on,” he said encouragingly.
Hannibal took the mug in his hand and held it under his nose. The steam hit his face with the warmth of orange spice and liquor, a hot and inviting smell of cinnamon and brandy. He sipped the wassail experimentally, and the smell and taste of it soon enveloped him.
He gave Will a small smile. “You were right,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
Will nodded, wrapping his hands around the mug, threading his fingers through its handle. He leaned forward slightly, his mouth a firm line. “How do you do this, Hannibal?”
He looked up to see his eyes darken as they misted with tears that wouldn’t come. His throat tightened.
“This is my first Christmas without Abigail,” he said quietly. Will looked down at his mug, at the shiny marble countertop of Hannibal’s kitchen. “When I lost my dad, it was easier somehow, but this—“ a single tear escaped his lashes and splashed onto the counter. He wiped at his eyes quickly and looked up at Hannibal. “I know we weren’t that close, but…we could’ve been.”
Hannibal didn’t remember holding his breath, but when his lungs burned for want of air he exhaled raggedly and sucked in a breath as best he could through the tightness in his throat.
“You don’t,” he finally managed. His voice was so quiet that Will could scarcely hear him. He watched his face. “You avoid it like a coward. You push it down deep enough so it drowns in the dark, so deep the memories can’t hurt you because they’re no longer yours. They belong to someone else, another person…another time.” He choked out a bitter laugh and raised the mug halfway between them. "‘Christmas Cheer’ also helps.”
Will pursed his lips. “You’re not a coward,” he said to him. He reached across the counter between them and placed his hand over Hannibal’s. Hannibal didn’t look at him.
“Hannibal.”
He met Will’s eyes then, and there was a warmth there that wasn’t present before, a fire sparking and cracking between them, vital and alive. He turned his hand over and laced his fingers with Will’s.
“And you have me,” he said roughly, seeking his eyes. “Remember?”
Will smiled. Yes, he remembered. Of course he remembered. Hannibal let it be known in almost every breath and in every action that he was his other, his person, and on this he could rely on always. It’s why he was here.
Hannibal swept his thumb languidly over the top of his hand as Will looked at their interlaced fingers. He had him.
Will looked up without seeing him, closing the distance between them in a breath. He pressed his lips to Hannibal’s.
Neither of them moved for a moment. Time seemed to slow, and Will could feel his breath against his cheek, steady and warm. Finally, one of Hannibal’s hands went up to cradle his head as he opened to the heat of his mouth.
Will was mulled spices and brandy, both sharp and sweet, and Hannibal imagined the warmth of their kiss spreading through his entire body, warming him to the core, and then that same warmth radiating between them. He let his hand slide around to the open collar of Will’s shirt to find the delicate skin there. He felt the rapid thrum of his pulse and couldn't suppress a smile.
Will pulled away, but only far enough to feather kisses along the line of his jaw. "And you have me," he breathed into his ear. "You're not alone. You haven’t been alone for a long time."
He felt Hannibal sigh, melting into Will’s shoulder where he leaned over the counter. He tightened his arms around him, the forgotten mugs steaming between them.
"Merry Christmas Hannibal," he said quietly, "if you believe in that sort of thing."
Will smiled, and Hannibal could feel his lips curl into the crook of his neck. It felt like home, like remembering. It felt like Christmas.
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