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The gifts were getting excessive. Cough drops, scented extra soft tissues, prescription strength fever medication — all of these were welcome additions to the room where Will lays blinking hazily up at the swirling ceiling fan, unable even to turn onto his side to dull the blaring light of the sun. But then there was the arrival of the dozen wild-picked tiger lillies, the silk robe, the fucking stuffed dog holding the heart in his fuzzy paws that reads LIFE’S RUFF! It made Will laugh, then it made him throw up in his mouth a little. He couldn’t be sure which of the two reactions he really stood behind.
Hannibal had always been a bit much, but it took Will developing a bad case of the common flu for him to truly reveal himself. The temperature of their rented suite was always being adjusted— was he too warm? Chilly? Had he slept well last night? Was he hungry? Did he want soup? He must want soup. Soup was just the thing. Will had even forced himself to sit up and let Hannibal feed it to him — to make Hannibal feel better about the whole situation, not himself.
Now he lays in a queen-sized bed somewhere tens of miles outside of Havana, unshaven for going on the second week in a row, his throat so scratchy he can barely speak, listening to a new Sam Cooke record spinning on the turntable on the dresser — he had offhandedly mentioned a Sam Cooke song he liked to Hannibal months ago. So unnecessary, he thinks, but he’s smiling.
Sleep is about to take him when the French doors going out to the deck of the suite flutter open, and in walks Hannibal, a brown paper bag with groceries tucked under his arm. Will peeks out from under his eyelashes, always admiring how comfortable Hannibal looks in this newly discovered tropical climate. He’s taken to wearing light silks and linen shorts, combing his bangs into his face to obscure his eyes, wearing darkly tinted sunglasses. Sometimes there is a brightly patterned scarf involved. His body language reads as relaxed, contented, Will notes, his skin is even catching the beginnings of a tan. Good. Whatever they can do to chameleonize themselves, become completely unrecognizable — this is what could save the easy peace they’ve fallen into. Will once even threw out the idea of bleaching his own hair blond, but Hannibal shot that down faster than one could say “frosted tips.”
Now Hannibal is putting the groceries away in the fridge, and Will sinks back down into the bed, free now of the wariness of what could be taking him so long at the market. The record stops; Hannibal flips it. The bed dips as Hannibal comes to sit down beside him. When Will leans into him, it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I picked up some ginger root,” Hannibal murmurs, his eyes closed, a half-smile playing across his lips. “Honey and lemon, also, for your throat. I’ll make garlic soup for you. You’ll like it,” he concludes, as if he’s just decided for Will that this soup is going to be the best thing that ever happened to him.
“You need to stop fussing,” Will grumbles into his shoulder. “I’ll kick this in a day or two. Be right as rain and then you won’t be able to force feed me any more soup.”
“I thought you liked my soup,” Hannibal says with mock hurt.
“I love your goddamn soup,” Will says, a painful, guttural laugh erupting out of his raw throat. “But I’ve had it every day for two weeks straight now. How do I know you haven’t been poisoning it?”
“I wouldn’t poison you while you were already sick, Will,” Hannibal says, threading his fingers through Will’s hair, gently stroking him, soft movements intended to soothe. “That would only make for a hollow victory. If I were going to poison you, I’d wait until you were healthy again, and then I would make you so ill you couldn’t speak. You’d have to rely on me for everything. I could feed you, wash you — carry you into the tub myself — read to you, watch while you slept. And you would only get better when I decide you should.”
“You’re enjoying this,” Will whispers with a start, pulling away — but only so Hannibal will turn and put a possessive hand on the small of his back, warning him to stay where he is.
“Shh, dear Will. Don’t move so much. Think of your health.” When Hannibal smirks, Will sees a trace of the old object of his blinding hatred— the same twisted smile he showed from the other side of the bars of Will’s hospital cell. But there’s something new in this particular expression — love, Will might call it, if he was stupid. It’s teasing, but it’s familiar, and it’s terribly, affectionately warm.
“You’ve done so much for me these past days,” Will mumbles, nuzzling his nose into Hannibal’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine how you expect me to repay you when I’m better.”
“There’s something you could do for me right now,” Hannibal says, ghosting his fingers along Will’s bare shoulder.
“Dare I ask?”
“I want you to kiss me,” Hannibal says, tilting Will’s chin up to make him meet his eyes. “I want you to kiss me like you did the first time, Will. And then I want to hold you. That would make me feel better.”
“I’ll only get you sick,” Will protests, uncomfortable with the heat rushing to his cheeks— what is this feeling, why is it still sticking around? Haven’t they been sharing the same bed for months now, across the continental United States and now in a foreign country? Why does looking at Hannibal still feel like looking directly into the sun? “And then we’ll both be hot and miserable.”
“To be hot and miserable with you is better than languishing in the deepest pleasure with anyone else,” Hannibal says, tracing his hand up and down Will’s shoulder lightly, so lightly — Will could scream. Being loved like this — how could anyone bear it?
“Aw, hell,” Will groans, half-laughing. And then he puts his burning, sticky palms on Hannibal’s face and kisses him. He kisses him with gratitude, for the cough drops, the endless gourmet soups, the regulated temperatures, even the goofy stuffed dog. And he kisses him with irritation — for not sticking the knife in, for not making things worse, for not making it hurt the way Will aches for him to. He sucks on Hannibal’s upper lip, lets Hannibal lick into his mouth, questioning, rubbing his deft fingers across Will’s shoulder blades as if to ask is this enough? What will show you? What I would do for you? How far my devotion goes, how endless, boundless it is? How everything I’ve done, everything I will ever do, how it’s all for one man, how it’s all for you.
Overwhelmed, dizzy, buzzing with syrupy warmth, Will pulls back. “There,” he says, settling his heavy head into Hannibal’s chest. “Now we’re both diseased.”
“A speedy convalescence to us both, then,” Hannibal hums, draping his arm lazily over Will’s chest. “Although I do wish you’d never given me the idea to poison you. It’s much too seductive, the thought of having you under my thumb like this whenever I want you to be.”
“Try it and see what happens,” Will counters, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. “My last act on this earth before I succumb to whatever arsenic you find in some back alley of the city will be to smother you with the goose down pillows you insist on bringing me.”
“The happiest little death one could imagine,” Hannibal all but sighs. Will leans up to kiss him again before settling back down into his body heat, into a peaceful, medicated sleep.