Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hannibal is still unused to the sweet terror of being loved. 

With the sureness of a melatonin dream, winter’s white fingers peek from the coverture of night. The warmth has died with the leaves, their once-bright colors now only a memory beneath layers of frost and snow. The cool air binds to skin, lingers just a bit longer in the nasal passages, sharp like the resin of pine sap. 

It is even stranger to Hannibal, how warm it can feel in the winter, not in the air but in the spaces he shares with Will. He is used to the cold, as used to it as one who fears it can get—resigned, expectant, always bracing against its bite.

There was once a time when he thought that on winter nights, it was easy to forget the sun would ever come again. The moon’s cold gaze cast an undertone of unreality, a silvery film over the world that made time stretch and hearts grow heavy. The silence of winter created a void where his thoughts could echo endlessly. There was too much time to overdose on Winter’s thoughts, too much time to feel the ache of it seep into his clothes and under all the defenses he had built against it. He had expected it to be the same here, for the biting air to creep inside him and stay no matter how many layers he wore, to find him no matter how deeply he buried himself in his mind. He thought he would have to squeeze his eyes shut and wait for it to end, as he always had.

But now it seems as though Winter cannot touch him at all. It is a new thing, a feeling he has never experienced before, like a shield of warmth that he does not fully understand but cannot deny. Their life here is an easy one, in many ways. They said arrivederci to Roma, leaving behind its eternal sun for the quiet austerity of Canada. Their days are calm most of the time, with an easy peace and love permeating the air like the steady fragrance of scented candles. It is a life he never thought they could have, yet here he stands, not with the shivering cold tugging at his wounds but with warmth flowing through his scars.

It was a slow thing, this warmth, something they did not even notice at first. Yet now his mornings are filled with Will—the scent of two sugars and a splash of milk in his coffee, the way Hannibal’s hands rest on the cooking stove, a red pot steaming and trees swaying in the window beyond. The grey in Will’s hair that he picks at absently in the mirror, the laugh lines that deepen on his scarred face when he smiles. He thinks the way Will lives in his space and moves through it, with an unconscious grace that is entirely his own, may very well be his undoing. And yet, he welcomes it. It could make stone weep, this life they have built together. A simple marriage with no one but them and their rings and the blood that gleamed black beneath the moonlight.

He finds himself this winter dreaming of a man who presses tender kisses to his frostbitten cheeks, a man who brings light to the long, cold nights, rather than the blackened fingertips of a child struggling to survive. His aching has left him behind. It is unfamiliar, this vulnerability, like the stories of love he had read when he was young, love that was so often foolish in its objectives but ever fierce in its choices, its intensities.

Snow shivers against the windows, its crystalline flakes glistening in the moonlight like scattered stars fallen to the earth. But the cold outside feels distant, irrelevant, forgotten in the presence of the fire and the man who feeds it. Roasted chestnuts tie their chests with a smoky warmth, and cinnamon hangs in the air, curling into the folds of shared breath. The scent of burnt wood tickles the nose. 

The shivers of snow that glisten in the moonlight do not matter as they bask in the glow of each other, enveloped by scents of vanilla and musk. It is them and only them within the quieted night. The ashes of the fire are confined to the debris of their world, a world that feels boundless despite its simplicity. Caramel lids rest on their tired eyes as they tug onto the remnants of kindling sparks burning in their lungs, the smoke almost catching in their throats but never stifling their breath.

Will is caring and soft when Hannibal needs it, even though his teeth are sharp and his words often sharper. It is his hands that Hannibal wants, not the fabric of a scarf nor the fire. Just Will, and his capable hands that have come back to place more wood in the fire, his movements unhurried and sure. His husband.

Hannibal watches through the frosted window, his hands resting lightly on the sill. Beyond the glass, Will now moves in the snow, his form lively and vivid against the backdrop of the darkening sky. Hannibal does not yet venture outside. The cold feels too distant, too intrusive, but to watch is enough for now. It fills him with a peculiar peace—a kind of serenity he cannot quite name. Will is joyous, radiant, and beautiful.

And what a strange thought, to see winter as beautiful and not cruel. Will, thriving in it, as if he is made for this stark, silent world. He is always in motion, always doing something, as though stillness might unravel him entirely. There is a wild abandon in how he flings himself into the snow, the same reckless energy he must have once given to the sweltering bayous of Louisiana. It’s as if the cold invigorates him, sharpens him. His smile is broad, his laughter boyish as he watches the dog leap and tumble through drifts that reach their bellies. 

Winston chases a snowball Will has thrown, the white powder exploding on impact, and Will laughs again, his voice carrying faintly through the glass. Hannibal wonders at him, how he blooms in the cold like that.

Perhaps it’s contrast, Hannibal thinks. The quiet of winter must be a kind of balm for someone who grew up in the sticky, relentless heat of Southern summers. Will had explained it once, sitting at their kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee cradled between his hands. “It’s the stillness,” he had said, his voice thoughtful and low. “You don’t get that in the South. It’s like everything slows down here, and you can breathe a little easier.”

Hannibal had found that poetic. The idea had been so foreign to him that he had wanted to write it down, to study and revisit the thought. Stillness. Breathing easier. Such simplicity, such unassuming wisdom. 

Inside, Hannibal is polishing the brass candle holders for their Christmas tree. He takes his time with the task, the rhythmic motion grounding him. Will had complained endlessly about the tree being a fire hazard, but Hannibal had insisted. There is something fitting about candlelight on a tree, something old-fashioned and warm, a glow that matches how he feels when he sees Will smile. His darling, his dying, his light, his sight, his night and his whole day long. 

The metal gleams brightly under his touch, and for a moment, he catches his reflection in its surface—blurred, almost ghostly. Their tree stands proudly in the corner of the living room, its scent of pine filling the house. Will had cut it himself, his strong hands wielding the saw with practiced ease. Those same hands that split wood for the fire, stacking the logs neatly to keep their home warm. Hannibal had been floored the first time he saw it—that quiet act of care, that gentleness hidden in the strength. He had held Will close that evening, unable to find the words for what he felt. Will had known anyway, had brewed him Earl Grey with honey and placed the steaming cup in his hands.

“What have I done to deserve this?” Hannibal had asked, his voice quiet.

Will had laughed, kissed his cheek, and replied, “Absolutely nothing.”

Yet Hannibal has it, daily. 

Will’s tenderness is a constant. And what a gift it is. Will conjures summer itself through sheer will, as though he could pull Hannibal out of winter’s grasp and set him down in a field of green and gold. Hannibal knows nothing of the ache of bones any longer. His days are filled with cooking and cleaning, the motions of care and love. He kneads dough with his mother’s frantic energy, channels her restless hands into feeding Will, keeping him full. And Will, in turn, keeps him warm. It is love. 

Later, when the baking is done and the kitchen quiets, Will eats with abandon. He laughs and indulges far more than he should, pushing past reason into contentment. He always does. When his stomach aches from it—when he groans and complains and calls Hannibal a tyrant for feeding him too much—he still clings to him, unrepentant. He sprawls across Hannibal like a living furnace, heavy and utterly unapologetic. It is love.

Hannibal hears the door swing open with a creak that settles into the air like a whisper, the familiar sound of Will’s voice ringing out in its gentle reprimand, mingled with the huffing, panting replies of Winston. The dog’s breathing, rich and full, fills the space, punctuated by the soft shuffle of paws against the polished wood floor. Hannibal’s lips curl into a smile. 

The cloth in his hands moves in a practiced rhythm, circles and lines pressed against the brass candle holder as he polishes. He feels the heat in his fingertips, the slight burn of friction as he works, and when he hears those familiar footsteps approaching—soft, unhurried, tender in their own way—his breath catches, a sound caught in his chest and pushed back down with a smile.

And then, a hand touches him—fingers brushing his skin like the touch of a feather. It presses against him, a kiss pressed to his cheek that sends a shiver through him, that sets his blood to humming. 

“Guess who?” Will whispers.

How silly, Hannibal thinks, to suggest that Hannibal would not know him from the feeling of Will’s heart beating against his back. 

Hannibal lowers the cloth, letting it fall with a soft thud onto the table, before he turns to see the man who holds his world in a thousand fragile ways. There stands Will, covered in snow, flakes clinging to him like a second, shimmering skin. They settle on his eyelashes like scattered diamonds, glistening with each blink, and his dark, unruly hair is tipped with the frozen dust.

The rawness of Will’s hands is all Hannibal can see for a moment. Hands that are weathered and worn, yet imbued with the life of a man who has been through fire and storm and come out standing, changed but whole. These are his body’s gates of tenderness, the tools of Hannibal’s wonders—be they violent or gentle. Hannibal’s heart tugs, an aching surge that he knows will never quite be still. They are red from the cold. 

“You’ve been outside too long,” Hannibal murmurs, his voice carrying the low hum of disapproval, though it’s softened by the way he places a kiss on each knuckle. One kiss for each ridge, each callus, each scar. The pale red of Will’s hands fades as he works, his mouth moving against the flesh with quiet care. When he finally looks up, the words escape him almost absently. “Does this feel better? Or must I keep going?”

Will’s eyes meet his own, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, as if it knows the secret, too. “You’re making it worse, you know. I’ll be burnt by the time you’re done,” he says, but the mirth in his voice softens the words.

Hannibal hums, an almost-unheard note that mingles with the fire crackling in the hearth, with the slow, even breath of the house. His thumb runs along Will’s now-warmed knuckles.

“Did Winston bring you any joy tonight?” 

Will’s laugh breaks the quiet. “Joy? He’s been chasing his own tail for the better part of an hour. You’d think he was six months old instead of six years.” He shakes his head, his smile growing as he speaks. “Runs circles around me like he’s got something to prove, even when he’s tripping over his own feet. He’ll probably sleep for the next two days just to recover.”

Hannibal’s lips curve into a knowing smile. His hands guide Will’s, pulling them back to his own face. “You are alike in that way,” he murmurs.

Will’s expression shifts, a fleeting moment of defiance and affection mixing in the deep pools of his eyes. He pulls back, tugging his hands away, and Hannibal lets him, only to reach for them again, this time with a possessive but gentle insistence, guiding one hand to rest against his cheek, holding it there.

Will raises an eyebrow, a flicker of humor glinting in his eyes. “You think I’m like Winston?” he asks. “What, because I leave mud all over the place and eat like a wild animal?”

“That is not entirely inaccurate,” he replies, a faint teasing lilt in his voice. “Though I was thinking more of the way you both barrel through life as though stopping may be the end of the world. Always chasing something, even if you are not quite sure what it is.”

Will huffs out a laugh. “You’re giving Winston way too much credit,” he says, shaking his head. “That dog isn’t chasing anything profound—just his tail, or a squirrel, or whatever’s making noise in the bushes.”

“And yet,” Hannibal counters, tilting his head, “he brings you joy. Doesn’t that make his pursuits meaningful, at least to you?”

Will opens his mouth to argue but stops, his brow furrowing slightly. “Okay, sure,” he concedes after a moment. “But that doesn’t mean I’m the same. I’m not out there chasing my tail.”

“No,” Hannibal says, his voice dipping into something softer, more contemplative. “But you chase ideas. You chase meaning. You chase the truth, even when it hurts you. You may not see the resemblance, but I do.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me sound philosophical while comparing me to a dog who once ate an entire loaf of bread because I turned my back for two seconds.”

“An impressive feat of determination,” Hannibal says smoothly, as if it’s the highest compliment he can bestow. “One you are certainly capable of. You both have a way of... persevering, regardless of the odds.”

Will shakes his head, his laugh low and warm. “I guess I’ll take it.”

“A loyal companion, full of life and surprises,” Hannibal says. “I could do worse in my comparisons.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Will mutters, though he doesn’t pull away, his shoulders relaxing under Hannibal’s touch. “Just don’t expect me to start chasing squirrels or eating kibble anytime soon.”

Hannibal leans back slightly, his smile widening. “Of course not,” he says, his voice warm, almost fond. “Though I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if you did.”

There is an easy pause of silence. Hannibal closes his eyes, letting the thumb that brushes his cheekbone carry him. “There was once a very great American surgeon named Halsted,” he says. “He was married to a nurse. He loved her—immeasurably. One day, Halsted noticed that his wife’s hands were chapped and red when she came back from surgery. And so, he invented rubber gloves.”

“And here I thought all doctors cared about were their egos.”

Hannibal tilts his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Perhaps most do. But Halsted’s hands healed the world because they first healed what he loved.”

Will’s laughter is soft, the kind that makes the room feel fuller, as if something is alive in the silence left by the sound. “The difference between inspired medicine and uninspired medicine is love. And what have I invented you?”

Hannibal pauses. The question blooms in his chest, warm and impossible to answer with just words. Fire. Gloves. A scarf. Love. Life itself. Yet, he lowers their hands, one final kiss pressed to Will’s palm before he releases it. 

“Will you light the candles with me?” he asks, his voice a low plea.

Will’s nod is slow,. “Always,” he says.

And so they do, moving together in the warmth of the room, as Hannibal clips the candles into their holders and lights them, one by one. Will lingers behind him, hands encircling his waist, the heat of him pressing into Hannibal’s back, the strong fingers tracing their slow path against the fabric, a touch that is everything. 

Nothing feels as rich, as indulgent, as being held by hands woven with respect—strong hands that know how to be soft, deliberate hands that move over the skin like petals, like quiet curiosity.

Those are the priceless things.

"You know," Will starts, striking a match with an audible scrape, "if that doctor guy—Halsted—hadn’t noticed his wife’s hands, maybe someone else would’ve thought of gloves. But it wouldn’t have come from love. Just practicality. Probably some guy who got tired of washing his hands too much."

"Perhaps. Though it is not invention alone that lingers. It is the intention behind it. A small act of care, wrapped in something greater. I suppose love has always been... resourceful."

Will lights the first candle, watching the flame catch and curl. He tilts his head slightly, his expression thoughtful but still relaxed, as though he’s mulling something over while trying not to look too serious about it. "Resourceful," he echoes, testing the word like he’s not sure if he agrees. "It’s a nice way of putting it. But if we’re being honest, love’s also kind of lazy, isn’t it?"

Hannibal blinks, caught off guard in the most subtle way. "Lazy?" 

"Yeah, lazy," Will says, grinning now, his teeth flashing in the flickering candlelight. "Think about it. That guy didn’t come up with gloves for everyone. Just his wife. He didn’t care enough to make the world better until it inconvenienced him personally. His wife’s hands probably hurt, so he thought, ‘Oh no, I don’t want to deal with her being miserable,’ and boom—gloves. Love takes the easy route sometimes."

"So you believe love, at its core, is selfish? A matter of avoiding discomfort?"

"Yeah," Will says, lighting another candle. "But, selfish in a good way. You care because you have to, because it’d ruin you if they were hurting. It’s not about fixing the whole world. Just your little piece of it."

Hannibal hums, thoughtful. His gaze drops to Will’s hands, the way they move so casually, so naturally, around the candles. "And what of the things you’ve invented for me, Will?" he asks, voice quieter now, less playful. "Have they been born of laziness too?"

"Absolutely," he says with mock sincerity. "I invented the art of drinking coffee out of chipped mugs because I can’t be bothered to buy new ones. Pretty romantic, right?"

"Undeniably," Hannibal says. "Though I’m certain you could claim credit for more. Your patience, for instance, in teaching me to tolerate the chaos of dogs. That, surely, was an invention of love."

Will smirks, setting the matches down and turning to face Hannibal fully. "Tolerating my dogs doesn’t count as an invention. That’s survival. Besides, I’ve seen you slip scraps to Winston when you think I’m not looking. You’ve adapted just fine."

"Perhaps I’ve invented ways to indulge them, then. A survival mechanism, as you said."

Will leans back against the table, his arms crossing loosely over his chest. His smile softens, and for a moment, he just looks at Hannibal, the warmth in his eyes unguarded. 

"What about you?" he asks. "What have you invented for me?"

"I have invented nothing," he says, his tone light but tinged with sincerity. "But I have discovered."

Will huffs a laugh, his cheeks coloring faintly. "Okay, fine," he mutters. "You win. Now, come on," he says, nudging Hannibal gently toward the candles. "Help me.” 

The candles flicker in uneven intervals, their light casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. Hannibal watches as Will leans over to adjust one, muttering something under his breath about uneven wicks. 

Will straightens and glances at Hannibal, catching the way he’s watching. "What?" he asks, his voice a little rough. "Is the candle arrangement not up to your standards, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal steps closer, shaking his head. "On the contrary," he murmurs. "I find it...perfect. Though I suspect perfection was not the goal."

"Perfection’s never the goal. Not with me, anyway. I’d rather it feel... real, I guess. Like it belongs here. Like it’s been used. I don’t trust things that look too perfect."

Hannibal tilts his head. "Then you must find me very suspicious," he says.

"Suspicious? Sure. But not because you’re perfect. More because you’ve got this habit of pretending to be."

"And yet, you keep me," he counters. "Perhaps you have a soft spot for suspicious things."

"Maybe," Will says, shrugging one shoulder. "Or maybe I’ve just invented a way to live with it. Adaptation, right? Survival, like we said."

Hannibal moves closer, standing beside Will now, their shoulders almost touching. He lets the moment stretch, his gaze flicking between the candles and Will’s profile, the way the warm light catches on the sharp line of his jaw. "And have you found it worth the effort?" he asks quietly. "This invention of yours?"

Will doesn’t answer right away. He lets the question sit in the air, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames as if the answer might be there. Finally, he exhales, shaking his head slightly. "You make it worth it," he says. "Even when you drive me insane. Especially when you drive me insane, actually."

"You give me far too much credit, Will. I suspect you would thrive regardless. You are...remarkably resilient."

Will looks at him then, really looks, his blue eyes sharp but not unkind. "You think so?" 

"I know so," Hannibal says, his voice steady, certain. "Though I admit, I take a selfish satisfaction in knowing that I am part of your resilience. That I have become...a thread in the fabric of your life."

Will shifts his weight, leaning just slightly toward Hannibal. "I guess I can’t argue with that, though. You’re definitely... part of the fabric. Probably the most stubborn thread in the whole damn thing. The one that won’t break no matter how much I tug at it."

Hannibal smiles at that, a real smile that feels rare even to himself. "And what of you, Will?" he asks, his voice softer now. "What thread are you in my life, I wonder?"

Will’s smile fades slightly, replaced by something more thoughtful. "Hopefully the one that keeps it all from unraveling," he says quietly. "Or at least the one that tries."

Hannibal feels his chest tighten again, that same unnamed ache from before. He reaches up, covering Will’s hand with his own, holding it there for a moment. "You do more than try," he says, his voice low and sure. "You succeed, Will. In more ways than I think you realize."

Will doesn’t pull his hand away, but he does glance down, as if the weight of Hannibal’s gaze is too much. "You say that now," he mutters, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "But wait until I start rearranging your bookshelves again. See how resilient you feel then."

"I suppose even love must occasionally endure chaos.” 

Will looks up at him then, his smile growing, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable. "Good thing you’re resourceful."

Will’s head settles on Hannibal’s shoulder as they work together, their fingers busy with the task of decorating the tree, carefully placing and lighting the candles. Tied red bows dangle from the boughs, small pieces of antler and bone, each fragment etched with the memory of shared moments—hunts in the quiet woods, evenings spent in silence, whispers exchanged beneath the autumn moon. 

Every detail of the tree speaks of their love: tender, raw, and fiercely beautiful. 

Hannibal’s mind flits, momentarily caught in a thought he can’t grasp—a fleeting memory of the last Christmas he spent with someone he truly loved. The past holidays had been nothing more than the hollow chime of obligation, echoes of cold, lifeless festivity. A meaningless drone, devoid of substance. But this—this moment, this space between them—is different. 

Hannibal leans just slightly toward Will. “Do you know where the tradition of candles on a tree began?” 

Will doesn’t look away from the candle he’s lighting. “I don’t, but I feel like I’m about to.”

“Martin Luther,” Hannibal says, adjusting a crooked branch so the flame has more room to breathe. “It is said he was walking through the woods one evening and noticed the way the stars seemed to dance between the trees. He found it so beautiful that he wanted to recreate it for his family. So, he brought a tree into his home and lit it with candles.”

Will straightens, turning the match over to extinguish it between his fingers before grabbing another. “That’s… quaint,” he says. “I assume this was before the concept of fire codes.”

Hannibal smiles faintly. “It was. A more romantic time, perhaps.”

“Or reckless.” Will lights another candle, his head tilting slightly as he watches the flame catch. “If I brought a tree inside and tried to set it on fire in the name of family bonding, you’d call it impulsive and irresponsible.”

“Perhaps. But if you explained it to me as an attempt to capture the divine, I might be more forgiving.”

“Martin Luther gets to be inspired. I’d just be the guy who burned the house down.”

“You underestimate yourself.” Hannibal steps closer, his hand brushing Will’s arm as he steadies another candleholder. “There is something inspired in even the smallest acts. The warmth of a flame, the way it transforms a space—these gestures, however small, are meaningful.”

Will glances at him over his shoulder, his expression more open than usual. “You’re really committed.”

“It’s a simple truth. Warmth is light. It’s comfort. It’s life. Without it, what do we have?”

Will considers this as he lights another candle. “I don’t know. Sometimes, too much warmth makes things uncomfortable. Too much heat burns.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal concedes, his gaze following the flickering light. “But it also softens. It transforms. It turns something unyielding into something pliable.”

“You really can’t just say, ‘The candles look nice,’ can you?”

“No. But you already knew that.”

Will rolls his eyes, but there’s no edge to it. “Well, for the record, they do look nice. Warm, even.”

Hannibal glances at the tree, the light casting its reflection on the windows behind it. “They do,” he agrees simply, his voice quieter now. Then, after a pause, he adds, “It suits you.”

Barely the start of December, and yet here they are, immersed in the ritual of decorating a tree that will soon be adorned with new candles once these ones burn out. The wax pools and drips slowly, blurring the stark edges of the candles until they merge seamlessly with the branches, their illumination softening and warming the tree’s silhouette. 

Will’s touch makes Hannibal tremble, a subtle shiver that spreads like the first thaw of spring, a thrill that coils around his chest and sends a surge of warmth flooding through him. Their hands brush as they move, creating sparks that seem to catch and dance between them. In this winter wonderland, hibernation is not an end but a beginning—the paradox of innocence and knowing, of raw, unyielding love.

It lives in the way Will laughs, even when he accidentally burns himself. Will’s hand comes up to press the sting against Hannibal’s lips to kiss away, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt of fire through Hannibal’s veins.

As Hannibal ties the last bow, the maroon lace skirt of the tree smoothed beneath his fingers, he remembers the moment Will first said “I love you,” the words raw and unpolished, and yet perfect in their simplicity. He knows that, come Christmas morning, he will prepare a breakfast of Will’s favorite things—chocolate pancakes with whipped cream. Will’s “fancy coffee”—a cappuccino adorned with a delicate heart in the foam—will be there too.

Will will wake to find the gifts beneath the tree. The wonder on his face as he opens each gift, childlike and pure, will fill Hannibal’s chest with a sharp ache of longing. He will watch, eyes full of the same silent awe, hands slightly trembling, wanting to gather the moment close and keep it safe. It will be love. It will always be love. The miracle of the world is that Hannibal gets to share it with Will—to break bread, hold each other. The snow-covered trees outside no longer speak of death and eternal rest; now, they sing of home—of warm hands, flickering candlelight that dances like a heartbeat.

Will disappears briefly to bring their bottle of whiskey and two glasses, his silhouette framed in the golden light, a figure of mischief and longing. He won’t drink hot chocolate unless it’s from a box, spiked with rum. And Hannibal’s resolve is the same though he refuses to drink it boxed and he won’t drink it alone. Their hands meet as he passes the glass. They sip slowly as they continue their task, the amber liquid warming their mouths, mingling with the scent of pine, winter spice, and the distant hum of the town beyond their window.

After they have drunk their fair share of whiskey and both of them are smiling at each other like a pair of old men who have shared decades together, though they have only a fraction of that time behind them, they are warmed. 

And he watches Will, who is so easy and alive and wild, unfettered in a way he never allowed himself to be before. Will has blossomed in this life they have carved out together, and in return, he has made Hannibal blossom as well. Even though it is winter, a season that should be terrifying with its cold, biting winds and the dark that falls early, it doesn’t feel that way here. He thinks of his sister and her baby teeth, the way she would have loved Will, the way she would have laughed, loud and ringing. She would have danced with Will, as he dances now. And for the first time, he realizes it does not hurt him to think of that. 

What a strange thing. What a beautiful thing.

Will tips his head back, his throat exposed. The whiskey has left his cheeks flushed, and his smile is wide and easy, spilling into his eyes. 

“You’re staring,” Will says. He leans forward, propping his chin on his hand, his eyes glinting with mischief. “What, do I have something on my face? Crumbs, maybe?”

“No crumbs,” Hannibal murmurs. “Just you. You are… radiant tonight.”

Will doesn’t answer immediately. He looks down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid inside, and when he speaks again, his tone has shifted, lighter but no less sincere. “You know what I was just thinking about? Christmas lights. Those old, clunky ones that look like candy. The ones my neighbor used to string up around the porch. They’d burn out half the time, but when they worked…” He trails off, his gaze distant for a moment, then looks back at Hannibal. “They were magic.”

Hannibal tilts his head, considering this. “You liked them because they were flawed.”

Will shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe I just liked how they turned the world into something else. Something softer, warmer. They made even the ugliest houses look… happy.”

Hannibal’s chest tightens at the image, the bittersweet nostalgia in Will’s voice wrapping around him like the glow of those very lights. He takes a sip of his whiskey before responding. “I can imagine you as a child, staring at them for hours. Fixating, as you do.”

“Oh, I’d practically glue myself to the window,” Will admits, his grin widening. “Couldn’t get enough of them. It was like they were alive, you know? Like they were breathing.” He pauses, tilting his head at Hannibal. “I bet you didn’t have anything like that growing up. Too… dignified for colored lights.”

Hannibal smiles faintly, his eyes flicking to the flickering candles. “My childhood was not illuminated in the way yours was, no. But I think I prefer the light I have now.”

Will looks at him for a long moment, his expression shifting from teasing to something softer, deeper. “You know what I love about you?”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, his lips curving slightly. “Do tell.”

Will smirks. “You’re this meticulous, terrifying genius who could probably overthrow entire governments if you felt like it. But here you are, sitting across from me, letting me ramble about Christmas lights like some drunk idiot.”

Will’s hair is a wild, untamed mess of curls, sticking up in every direction like the roots of a tree reaching hungrily for the sky. He is violent and entirely beastly in the most breathtaking way, and Hannibal loves him for it. His hands, those careful, steady hands that have held so many lives, thread through that chaotic hair, smoothing it down only for it to spring back up again, defiant and free. This is life. This is not winter. Love as medicine, love as salve, love as survival.

His husband, who has a bad shoulder that Hannibal rubs with oils that smell of patchouli, calming and grounding. His husband, who works tirelessly, who loves and kills with equal, untamed passion. 

Later, when the candles burn on the Christmas tree and Winston, their faithful companion, is curled up by it, head lifting every time Will laughs—that deep, resonant sound that Hannibal joins in, eager and adoring—Hannibal moves to the record player, picks a vinyl from the stack, and places it on the turntable. 

Nat King Cole’s voice cuts through the space, a smooth and lilting tune, Stay as sweet as you are. Will walks over, presses himself against Hannibal as though he could melt them together like the candles that surround them. Hannibal’s heart feels as though it might burst from the sheer force of it. If meaning is what they make of it, he wants his life’s meaning to be defined by the curve of Will’s back, the way they fit together so perfectly. If they must belong somewhere, it is only to each other.

"You are in a sentimental mood tonight," Hannibal murmurs, his voice low but teasing.

“I guess I am,” Will admits, his chin tilted just slightly upward to meet Hannibal’s gaze. There’s a softness in his expression that makes him seem impossibly younger, a flicker of something unguarded and sweet. “Christmas does that, doesn’t it? Brings out all the sappy parts.”

“I did not know you had sappy parts,” Hannibal teases, though his thumb strokes gently along the ridge of Will’s spine.

“Oh, I do. Just buried under layers of cynicism,” Will retorts, his tone warm, though his expression turns thoughtful as he leans into Hannibal’s touch. “You know… I haven’t thought about this in years, but I remember the first time it snowed in Louisiana. I was a kid. Probably eight or nine.”

Hannibal tilts his head, intrigued. “Snow? In Louisiana? I must confess, I didn’t think such a thing was possible.”

“Yeah, well, neither did anyone else,” Will says, laughing softly. “It was this freak thing—barely even snow by most standards, just this thin, patchy layer of ice that didn’t stick for long. But I remember waking up and seeing it covering the yard, and for a minute, it felt like magic. Like the world had been… I don’t know, reset overnight.”

Hannibal hums, his interest piqued. “Did your father make much of it?”

Will hesitates, and then he nods, his mouth curving into a wry smile. “He tried. I’ll give him that. I think he saw it as some kind of chance to make up for all the regular days he wasn’t worth much. He pulled me outside—didn’t even bother with jackets. Just grabbed me by the arm and said, ‘You’re not gonna miss this, kid.’”

“Not much of a planner, your father,” Hannibal observes.

“No,” Will agrees with a chuckle. “But he made a mean pot of gumbo to warm us up after we came back inside. I’ll give him credit for that. We sat by the space heater, dripping wet, eating soup and watching the snow melt off the roof like it was some kind of miracle.”

“It sounds charming,” Hannibal offers.

“It was,” Will says quietly, surprising Hannibal with the honesty of his tone. “Not the kind of thing you’d write home about, but in that moment, it felt like something. Even if he didn’t get a lot right, he got that one night right.”

Hannibal tightens his hold on Will just slightly, leaning his head down until his lips brush the crown of Will’s hair. “And what of now?” he asks softly. “Does tonight measure up?”

Will tilts his head back, his eyes meeting Hannibal’s, warm and unguarded. “It does. In a completely different way. You’re… better at this than he was.”

Hannibal smiles faintly, though there’s a flicker of something wistful in his gaze. “That is reassuring.”

Will laughs, the sound muffled against Hannibal’s chest. “You’ve got him beat by a mile, don’t worry. You make me feel…” He pauses, searching for the words. “Like I belong. And that’s a kind of magic, too.”

Hannibal presses a kiss to Will’s temple, swaying them gently to the music as the record spins on, repeating its refrain.

Hannibal loves him with every version of the word, in every tense and form. He dreams of dancing with him in Vienna, of grand halls, symphonies swelling to a fever pitch, of nights that stretch into eternity, moments where the stars above seem to hold their breath. But their life is smaller than that, quieter and more intimate, and their dances are the kind that belong only to them. 

Will laughs as Hannibal spins them, laughter that echoes through the room, a sound as bright as the fire. They shuffle together, Will’s feet stepping on Hannibal’s toes with an affectionate, playful insistence, his head resting against Hannibal’s chest, his hand warm on his back. They dance. And because Hannibal loves him so fiercely, three times over, they let the same song play again. And again.

Because he loves him—his heart, his love, his very life—he reads the same book over and over, finding new meaning, new glimpses of truth in its pages each time. Will does the same, though he won’t say it out loud, and Hannibal sees it in the way Will lingers, the way his hands trace over Hannibal’s skin. His fingers tighten into the fabric of Will’s shirt—thin cotton, worn soft with the passing of time—holding on as though releasing him might send him spiraling into a chasm he couldn’t escape. He presses his face into the curve where Will’s neck meets his shoulder, the heat there spilling over his skin, seeping into him. 

“You know,” Hannibal begins, his voice low and thoughtful, “my Christmases were very different from yours. In Lithuania, it was always cold. Bitterly so.”

Will tilts his head, his cheek brushing against Hannibal’s chest. “Cold sounds like Christmas to me. Or at least what it’s supposed to be. Not much room for sleigh bells and snowmen in Louisiana. Just mosquitos and bad Christmas lights strung up on swamp oaks.”

Hannibal smiles softly at the image. “In my youth, Christmas was picturesque. The trees outside heavy with snow, the windows frosted over like lace. My parents made every effort to ensure the season was grand. Anything I wanted, I had—fine toys, books, music. But I confess, what I treasured most wasn’t what was given to me. It was my sister’s joy.”

“Mischa,” Will says, his voice quiet, almost reverent.

“Yes.” Hannibal says. “She was young, still full of wonder. I took great pride in playing the role of St. Nicholas for her. I would hide gifts around the house, make her search for them. Sometimes they were simple things—a doll, sweets I had saved my allowance to buy. But her excitement, the way her eyes would light up…” His voice trails off, and his hand settles more firmly against Will’s back, grounding himself. “I cherished her happiness more than anything else. It made the cold feel less… cruel.”

Will pulls back just enough to look up at him, his brows drawn together, his gaze searching. “Is Christmas still cold for you?” he asks, his voice careful, almost too careful.

Hannibal pauses, his hand rising to brush a stray curl from Will’s forehead, his fingers lingering there. “No,” he says softly, his tone resolute. “Not anymore.”

Will’s lips twitch into a faint smile, but there’s something in his expression—something tender and fragile, as though he’s trying not to let the words mean too much. “Good,” he says simply.

Hannibal leans in, pressing a kiss to Will’s forehead, then his temple, before settling his cheek against the soft wave of his hair. “You’ve made the season warm, Will. You’ve made it… alive again.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a roaring fire. More like one of those space heaters—small and a little unreliable, but I get the job done.”

“You’re far more than that,” Hannibal says.

For a moment, Will doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, his blue eyes shining faintly in the soft light of the candles. “Guess we’re both pretty good at this.”

“I would say we’ve done quite well.”

“You ever think about what it’d be like if we’d met as kids?” Will asks suddenly.

Hannibal tilts his head, considering it. “I suspect we wouldn’t have gotten along.”

Will snorts softly. “Oh, I know we wouldn’t have. You’d have been this prim little aristocrat, probably correcting my grammar every time I opened my mouth.”

“And you,” Hannibal counters smoothly, one brow lifting, “would have been a wild, feral child, tracking mud through my home and delighting in upsetting the order of things.”

Will grins, his teeth flashing in the low light. “You would’ve hated me.”

“No,” Hannibal says, shaking his head with a faint smile. “I would have pretended to hate you. Outwardly, I would have bemoaned your unruly nature, but secretly, I think I would have found you… fascinating. Frustrating, certainly. But fascinating.”

Will’s grin softens into something more thoughtful, and he tilts his head. “I’d have thought you were some kind of alien. All fancy and put together, like you dropped out of a Christmas card or something. I’d have made it my mission to make you loosen up.”

“And how would you have accomplished that?” Hannibal asks, his voice tinged with amusement.

Will shrugs. “Probably would’ve dragged you out into the woods. Made you help me build a tree fort or something. Get some dirt under your nails, teach you how to skip rocks. Show you how to be a kid.”

Hannibal hums, his hands resting lightly at Will’s waist. “And in return, I might have tried to refine your rough edges. Teach you how to play chess, perhaps. Expand your literary horizons. Though I suspect you’d have feigned disinterest at every turn.”

“Feign?” Will laughs, his voice deep and warm. “I’d have told you to save your poetry for the birds and probably called you pretentious.”

“And I would have been undeterred. Every version of you, Will—feral or otherwise—has always been worthy of my patience. My affection.”

Will’s teasing expression falters for a moment, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable. “Even kid me?” he asks. “Even the little brat who didn’t know how to let people in?”

“Especially him,” Hannibal says firmly, his fingers tracing small, absent circles at the small of Will’s back. “I would have loved him as I love you now—fully, without hesitation. I would have seen what he didn’t yet see in himself. I would have waited for him to find it.”

Will’s throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes bright and searching. “You would’ve been a weird kid,” he says finally.

Hannibal laughs softly, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of Will’s head. “And you would have been incorrigible. But I would have adored you all the same.”

“Guess it’s a good thing we didn’t meet back then,” Will says. “We probably would’ve driven each other crazy.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal agrees, his lips brushing against Will’s temple. “But I like to think that, even then, we would have found our way to each other. In some form or another.”

“And you say I’m the one in a sentimental mood tonight.” Will murmurs. 

This warmth, the steady thrum of life beneath his cheek, is enough to make Hannibal believe he is thawing, that the frost that once claimed him has retreated. There is no threat of frostbite here, only this.

“The cold,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, reflective. “It makes me feel... stripped bare. Raw in a way I cannot escape. As though every part of me is exposed, every nerve touched by it.” He pauses, tilting his head, his gaze catching Will’s. “I think that’s why I cannot seem to stop talking. Or thinking.”

Will hums. “You don’t like feeling out of control,” he says. “But I think you thrive in it more than you let on. The rawness suits you.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies Will’s hand in his hair, the way the calluses brush against his scalp. When he finally speaks again, his voice is low and deliberate, each word carefully chosen, heavy with longing.

“I wish again to think of dangerous and noble things,” Hannibal begins. “I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbably beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though I had wings.”

Will leans closer, his forehead almost brushing Hannibal’s, his voice a quiet affirmation when it comes. “You are all those things,” he says, his fingers slipping gently through the strands of Hannibal’s hair. “Even when you feel raw. Even when you feel like the cold has taken everything from you. You’re dangerous, and noble, and light, even when you can’t see it.”

Hannibal watches him. “You romanticize me, Will.”

“I tell you the truth,” Will counters easily, his fingers trailing down to rest at the nape of Hannibal’s neck. “I think you need to hear it tonight, so I’ll keep saying it.”

For a moment, Hannibal closes his eyes, letting himself sink into the words, the warmth of Will’s touch, the quiet certainty in his tone. “And what will you say tomorrow?” 

“I’ll say it again tomorrow,” he says. “And the next day. And the day after that. Until you believe me.”

Hannibal breathes in the promise of those words, lets them sink deep into the cracks that have formed over years of solitude and doubt, and he believes them—not because it is easy, but because it’s Will. Because Will would never lie to him, not about this.

The song plays again, and Hannibal wonders how something so simple can carry so much weight. He thinks it may be his favorite now, not because of the melody itself but because of the moment it threads itself through. It becomes theirs in the same way light becomes the day. By the window where Will leads him, Hannibal finally receives a gift that outshines candlelight and hearth fire: the sun itself, burning in the form of Will’s body. 

Will is luminous, glowing not from the pale winter outside but from something within, something so vibrant and alive it makes Hannibal’s chest ache. Between the fading days of November and the sharp bite of December, Hannibal does not dread the grey bleakness of winter anymore. There is no room for such dread when this exists—when Will exists.

The room itself is golden. Will’s skin takes on that same burnished hue, glowing as he stands close, close enough that Hannibal can feel the warmth of him even before their hands meet. Will lifts a hand, to undo Hannibal’s tie. His lips are wet, glistening from the whiskey, swollen and red like ripe peaches, like cranberries crushed between fingers. Hannibal stares, entranced, caught in the spell of those lips, every detail of them seared into his mind—the way the corner of his mouth twitches, the faint sheen of moisture, the almost imperceptible tremor of breath that escapes him. Hannibal feels the pull of it, gravity itself rewritten in Will’s favor.

“Kiss me, please,” Will says, his voice soft but firm, a challenge as much as an invitation. 

Hannibal raises a hand to the back of Will’s neck, his palm pressing against the warm skin there. He closes the distance, capturing Will’s mouth in a kiss that feels like the first and the last, endless in its perfection. Will’s lips are supple and eager, responding with a hunger that matches Hannibal’s own. His hands are both gentle and wild, tracing Hannibal’s frame, undoing the buttons of his shirt with practiced precision. The shirt slides from Hannibal’s shoulders, pooling at his feet, but he doesn’t shiver from the cold. The cold doesn’t reach him anymore. 

Will’s palms press against the bare skin of Hannibal’s back, warm—no, impossibly hot. Hotter than memory, hotter than the pain that marks Hannibal’s scars. Will’s touch sears, soothing and claiming all at once. 

Will’s hands shift, sliding along Hannibal’s waist. He presses his face into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, his breath steady and warm. “You always sound so poetic when you talk about pain,” Will murmurs, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below Hannibal’s ear. “But it’s just winter. Just another cold season like any other.”

The words sink into Hannibal like stones. “I did not expect to survive,” he admits. “I did not expect to waken again. To feel, in damp earth, my body able to respond. Remembering, after so long, how to open again in the cold light of earliest spring—”

His voice falters, trembling like a cord pulled too tight, and Will’s hand moves, settling firmly over Hannibal’s chest, just above his heart. “You did, though,” Will says simply. “And I think you’ve done more than survive, even if you don’t realize it yet.”

Hannibal exhales sharply, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You make it sound so simple, Will.”

“It is,” Will replies, his lips curving into a faint smile as he rests his forehead against Hannibal’s. “It’s winter, but we’re here. Warm, together. What’s complicated about that?”

Hannibal lets his hand drift down to rest against Will’s, holding it over his chest. “Nothing,” he says softly. “And everything.”

“I think you overthink warmth,” Will says. “It doesn’t have to mean so much, you know. Sometimes it’s just sitting close enough to someone to feel their heat. Or wearing thick socks. Or drinking something too hot and burning your tongue because you’re impatient.”

“That is a particularly American pragmatism, to strip warmth of its metaphorical weight and render it so… domestic.”

“It’s not pragmatism,” Will counters, leaning back enough to look at him, his expression soft but serious. “It’s survival. You talk about warmth like it’s this rare, poetic thing, like you don’t deserve it unless you’ve bled for it. But you don’t have to earn it, Hannibal. Sometimes it’s just… there.”

“It has never felt so simple to me. Not until you. Warmth has always been something I chased, something elusive. It is not in my nature to trust what comes easily.”

Will tilts his head, studying him, his fingers tracing a slow path up to Hannibal’s jaw. “That’s your problem,” he says, his voice soft but unyielding. “You don’t trust it, so you don’t let yourself feel it. Even now, you’re bracing for something to take it away. Aren’t you?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer immediately. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant. “I am not accustomed to the idea of permanence. Warmth fades. Light gives way to shadow.”

Will’s hand tightens slightly against his chest, a subtle reassurance. “I haven’t left,” he says simply. “And I won’t. Not unless you tell me to.”

Hannibal’s lips part, but the weight of those words lodges in his throat, making it difficult to respond. Instead, he exhales, a sound that is part laugh, part release, and presses his forehead against Will’s. “Never,” he says.

“Never?” 

“Never,” Hannibal says again. “I would never tell you to leave, Will. I—” He hesitates. “I find I need you far too much.”

Will’s lips twitch into a smile that feels boyish, warm, the kind of smile that softens every sharp line of his face. “I’m glad you finally admitted it,” he says, and there’s something playful in his tone now, something light. “You’re terrible at asking for what you need, you know.”

Hannibal hums, the sound deep in his chest, his fingers idly tracing the line of Will’s jaw. “Perhaps. But you seem to anticipate it so well, I wonder if I truly need to.”

Will chuckles softly, leaning into the touch, his eyes bright with quiet affection. “You’re lucky I don’t make you work for it,” he says.

“I am,” Hannibal agrees, his voice low, almost reverent, as he lets his hand drift to cup the side of Will’s face. His thumb brushes across Will’s cheek, a small, absent gesture that feels as natural as breathing. “Very lucky. Though I might argue that it is you who makes it so.”

“And here I was trying to keep this conversation normal,” Will says, his tone dry but affectionate as he leans in to kiss Hannibal, slow and unhurried.

Hannibal smiles against his lips, letting the kiss deepen just enough to silence any further protests. “Normal,” he murmurs when they part, his voice soft and amused. “That is one thing I don’t believe we will ever be.”

Will laughs, low and easy. “Good,” he says, his eyes drifting shut as he breathes him in. “Normal’s overrated.”

Yes it is. He is Hannibal’s strange love, who comes home smelling faintly of petroleum and the day’s labor, with grease etched into the creases of his fingernails. His love, who speaks of summer lilacs and apple blossoms they ought to plant, of dinner parties they should host, as if such plans could keep the world soft and full of beauty. Later, they rub each other for hours with tenderness and genuine olive oil, Will groaning about how he never wants to fall off a cliff again—and Hannibal, quietly, would tumble over a thousand more if Will only asked.

His love, who insists on eating Hannibal’s spaghetti on his favorite cracked plate, claiming it tastes better that way. Who washes his hands afterward and comes to him, roughened palms gentle as they rest against Hannibal’s skin. Will praises the meal with his easy, unguarded smile, and Hannibal, in turn, praises his callouses.

Will lowers them to the floor, the same floor where they had danced, and now where they touch. The wood is cool beneath Hannibal, grounding him as Will leans over him. 

Will smiles and traces a line down Hannibal’s neck, following the curve of his collarbone to his shoulder and then down his arm. Hannibal’s breath hitches, a sharp intake that feels like wax melting against skin, seeping into every pore. Will’s hands move lower, skimming the curve of his bicep, down his forearm. His touch lingers over the lines raised along Hannibal’s wrists. Will’s fingers find Hannibal’s, where they lie lax, and place them just so.

Will’s hips roll once, a vague promise that sends a shiver through Hannibal, one of need and longing. Will’s hands press against Hannibal’s stomach, his palms sliding over the soft hair there. His touch is sunlight, blazing and consuming, a torment so pleasurable it makes Hannibal ache with it, makes him want.

“Sometimes,” Hannibal begins, his words slow, deliberate, “I think I would eat you if I could.”

Will doesn’t flinch. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, curious, as though Hannibal has just said something as natural as commenting on the weather. Hannibal continues, his tone smooth, tinged with something reverent.

“There is a witch in a story who ate a girl she loved,” he says. “And always afterwards, when she spoke, flowers fell out of her open mouth. I would swallow you whole, Will, and you would be lobelia on my tongue for the rest of my life.”

Will’s lips curve, not quite a smile but something softer, something knowing. “Lobelia,” he repeats, his voice quiet. “Poisonous, isn’t it?”

“Only in excess,” Hannibal replies. “In small doses, it is medicinal.”

Will huffs a soft laugh, his thumb brushing over the back of Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal’s hand moves to rest over Will’s chest, his palm warm against the steady beat of his heart. 

Will watches him for a long moment, his gaze steady. “You’d want to carry me with you forever,” he says, his voice quiet but sure.

“Yes,” Hannibal says simply.

Will lets the words hang between them for a moment, the fire crackling softly in the background. Then he leans in, his nose brushing against Hannibal’s, his voice a murmur. 

“You already do, you know.”

Hannibal’s brow furrows, just slightly, and Will continues, his hand sliding down to rest against Hannibal’s chest. “I’m in you, Hannibal. The way you think of me when you cook, the way you notice every small thing about me. I can feel it every time you look at me, every time you ask me if I’ve eaten or make me something special. You don’t need to eat me to carry me with you—I’m already there.”

Hannibal’s expression softens, and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to Will’s lips, slow and lingering. When he pulls back, his voice is lower, almost a whisper. “You see me,” he says, almost in wonder.

“I do,” Will replies, his gaze steady. 

Hannibal’s hand moves to cradle Will’s face, his thumb brushing gently over his cheek. “You are the rarest of men, Will Graham,” he murmurs. “To see me and not turn away.”

Will smiles faintly, leaning into the touch. “I think you’d be disappointed if I were anything less.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal concedes, though his smile grows, warm and genuine. “And yet, I would not wish for any other life than this—here, with you.”

Hannibal watches Will—his Will—and thinks he will always want him. He will always want him. He will always find him in the spaces between breaths, in the silence between heartbeats, in the moments where time seems to stand still, suspended in the golden glow of Will’s presence.

One hand splays against the back of Will’s head, nails barely brushing his scalp. His other hand slides up to hold Will’s hips properly, to shift them in another languid circle against him. Hannibal’s free hand slides to settle just behind Will’s knee, holding there with a firm yet tender grip, his thumb stroking over the curve of Will’s thigh in slow motions. Will rolls his hips again, heavy and slow, a movement that sends a feeling through Hannibal like freefall.

Hannibal sets his other hand to mirror the first, fingers pressing into Will’s skin. He uses the leverage to draw Will higher up his body, leaning up to part his lips near Will’s, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. But instead of kissing him again, Hannibal nuzzles against him, his nose brushing along the line of Will’s jaw. Will makes a little sound at this, something caught between a sigh and a hum, his hands still splayed against Hannibal’s stomach. They press upwards, the firm drag of his palms deliberate as they climb to Hannibal’s chest, his fingertips tracing over the ridges of his ribs beneath. 

Will turns his cheek against Hannibal’s mouth, his lips parting in a brief, breathy laugh that is more felt than heard. His hand slides up over Hannibal’s shoulder, his arm draping there as his palm presses along Hannibal’s back, feeling the shift of muscles with each subtle movement of their hips. 

Will delights in this, his face flushed bright, his eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy with contentment. He sinks his arms around Hannibal’s neck, drawing their mouths together again in a kiss that is simple and sweet. Hannibal smiles, allowing it, pressing his forehead to Will’s when the kiss ends and begins again and again. He keeps his eyes downcast, his hands sliding to the front of Will’s pants, fingers working carefully at the belt to undo it. 

Goosebumps rise along Will’s arms. Will presses closer still, his arms wound so tightly around Hannibal’s neck that his fingers tangle in Hannibal’s hair. Will sighs against Hannibal’s mouth, briefly catching his lower lip between his teeth. A small, eager sound escapes him, curling on a breathless exhale. It is the first suggestion of a more pressing need, a hint of something deeper as Hannibal teases him, as Will teases him in return with another languorous movement of his hips, drawing himself against Hannibal’s hardness with deliberate slowness.

This body, beloved and familiar, a compass and a polestar. To hear the quiet rhythm of Will’s breathing is to be reminded that he is alive, and by extension, that Hannibal is alive because of him, because they are here, together. When one moves, the other moves. 

Hannibal keeps his eyes on Will’s as the younger man spreads his thighs a little wider, settling closer with a graceful arch of his back. He moves slowly, sliding the pants lower, revealing inch by inch of Will’s skin without once letting his gaze stray. He watches as Will’s throat works to swallow, as his pupils darken and widen, like the night sky unfolding before him. Will tilts his chin up slightly, his breath catching as the fabric slips lower still, rubbing just enough against his hard cock to draw a gasp from his parted lips. 

“You’re crying again,” Will whispers, his tone light but not unkind. The words land like a touch, soft and teasing, filled with a fondness that feels as if it could melt between them. “You always do this. I should start keeping track—how many times is this now?”

Hannibal exhales sharply, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, and his hands falter against Will’s waist. His eyes remain downcast, heavy-lidded with a mix of emotion and the heat of their closeness. “I cannot help it,” he murmurs, his voice trembling at the edges. His accent thickens as he speaks, like it always does when his emotions run too deep for him to disguise. “It overwhelms me, Will. You overwhelm me.”

Will smiles at that, something soft and crooked, endearing in its imperfection. His eyes search Hannibal’s face, taking in every detail—the tear-streaked cheeks, the trembling lips.

“Well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” Will teases, his voice dipping into a lower, quieter register. “If I can’t overwhelm you, what am I even doing here?” His grin widens, just a touch mischievous, but his hands remain steady, grounding Hannibal in their warmth. “What are you crying about this time? You know I can’t fix it unless you tell me.”

Hannibal lets out a breath that sounds too much like a sob, and his hands tighten their hold on Will as though he might disappear. “It is not sadness,” he says, almost defensively, his voice breaking slightly. “It is… too much. Too much love. Too much you. I—” He falters, his lips pressing into a thin line as he shakes his head, unable to find the words.

Will’s expression softens further, and he leans in, pressing his forehead to Hannibal’s, their noses brushing. “There’s no such thing as too much love, Hannibal,” he whispers. “Not for me. Not for us.” He pauses, letting the words settle between them like the weight of their bodies. “But there is such a thing as too much crying during sex. You’re starting to make me feel guilty.”

That earns him a quiet laugh from Hannibal, a sound muffled by the way his face presses against Will’s shoulder. “You could never break me again,” Hannibal says, the words a quiet vow. “You only build me, Will.”

Will blinks rapidly, his own eyes threatening to glisten, but he hides it by leaning closer, brushing his lips over the shell of Hannibal’s ear. “You’re safe now,” he says. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. There’s nothing out there that can hurt you—not while I’m here.  Never.”

His Saint Sebastian, Hannibal thinks, his bird of paradise. With his love, he could have filled ten centuries of fire and song and valor. Ten whole centuries, enormous and winged, alive with knights scaling blazing hills, legends of giants and fierce Troys, orange sails over uncharted seas, pirates and poets. All of it pales in comparison to the touch between them now. Hannibal imagines cathedrals built from their love, spires that pierce the heavens, yet it is here, in this simple room bathed in golden light, that he feels closer to the divine than ever before.

Hannibal’s hands slide lower, grazing the waistband of Will’s pants, then slipping just beneath to find the curve of his ass. His fingers skim the delicate skin where it meets his thighs, an unspoken promise in the light touch. Will shifts, his body leaning into Hannibal, chasing his mouth with quiet insistence. Their lips brush again, soft and searching, and a little noise escapes Will, unbidden, caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

Hannibal answers with a kiss, a lingering, deep thing that feels endless. Hannibal kisses him until he’s dizzy with it, until the world narrows to just this, the taste of Will, the press of him. Then he pulls back, just enough to press his cheek to Will’s, sliding one hand between them. His touch is deliberate, fingers stroking over Will’s cock through the smooth fabric, and he revels in the soft gasps that escape against his skin. Will’s hips press more insistently, seeking, responding, a quiet plea that Hannibal answers without hesitation.

Will is beautiful. Hannibal thinks of Dante. Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore, e sol ivi con voi rimansi amore. Every other thought falls away; only love remains here with you. He loved Will first, deeply and enduringly, but Will’s love, sudden and soaring, outstripped his own in its intensity. Hannibal had loved and guessed at Will, piecing together fragments of the man beneath the surface, but Will’s love was whole and all-seeing, a light that revealed and transformed. Hannibal feels himself reflected in that light, not as he was but as he could be.

Yet to weigh or measure love is a folly. Love is not a tally of mine and thine, not a ledger of giving and receiving. It is indivisible, infinite. In Will, there is nothing that is not Hannibal’s; in Hannibal, nothing that is not Will’s. They are each the whole of the other, entwined in a bond that knows no separation, no division. 

Hannibal’s fingers glide lower, slipping beneath the loosened waistband. His palm meets the warm, living curve of Will’s hip, his fingertips brushing the delicate ridge of bone there, and he pauses just long enough to absorb the weight of the moment. 

Will’s attention shifts downward, his gaze heavy-lidded and dark with unspoken want, following every subtle movement of Hannibal’s hand. His breath catches, the soft sound barely audible but powerful enough to shatter the quiet around them. Hannibal's fingers stroke over his cock, slow and purposeful, the thin layer of fabric between them teasing rather than concealing. It is a barrier that both separates and draws them closer, the friction amplifying every touch, every brush of Hannibal’s fingertips.

A small, involuntary gasp slips from Will’s throat as Hannibal’s wrist turns, the motion slow, deliberate, a promise held in each fraction of a second. Will’s hand drifts to his waistband, his thumb hooking beneath the fabric with an unhurried grace. The subtle shift of his hips as he pushes the material down is mesmerizing. Hannibal leans back slightly as his hands move to help, careful and steady as he divests Will of the last barriers between them.

Will shifts closer, his knees brushing against Hannibal’s thighs, his toes curling lightly against Hannibal’s legs in an unthinking gesture of intimacy. 

The kisses come more frequently now, soft at first, like reassurances whispered between breaths. Each one lingers a little longer, growing in fervor, until they are more than reassurances—they are claims. Hannibal’s hands roam freely now, mapping the expanse of Will’s naked back and hips. His hands settle lower, spreading wide against the curve of Will’s entrance, his touch warm and sure. Will shudders, a groan spilling from his lips, soft and unguarded.

Will shifts against Hannibal, sliding a palm against the fabric of his briefs. His hand presses firmly, eliciting a low, quiet sigh from Hannibal, the sound rich with satisfaction and anticipation. Will’s fingers curl around him through the fabric, his movements slow and purposeful, savoring every inch of the moment. His palm rubs with exquisite care against the pleasing fullness there, feeling the heat, the subtle twitch of movement beneath his touch.

“Beautiful,” Will breathes, hardly enough voice in his sigh to form the word passed between their mouths, his turn to feed the praise he so often hears back to Hannibal now in return. Will’s voice is a soft murmur against Hannibal’s ear as his fingers work with practiced slowness, teasing in the most tender way.

“You like that, don't you?" he coos, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Hannibal’s neck. “You like when I take my time.” 

Hannibal’s head falls back slightly, eyes closing as he fights to maintain control. He cannot help the small, strangled noise that slips from him. "You make it impossible not to," he responds, his voice strained, but the admission is truthful. 

“Mm, I know. You’re so easy for me, Hannibal. Always have been.” His voice drops lower, filled with affection and something mischievous. “You’re so pretty when you’re undone for me. All flushed and trembling. Like this…” He presses his palm harder, coaxing another sigh from Hannibal, the sound escaping his lips like a secret.

Hannibal opens his eyes then, his gaze half-lidded with a mixture of pleasure and frustration, looking directly at Will, who is smiling at him with that damnably confident, yet tender, look in his eyes. "You always tease me," Hannibal mutters, though the words are softer than usual, edged with longing. 

Will leans in, brushing his lips over Hannibal’s temple in a kiss that is pure sweetness, before he whispers, “I love making you lose control, Hannibal. It’s my favorite thing. You know that, right?” He nips lightly at Hannibal’s ear, the playful spark in his voice evident. “I love the way you can’t help it.” 

“I’ve never been careful with you,” Hannibal admits, his fingers curling into the skin at Will’s back, urging him closer. “Not with you.”

Will’s lips brush against his once more, slow and lingering. “I love you,” he murmurs against Hannibal’s lips, his breath a warm whisper. “Like this. In this moment. Nothing more, nothing less. Just us.”

Hannibal’s hands come up, fingers splaying against the curve of Will’s back, just below his shoulder blades. He turns them gently, guiding Will down as Hannibal moves to rest over him. 

A white rose, celestial silence. The bed-like inner thigh of Will, like empyrean buttermilk and gold. Heaven reheavens. Hannibal’s thoughts scatter into poetry, unbidden and indulgent, each fragment of Will’s beauty demanding to be worshiped. Somewhere in this country, Hannibal thinks, there must be a mountain that carries Will’s name. He imagines his own soul as the snow clinging to its peak, pure and fleeting, destined to vanish with the first touch of summer’s warmth. 

All he wants is to lay his head down on the naked slope of Will’s chest, to listen for his own heartbeat there. He will. He will.

Their hips shift together with growing purpose now, friction sparking heat between them. Their breathing grows harsher, the kisses turning messier, sloppier, until they’re barely brushing lips, sharing the same air. Will clings to Hannibal, his arms winding lazily around his neck, his hips moving with an eager urgency. Each shift brings them closer, the press of their bodies meeting again and again, chasing the heat that coils tighter with every passing second. Hannibal loves him still—his hands, his wrists, his neck, his mouth. The warmth of him, the way his pulse leaps beneath Hannibal’s lips, the undeniable proof of his vitality.

Will’s mind is as vivid as his body, labyrinthine and fertile, alive with thoughts that Hannibal can almost see as clearly as if they were written on his skin. He is loaded with adoration for everything Will contains, for every impulse that gusts through him like a sudden windstorm. Will’s leg wraps around him, drawing him closer, anchoring him in place. When Will arches upward with a soft, pleased sound, Hannibal feels every part of him—the press of his chest and stomach and hips, the softness of his skin. 

Their lengths press together, flushed and damp with heat, and Will tilts his face into Hannibal’s touch, turning to press a kiss against the palm that cradles him. Slowly, Will reaches down, his hand slipping between them to touch himself, fingers pressing against the sensitive skin of his opening. A quiet noise escapes him, soft and breathless, his lips parting around the sound. His hooded eyes meet Hannibal’s, a grin catching at the corners, lazy and inviting.

He is beautiful—so achingly, devastatingly beautiful. Needy and relaxed, almost wanton in the way he moves, his body pliant and eager beneath Hannibal’s touch. Hannibal couldn’t look away if he tried, his gaze fixed on the way Will’s chest rises and falls, the way his lips part in soft gasps, the way his eyes gleam.

“Tell me you love me,” Will says. His tone is quiet but sure, the words carrying a weight that makes Hannibal’s chest tighten.

Hannibal pulls back slightly, just enough to look into Will’s eyes, and he nods. 

“I love you,” he says.

“How?” Will asks, his voice soft but insistent. “How do you love me?”

Hannibal’s hand cups Will’s face, his thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “Love hides in questions,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You cannot ask a thing without revealing yourself. When I ask you, how was your day? what I mean is, I hope it was good, because your happiness matters to me.”

Will’s lips twitch, the faintest trace of a smile. “You ask me that all the time,” he murmurs. “Almost every day.”

“I do,” Hannibal says, the corners of his mouth curving slightly. “And when I ask, when can I see you again? I am saying, I need to see you, because your absence feels like hunger.”

Will huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re always so dramatic.”

“Am I?” Hannibal’s brow lifts slightly, his gaze warm but intent. “When I ask, do you feel safe with me? what I mean is, I feel safest when you are near.”

“I do feel safe with you,” Will admits, his voice quieter now. “Even when I shouldn’t.”

Hannibal smiles faintly at that, tilting his head to kiss the corner of Will’s mouth before continuing. “When I ask, what is your favorite color? I am saying, I want to fill your world with everything that brings you joy. And when I ask, did you eat? what I am truly saying is, I love you.”

Will lets out a slow breath, his fingers resuming their gentle motion through Hannibal’s hair. “You ask me that too,” he says. “Every day.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agrees softly. “I love you when I bring you the bread you like. When I leave you to your solitude but make sure you find what you need when you’re ready.” He pauses, his thumb brushing over Will’s cheek. “I love you when I cook for you, Will. When I spend hours perfecting a dish not for its flavor but for the smile it might bring to your face.”

Will shakes his head slightly, his lips curving into something between a smile and a grimace. “You don’t have to do all that.”

“But I want to,” Hannibal says firmly, his voice soft but unyielding. “I love you in every cut I make, in every spice I measure. I love you when I remember you don’t like peppers, when I make your favorite dish, or when I prepare something new because I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

Will swallows, his throat working visibly as he meets Hannibal’s gaze. “I love you too,” he says, his voice breaking slightly. “I love you by keeping you warm.”

Hannibal swallows. “What do you mean?”

Will exhales softly, his hand moving to rest against Hannibal’s neck. “I light the fire because I know you’ll sit by it. I make sure the blankets are always where you can reach them. I draw your bath when it’s cold. I bring you tea, just the way you like it, even when you don’t ask. I notice when you shiver, and I hold you closer.” He hesitates, his voice dropping lower. “I watch you, Hannibal, not only because I want to control you, but because I want to take care of you. I want to make sure you’re safe, that you’re warm, that you have what you need.”

Hannibal ducks his head, kisses beneath Will’s chin, over his throat, feels it shift in swallows, with panted breaths as Will presses his fingers deeper, works himself open beneath Hannibal as he just waits, lets him. It’s the most beautiful vulnerability, watching Will do it, feeling him shiver with it, arch up and seek more from it. 

Hannibal marvels at every subtle movement—the way Will’s chest rises and falls, the way his fingers curl slightly as he stretches himself further. He kisses the sounds from Will’s lips when he makes them, when they grow more desperate, soft gasps and sighs.

He allows the quiet ‘please,’ that Will gasps against him, eyes closed and throat bared, and shifts to spread Will a little more before slowly pressing in. There is a moment suspended, like the pause between heartbeats, and in that space, Hannibal finds something eternal. The way their bodies fit together, the heat of skin against skin, the gentle tremble of anticipation in Will’s frame. 

Liminal spaces, the darkness of each other’s mouths as they peer inside looking for the parts that make them love each other, and they are there, always there. Warm inside like fire, and Will is beautiful—his face flushed, his curls damp against his temple, his lips parted with breathless need. 

Will shifts his hips to stir Hannibal to movement and dragging a leg up to hook over his thigh. They share a low groan as Hannibal moves in a languid stroke inside of him. He touches Hannibal’s mouth as he kisses him, fingertips pressed against the corners of his lips when they join eagerly together, heat building between them, their breaths hitching in unison. They move slowly, savoring the motion, the friction, each other, before Hannibal finally pulls away.

Another shift, another bend, and Will’s hands scrabble against Hannibal’s shoulders, no longer as gentle; desperate and hard. Hannibal’s hips rock with a deliberate, measured rhythm, his arms tight with strain that courses from the tendons in his fingers, through his shoulders, and lower still, muscles flexing with each motion. His hands drift, firm and reverent. They pause just briefly at Will’s waist before sliding back up, strong palms grazing his sides, and then Hannibal pushes in deeper. He feels Will shudder beneath him, every nerve attuned to the way Will's body reacts, how the wet heat between them builds and binds them in ways that words never could. Will’s cock, slick with need, presses between their stomachs, smearing traces of him in the small space where their bodies meet.

“Fuck,” Will groans, his voice wrecked, his head tipping back as his body bucks against Hannibal’s. “You—God, you’re so deep. I can feel you everywhere, Hannibal. Like you’re inside my fucking soul.” His thighs tighten around Hannibal’s hips, pulling him impossibly closer, his breath coming in ragged bursts. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

Hannibal’s pace quickens, his movements losing some of their restraint, the control he prides himself on unraveling under the heat of Will’s voice, the way his body reacts—clenching, trembling, so exquisitely responsive. 

Will’s hands slip lower, fingers clutching at Hannibal’s ass, urging him on, demanding more. “You feel so good,” Will gasps, his voice breaking on the last word. His lips find Hannibal’s jaw, teeth grazing before he bites down, hard enough to send a jolt of heat straight through Hannibal’s core. “God, you’re perfect.”

Hannibal’s lips crash against Will’s in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger, tongues tangling as their bodies press tighter, the space between them vanishing. He thrusts deeper, harder, driving into Will with a force that makes the younger man cry out, his nails digging into Hannibal’s skin, leaving stinging trails in their wake. The sound Will makes—half moan, half sob—spurs Hannibal on, his hips snapping with a rhythm that’s as relentless as it is precise.

“Hannibal,” Will gasps again, his voice desperate, broken. His head tilts forward, his forehead pressing against Hannibal’s as his breath fans hot across his lips. “You’re—fuck, you’re destroying me. I can’t think, can’t do anything but feel you—feel this. You’re—” His words dissolve into a shuddering moan as Hannibal shifts his angle, hitting something that makes Will’s entire body arch, his hands scrabbling for purchase against Hannibal’s back. “There. Right there. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Hannibal whines, his body moving with unrelenting purpose, every thrust designed to draw Will closer to the edge. The slick heat between them binds them together, sweat and need merging until they’re indistinguishable, their bodies moving in perfect, desperate sync. Hannibal’s hands return to Will’s waist, his grip bruising now as he pulls him down onto each thrust, deeper, harder, until Will’s voice is nothing but gasps and curses.

Little sounds escape Hannibal—soft, almost shy moans that seem too gentle for what they’re doing but no less full of meaning. The rhythm between them builds slowly at first—languid thrusts that stretch time until it feels infinite. But soon, it becomes something more ardent. Will clings to Hannibal, his hands fisting in dark hair, his nails scratching faint lines down Hannibal’s back that sting in the best way. 

And then it happens—Hannibal feels Will coiling beneath him, trembling on the precipice, his breath coming in ragged sobs. There’s a moment of quiet before the storm, the world narrowing to the sound of Will gasping his name, a desperate, reverent plea. Hannibal kisses him then, hard and unyielding, pressing him back as he drives into him with renewed fervor. 

Will comes undone with a cry, his body shuddering beneath Hannibal’s as he finds release. His fingers curl tightly in Hannibal’s hair, holding him in place as the world tilts and spins. Hannibal follows moments later, the heat and pull of Will’s pleasure drawing his own from him in a rush that leaves him trembling. His body collapses against Will’s, his forehead resting on Will’s shoulder as he catches his breath.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of their breathing, heavy and mingling in the stillness of the room. Will presses soft  kisses to Hannibal’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat, the warmth of his skin. Hannibal smiles faintly, his lips brushing against Will’s damp curls as he nuzzles closer, content to simply exist in this moment.

His hand drifts lazily, tracing the planes of Will’s chest and stomach as though committing every detail to memory. Each touch is tender, unhurried, an unspoken vow to cherish the man beneath him. Hannibal shifts, rolling onto his side and taking Will with him, their legs tangling together in a mess of warmth. The faint glow of sweat on their skin catches the dim light, turning them into something otherworldly, as if they’ve been sculpted from starlight itself.

In the quiet aftermath, Hannibal looks at Will, his expression softening into something indescribable. He doesn’t speak—there’s no need. Everything he feels is there in the way his fingers trail down Will’s arm, the way his dark eyes drink him in like he’s a miracle.

But isn’t that the miracle? Home—a place that doesn’t demand precision or perfection, where the lines of what is allowed blur until they vanish completely. Home, where it is easy—so easy—to spill sugar on the counter, the white grains glittering like tiny stars scattered in carelessness, their sweetness lingering in the air like a memory. Where tea leaves tumble to the floor and lie there forgotten until the soles of bare feet discover them, sticking faintly to the skin before being swept up with a laugh. Splinters of cinnamon sticks, sharp and fragrant, find their way behind the kettle, only to be unearthed weeks later, the aroma rising again like a whisper from some secret, small world.

These imperfections, this mess, are proof—not just of life, but of presence. Proof that Hannibal is not a ghost haunting the corners of this house, not some specter clinging to the shadow of a man he once was. No, here he is solid, awake, undeniable. Will’s chaos is the evidence of their shared humanity, of a life so full it spills over at the edges.

Home, where joy blooms from the simplest things. That brightness—its red as vivid as longing itself—becomes a mirror, reflecting the color of Will’s lips now, flushed and bitten-soft. A red that says, how much more joy can we hold? Not just in this moment, but in all the moments yet to come: another year, another decade.

“I feel…” Hannibal begins, his voice a low murmur, hesitant as if testing the weight of his own words, “vulnerable.”

Will shifts, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at him, his face half-shadowed but his expression open. “Finally you admit it,” he says, his tone gentle, teasing but without mockery.

“It is not a state I am accustomed to,” Hannibal admits, his gaze flickering up to meet Will’s. His fingers twitch against Will’s shoulder, tightening slightly before relaxing again. “But here, with you… it feels less like weakness. More like… an inevitability.”

Will smiles, his lips curving into something soft and crooked. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Being here, like this. Just… us.”

Hannibal nods slightly, his eyes tracing the lines of Will’s face. “I feel no cold,” he says quietly, almost as if to himself. “Not even the chill of the air. It is a wonderous thing.”

Will’s fingers still against Hannibal’s back, his expression softening further. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “I guess that’s what happens when you stop carrying the weight of all that other stuff. Fear, pride, anger. Look, we’ve pulled it all out.” He pauses, his hand sliding up to rest against Hannibal’s jaw, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “Only love now. Our respective strings roping us together.”

Hannibal’s breath catches, his throat tightening as he stares up at Will, the words sinking into him. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but Will doesn’t seem to mind. He leans closer, his lips brushing against Hannibal’s, feather-light at first, before pressing more firmly.

“Your lips are red,” Will whispers against his mouth, his voice trembling slightly, though whether from emotion or anticipation, Hannibal cannot tell. “I love you. Like this.” He kisses him again, slower this time, deeper, as if trying to pour the sentiment directly into him. When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to murmur, “Like this.”

Hannibal swallows hard. “You are…” He hesitates, searching for the right word, the right sentiment, something that can capture the enormity of what he feels in this moment. But nothing comes close. “Indispensable,” he says finally.

Will rolls his eyes but his smile widens. “If I said I wanted tea,” he says, teasing now, “a big cup, with lots of honey—because I like to indulge and you like to make me happy—would you get up and make it for me?”

Hannibal hums, the sound deep in his chest, and his lips curve into a small, amused smile. “I would,” he answers without hesitation, running his fingers against Will’s chest, pressing kisses. “Though I’d rather keep you here a while longer, where I can reach you.”

Will lets out a soft laugh, closing his eyes briefly, content in the warmth of Hannibal’s touch. “You make the best cups of tea,” he murmurs.

“That would be you,” Hannibal replies smoothly, his hand stilling against Will’s side.

Hannibal loves him. Loves him in a way that feels inevitable, as though the act of loving Will was written into the marrow of his bones long before they ever met. He loves him without knowing how, or when, or from where this love began. There is no origin point, no logic to dissect. He loves Will without the burden of problems, without the weight of pride. It is a love so simple it defies simplicity, so pure it becomes its own kind of complexity.

Hannibal loves him in this way because there is no other way to love Will. It is a love that dissolves the boundaries of self, where there is no "I" or "you," only the shared space where they meet. It is so intimate, so all-encompassing, that when Will’s hand rests upon Hannibal’s chest, it feels like Hannibal’s own hand. When Hannibal falls asleep, it is not his own eyes that close but Will’s.

His lover, with his beautiful, swan-soft hidden glances—those glances that flit like whispers and linger like ghosts, jagged against Hannibal’s heart in ways that cut deep and perfect. They wound him only to set him aflame.

He will sleep in Will’s arms, his head nestled into the crook of Will’s shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath. They will tell riddles to the wondering rest, speaking in half-words and strange poetry. And Will—his beautiful, wicked, untamed Will—will tell him of all he’s seen. Of the light and the dark, the terrible and the beautiful. Of how the world saw them and named them monstrous, and how perhaps the world was not entirely wrong. But even in that naming, there is a certain kind of reverence. To be monstrous is to be beyond ordinary.

They’ll argue about nothing—about whether the tea should steep for three minutes or five, about the correct way to fold a fitted sheet, about the last word in a crossword. Their arguments will be soft as silk, laced with grins that threaten to unravel them. And they’ll catch each other’s eyes, over and over. 

Will snorts softly. "You’re supposed to say something romantic in return, you know," he mutters. "Not turn it around on me. You’re terrible, you know that?"

Hannibal’s hand slides gently up and down Will’s stomach, his fingers tracing soothing patterns there. "If I am terrible," he says, his tone faintly smug, "then why do you keep coming back to me?"

Will groans dramatically, lifting his head just enough to give Hannibal a mock glare, though his lips quirk at the corners, betraying his grin. "Because you cook like a god and make tea like one too. Obviously."

"Ah, so it’s purely transactional. I feed you, and you reward me with your presence. How mercenary of you."

Will tilts his head back, his eyes meeting Hannibal’s. "You’re not bad at it, you know," he says quietly, his tone sincere. "This whole… loving someone thing. You’re better at it than you think."

Hannibal studies him for a long moment. "You teach me," he says simply, his hand brushing gently over Will’s cheek.

Will’s smile widens, his expression almost shy as he drops his gaze briefly before looking back up at Hannibal. "The candles," Will says. "If we keep ignoring them, one of them’s bound to tip over and catch fire. And then where would we be? No house, no tea, no cozy Christmases by the fire… just ashes and regret."

Hannibal leans in, pressing a kiss to Will’s forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment. "Very well," he says, his tone indulgent. "Shall I extinguish the candles and fetch your tea, or would you prefer to supervise me from a safe distance?"

Will grins. "I’m definitely staying right here. You’ll just have to multitask."

Will watches him go with a soft smile. "Don’t forget the honey," he calls after him, his voice laced with warmth.

Hannibal glances back, his smile subtle but genuine. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

It will be beautiful, Hannibal knows. And it will be good. Good in ways that taste like sunlight on the tongue. Good to do the laundry and be married—not in the ceremonial sense, but in the quiet, lived-in sense. Married in the way Hannibal imagines it when he smiles softly at the sight of their socks tangled together in the hamper, their lives woven so closely they’ve become indistinguishable. To smile as he loads their clothes into the washer, the mundane task elevated to something sacred simply because it is theirs. Because he gets to do this. 

Ecstatic about the ordinary. Ecstatic about the extraordinary. Ecstatic about coming home—not just to a house, but to the presence of Will. To stand at the stove, the evening light slanting golden through the windows, coating the pan with olive oil. Watching it shimmer as it heats, scattering little tomatoes into the pan, their skins blistering and popping, releasing their sweetness. Crushing them with the broad side of a spoon, the act deliberate, almost tender, as if coaxing something precious from them. Salting it all with care, tossing the pasta in, the ribbons of basil, the flavors melding together into something greater than their parts.

And to say, as he does now with tea, and will say again and again: “It’s made with love.” To laugh as he says it, the sound spilling out like music, because it is true. Because everything he does now is made with love, steeped in it, shaped by it. To be able to laugh in that moment, and in any moment, because he is in love. Because Will lets him be in love, and lets himself be loved in return.

Never to be cold again.