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It takes a little over a month before Hannibal breaks. Five weeks, really, if he’s being generous.
Five weeks on a little boat that nonetheless moved quickly enough under Chiyoh’s direction to have them out of Jack Crawford’s reach before he could make a move to catch them.
Five weeks of careful, clinical touches, all telegraphed and justifiable and never, never lingering too long.
Five weeks of conversations, some quiet and soft, some loud and violent. And, eventually, some simply enjoyed by both of them, for the sheer, undeniable pleasure of it.
And five weeks of aching, vivid thoughts, made all the more brightly cruel by Will’s proximity. His heat, his laugh, his scent, all driving themselves into Hannibal’s core and lodging with wicked intent.
They share a bed, have done since the tiny berth on the boat that was all they had, shivering together in pain and uncertain vitality, watched over by Chiyoh. When she left, satisfied that their deaths were no longer imminent, and they settled into the safe house, neither one of them had suggested separating, had merely crawled in beside each other and breathed softly together as if it had always been so.
It is more exquisite torture than Hannibal has ever received, or delivered.
Tonight he has dosed Will with one of the more pleasant sedatives in his stash, the culmination of a week-long argument over whether Will’s wariness of the combination of Hannibal and needles was more important than him sleeping through the night undisturbed by pain or nightmares. Hannibal admires how long Will held out, but no body can stand sleep deprivation for long, especially one that is still doing so much healing, and so he administered the dose without a trace of victory once Will relented. He thinks Will appreciated that, given that he allowed Hannibal to carry him to bed afterwards, and to tuck him in just as he did all those years ago, after their long walk in the snow.
And so now he lies, watching as the drugs catch Will by the hands and lead him into sweet, dreamless sleep. He’s a beautiful sight, his lashes fluttering, his mouth slack and easy, and Hannibal suffers a momentary rush of images involving all the things he would do with Will were the opportunity ever to present itself.
He lies there for hours, balancing the ache of suspended gratification – an ache he has rarely allowed himself to suffer before – with the increasing pain radiating from the still-healing bullet wound in his abdomen. Eventually, as soft pink light begins to seep through the curtains, the physical ache overtakes the psychological one and Hannibal levers himself up to find something that might ease it back to manageable levels. He hasn’t allowed himself such relief very often, preferring to stay alert and available should Will (whose injuries were somewhat more extensive) need him. But Will is still happily slumbering, his back now turned away from Hannibal to expose the long line of him, and the dimples at the base of his spine that cause lurid thoughts to once more run amok in Hannibal’s mind. So there is no harm in selecting a reasonably strong painkiller and making his way back to bed with it, sliding the needle smoothly into his arm, and settling back to continue enjoying the way Will’s body twitches even in his sleep.
It’s not long before he feels the effects take hold – the drug he has chosen for himself isn’t strong enough to knock him out (that would hardly be safe in their current situation) but will certainly soften the edges of his perception. He can feel himself melting into the soft surroundings of the bed, his breathing becoming deep and regular, and full of the sleep-warm scent of Will.
Will. Will is everywhere, suffused in the sheets and pillowcases, drifting through the air, in Hannibal’s nostrils and on his skin and…
Hannibal’s hand is halfway to stroking down Will’s spine before he catches himself. He is achingly hard and the source of his arousal is inches from him, blissfully unaware. Slowly, he draws his hand back and lets it slide downwards, towards the swell of his erection, letting out a hiss as he grazes against the silk that is barely containing it.
This is… rude. Inexcusably so. Were he entirely in control, Hannibal would surely retreat into his mind palace and wait until he was less affected.
But… he presses up into his palm and thinks. Thinks of all the times he has wanted much more than this, to shove and claw and claim Will for his own. They dance beneath his eyelids, he and Will, trembling close and closer still, touches sweeping wide and leaving such vibrations in the space between them, Hannibal can feel them sparking against his skin still. Might feel them forever and never know if more would be better or would ruin him entirely.
He wants to be ruined.
But he thinks he could live with this, this near distance, suspended at the edge of Will’s inner orbit, if only he could take this small thing for himself. If Will’s proximity does not bring them any closer to physical intimacy, then what difference does it make if he does this here or hidden away as though it is something to be ashamed of? He is not ashamed to desire Will, why should he act as such?
The drugs are softening the edges of his logic too.
He settles himself on his back, shoulder-blades pressing deep into the mattress, and stretches out to his full length, keeping contact with his strengthening erection as he moves. Comfortable with his position, and feeling the last of the day’s tension leave his body, he rolls his hips a couple of times, letting his hardness swell against the cup of his palm. It’s good. On another day, when slow, controlled release was his goal, it might be enough. Right now, though, Hannibal has little interest in drawing things out, with Will due to float back to the surface after another hour or so.
Instead, he slips smoothly out of his pyjamas, sliding them down over his hips and lower, deliberately slow to catch the teasing friction of fabric over flesh. Teasing, after all, has always been an essential component of his relationship with Will. Friendship, partnership, fatherhood – all have dangled, Damocles-like, over their heads at some point or another, needing no more than the smallest, deepest cut to change everything.
Once his erection is free, he leaves the waistband of his pyjamas stretched tight across his hips – the pressure is good, enough to evoke the feeling of being pinned down and held in place. Will would do it easily, he thinks, with the concealed strength he once used to beat Randall Tier to so much pulverised meat. The thought of it, Will covered in the blood of his prey, is enough to make Hannibal’s cock jump in his hand, and he squeezes at the base before allowing a slow stroke down to the tip and back again, pulling the foreskin back just a touch too roughly. He’d prefer Will to be rough, he thinks, to let Hannibal see that wild, dark side that had captivated him from the moment Will had slaughtered Garret Jacob Hobbs despite the trembling of his heart.
Images flood Hannibal’s mind, of all the moments when Will had stood in front of him, his beauty enhanced by blood, and terror, and the slowly gathering thrill of power behind his eyes. He catches a moan in his throat, throttling it before it can escape and give him away, forcing himself to go slowly, to touch lightly and breathe steadily. He turns his head towards Will’s still-sleeping body, a reminder not to get lost in sensation, but the movement only causes the sheet to billow above both of them, loosing a waft of Will’s scent to envelop him, salt-sweet and earthy. Hannibal writhes as his cock pulses in his grip, wetness leaking from its straining tip, letting his hand move faster and faster.
He lets his mind drift to a favourite memory of Will, of the two of them together in his Baltimore office. They perch together on Hannibal’s desk, a lull in their conversation filling the room with quiet breaths and unspoken thoughts. Will shifts a little and his hip touches Hannibal’s, a point of warm contact between them that Hannibal can feel burning through his every nerve. In the memory, he leans into it as he never allowed himself in reality, while outside it he inches towards Will, not enough to touch, too gently to disturb, just a delicate closure of the gap between them so that Will’s heat is a tangible, knowable sensation. He remembers all those times when he so frequently stood this close to Will, whether a solid, comforting presence at crime scenes before, or something more ambiguous, more dangerous – more tempting? – after. Proximity to Will has always had this effect, this sparking, ravenous crackle beneath his skin, this heady precipice of wanting to reach out and yet not wanting to turn anticipation into disappointment.
It has been a long, long time since Hannibal has considered the possibility of anything involving Will becoming a disappointment.
He turns his body to its side, curling one leg up and back, matching the line of his body to that of Will’s, a mirror to every inch except the slick slide of his hand against his cock. He imagines entering Will in this position, their bodies locked together, Will pulling at his hips to take him in deeper, begging for more, harder, closer…
Suddenly, Will turns, and wriggles closer to Hannibal, hooking a leg over his own and breathing deep as he nestles into the crook of his neck. “Mmm… Hannibal.”
Hannibal has frozen, unsure whether Will is conscious or not, frantically trying to calculate whether the sedative can possibly have worn off. He has his answer a moment later when Will mouths at the skin under his ear and murmurs, voice clogged with sleep, “Tell me... what you’re thinking ‘bout.”
“Will, are you aware of what’s happening?”
“Mmm, couldn’t keep your hands off. Been listening. S’good. Don’t stop.”
“Will, I…”
“Sshhh, stop worrying. Tell me. Make me see.”
Hannibal hesitates only a moment – it’s all he has the strength to. “We are… we’re together in my office, my old office.”
“Hmm...” Will wriggles against Hannibal, bewitching in his guileless – are they guileless? – movements. “Always liked it there. Liked you in there.”
“There were times that wasn’t true.”
“Nah, always liked you. Can hate you and want you all at the same time, s’not hard.”
Hannibal is just processing this revelation when Will entirely wipes his mind clean by tilting his mouth up to suck on Hannibal’s earlobe. He ends with a little nip and a still-sleepy whine that has Hannibal suddenly in desperate need of completion. He renews his grip, stripping himself unrestrainedly, bucking up into his hand and relishing the way Will’s body shifts with him, the two of them undulating with the flex and roll of Hannibal’s hips. Will is hot and solid beside him, insistently nosing at Hannibal’s throat before biting softly at the pronounced tendon in his neck, drawing a groan from amongst Hannibal’s panting breaths.
He holds Hannibal’s flesh between his teeth for a moment, then releases and murmurs, “It’s gonna feel so good when I fuck you.”
Hannibal needs nothing more. The image of Will inside him, thrusting with unconstrained need, holding him down and biting his claim into his flesh… He roars Will’s name as he comes, pleasure locking his body into an upward bow, the world narrowing down to the points where his body touches Will’s.
Between the lingering haze of the painkiller, and the intensity of his orgasm, it takes Hannibal several minutes to come back to himself. When he does, he opens his eyes to find Will gazing at him with the strangest expression on his face. It’s too much for Hannibal to hope that it might be love, but fondness, perhaps even affection - suddenly these seem possible.
“Always wondered what you’d look like when you come,” Will drawls, a gleam in his eye that suggests his head is much closer to clear than Hannibal’s is.
“I hope I lived up to expectations – though perhaps it’s foolish to believe I could surpass whatever vision your remarkable imagination could conjure.”
Will looks at him, that strange, inexplicable fondness still in his eyes. “You’re right – in my imagination you generally can’t manage words of more than one syllable once we’re done.” He shrugs, and snuggles further down into the bed, pushing Hannibal onto his back before placing his head carefully on his chest, at a safe distance from where his release is drying on his stomach. He tucks his leg back where it had been, curled possessively around Hannibal’s, and tugs Hannibal’s arm until it is tight around him, placing his hand firmly on the swell where his hip meets his buttock. Thus settled, he gives a content sigh and says, “Guess I’m gonna have to take over some of the work next time.”
Next time.
Hannibal’s chest feels abruptly as though it is full of light, and he cannot quite remember the last time his heart beat so rapidly.
Next time.