Chapter Text
Will was bent over the hull of the boat, going at the engine with unrestrained vigor. Hannibal watched from the dock, having abandoned his book long ago in favor of Will shirtless and gleaming bronze in the midday sun.
Will’s hair was almost to his shoulders, falling over his ears and into his face in fluffy curls. He spent a good amount of his time sweeping it up out of his eyes, pushing it roughly off his forehead just for it to flop back over moments later.
It was currently wet at the ends with sweat, the curls matted to his skin in dark loops. Hannibal knew what it felt like, finally , to tangle his fingers in the damp strands and pull, making Will gasp and arch his neck….
“Are you in your mind palace or do you have heat stroke?”
Will had turned, watching him out of the corner of his eye with a wry smirk.
Hannibal smiled back, taking a long pull from his daiquiri. Will’s eyes flickered down to his throat for a moment.
“Merely enjoying the view, dear Will.”
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“I’m reminded of a particular Albert Einstein quote regarding repetition.”
Will ran his fingers back through his hair for the fifth time in as many minutes. It would come untucked from behind his ears, the curls immediately ballooning out in an endearing, almost cherubic way.
Will’s gaze was petulant beneath the crown of clouds.
“It’s fine,” Will didn’t quite snap, dropping the brush back into the paint can.
He turned away from Hannibal to assess the wall. One hand went to his hip and the other combed back through his hair, leaving it streaked with white.
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“Will.”
The TV in the living room was shockingly loud, the news anchor speaking in rapid Spanish as pictures of Jack Crawford, Hannibal and Will cycled through on the screen beside them.
Will sat on the couch, rocking slightly with his hands buried in his hair. He was tugging aggressively at the long locks, as if he were close to pulling it all from his scalp in one strong jerk.
Hannibal retrieved the remote, turning the TV off before kneeling down in front of the other man.
“Will,” he repeated, guiding his hands to his shoulders. He gently gathered Will’s disheveled curls in his hands, smoothing them up and back into a bundle before producing a hair elastic from his own wrist. He quickly tied the bundle together, not too tight but just enough to keep it up and out of Will’s face.
Will’s fingers flexed in Hannibal’s shirt, his breath coming in short puffs. His eyes were rimmed red, lip quivering in frenzied jerks.
Hannibal kept smoothing his hands over Will’s hair and scalp, massaging the sore spots over his temple and at the nape of his neck. He pressed his lips to his forehead, shushing him quietly as he petted him.
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“You’ve seen me cut both my own hair as well as Abigail’s.”
Will leaned against the bathroom counter, a long sigh leaving him.
“Do you not trust me?”
With sharp objects near your skin was left unsaid but rang clear nonetheless.
“No — I….”
Will raised a hand, about to comb his hair back again, before stopping mid-gesture and dropping it back to his side with a growl.
He stomped out of their bedroom without another glance.
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Hannibal woke to Will slipping into bed beside him. He felt long, curious fingers tickling at his vertebrae, Will’s relationship with touch built atop a shaky foundation.
Hannibal turned to face him, gathering his hand to bring to his mouth. He kissed each finger one by one before resting it against his own cheek.
“It’s infantile.”
Hannibal kissed his palm, waiting.
“They say hair holds trauma,” Will began, much softer and more hesitant than before.
“But trauma… shaped us. We grew together. Like a parasite and its host melding together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.”
Hannibal reached out to tuck a stray lock behind his ear.
“There is a lot I don’t want to relive. And if that idea is true, I shouldn’t be carrying it around with me. But I just can’t…”
Will turned to hide his face in the pillow, Hannibal’s hand rubbing at his temple. He messaged his scalp there, rubbing his thumb under one ear.
“I don’t want to be free of it. It’s mine — it’s ours — and if I lose that, relinquish that….”
He began to cry softly, tears running down to stain the pillowcase.
“What if I forget who I am?”
Hannibal reached out to draw him into his chest, cupping the nape of his neck to run his fingers through his matted curls. He rested his chin atop Will's head, holding him firmly as he shook.
“I would not let you forget.”
Will keened, pressing his face into Hannibal’s throat.
“Abigail and I are apart of you — we cannot be so easily excised.”
Will nodded once, a feeble movement.
“I will not push you any longer, Mylimasis . However, perhaps it is worthwhile to consider the new beginning such a ritual could represent.”
Hannibal smoothed his eyebrow with his thumb, dipping underneath to rest upon the lid.
“The cup has come back together. Samson and Delilah can be reunited. And together we will write our own tale.”
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The next morning, Hannibal stood over Will on their veranda in the blistering early heat. Abigail lounged on the bleached sand ahead of them, a book open on her lap. Will leaned his head back, letting the sound of the waves and the shears lull him. The sun warmed him down to the bone and he smiled.