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Hannibal could admit to himself that he had been rash to throw a vase at Will’s head. The fight had been over nothing, but had been about everything. Hannibal had felt it building for quite some time, yet he could find no way around it.
He wanted to kiss Will Graham.
It was simple. A puerile desire that should have been beneath him, yet it was always buzzing in the back of his mind, a pest zipping around every conscious thought he had.
Things came to a head three months after they moved into their new home in Chile. Hannibal had been chopping poblanos and musing over the way Will’s mouth twisted right before he laughed. The image of those lips coiling to the side and curving was so distracting that Hannibal barely felt the blade pierce his skin, slicing into his knuckle. It was a superficial wound, but he snarled at the blood ruining his peppers, at his own foolishness.
“Jesus! What happened?” Will was on him, appearing as if Hannibal had conjured him, hands curling around his own. “Are you ok? Is it deep?”
Hannibal blinked. Will stood shirtless and wet before him, dogs milling around his legs. He was still dripping from the ocean, clusters of sand sticking to his shoulders and calves, his scars dark reminders of unhappier times. Droplets of water clung to his curls and beard, dotting him with glinting light. The scent of Will drifted closer, mixed with the tang of salt and sun. If he kissed him now, Will would be savory and warm.
Will yanked Hannibal’s hand up, sucking the blood from the wound to get a better look. Hannibal could feel the want pooling low in his stomach and the soft flutter of his heart. In that moment, he hated Will and his wide concerned eyes.
“That is neither sanitary nor necessary,” Hannibal snapped, yanking his hand away. He pushed past Will toward the sink, pressing into his wound with his nail and hoping the spike of pain will wash away the electric ghost of Will’s lips.
“I was just trying to-”
“Lick my wound?” Hannibal worked to keep the tension out of his arms, turning so his rapidly filling cock pressed against the sink. “I’m not one of your mongrels.”
“No, you’re not one of my dogs, you snap too much,” Will’s face twisted into a smile, trying to brush off Hannibal’s bad mood. He reached out a tentative hand, petting his shoulder.
Hannibal recoiled, a strategic retreat was the only answer.
“Where are you going?” Will was trailing behind him, and for a brief moment Hannibal wished for the Will of five years ago. The one who didn’t torture Hannibal with kindness and platonic affection.
“I am attempting to disinfect my wound and bind it. This task is being unnecessarily prolonged by the parade following me about the house.”
Will stopped. The dogs, annoyingly, continued to follow Hannibal toward the downstairs bathroom. Hannibal was halfway through bandaging his finger when Will leaned against the doorjamb.
“Are you going to tell me what the fuck I’ve done? Or will I be spending another week the subject of your pissy little fits?”
Hannibal’s jaw ticked, he brushed by Will.
“Another week then? Fantastic.”
Hannibal whirled on his heel, he had made it at least to the foyer. He tapped his torn knuckle on the side table, the jolt of pain keeping his mind sharp.
“I have not-”
“You’ve been a goddamn nightmare for nearly a month, Hannibal.” Will cocked his head. “You snap at me constantly. You avoid me. Everything I do makes you angry. There’s been a noticeable lack of skulls on the dinner table. What is going on?”
Will was already mocking him, he had no desire to offer him more fodder for his scorn. Hannibal sniffed and began to fuss with the flowers on side table, hoping Will would give up the discussion.
“Perhaps I’m tired of picking up after two mangy beasts and their equally unkempt owner.” His voice was even, but he could feel his pulse pounding in his throat. “You do realize that in your attempt to aid me, you’ve tracked sea water and sand throughout the house?”
“Puddles?” Will’s voice was nearing a shout. “All of this is because I didn’t mop up fast enough for you?”
Will started to get a vacant look in his eye. He was trying to see Hannibal’s design. Hannibal’s ears buzzed.
“I cannot help it if you and your hoard have ruined my sense of sanctum in my own home!”
“Oh, I grieve for your goddamn sense of harmony!” Will shouted. “It’s too bad you didn’t figure this out earlier! Before you ruined my life three fucking times!”
The vase was airborne before Hannibal registered that he’d grabbed it. Will ducked as the vase shattered next to his head, showering dahlias and glass over the floor and the dogs.
“FUCK!” Will shoved at the dogs, trying to corral them in the bathroom. “You have a funny fucking way of protesting messes! What the fuck were you thinking? That could have cut one of the boys’ paws!”
Hannibal hadn’t been thinking. He had been fogged and unsettled for so long, and now the monster was coming out to play. He moved for the door, snatching his overcoat, wallet and keys off the table by the door. He could hear Will calling to him, picking his way across a field of shattered glass and petals.
“Hannibal! Stop! If you leave, I swear to Christ-” The slamming of the door cut off the threat.
Three days later, Hannibal watched the sun rise and admitted to himself that Will Graham didn’t miss him. His cell phone was quiet, and in spite of checking it every 15 minutes, it refused to show any new notifications. He checked out of San Alfonso del Mar, leaving behind the seaside view that he barely noticed and king size bed he had hardly mussed.
The journey home was painfully short and Hannibal arrived in the driveway before he had quite worked out how he was going to regain control of himself and mend his bond with Will. He had a feeling he’d need to apologize, perhaps grovel. It was only fair, he had been rude and throwing a vase was petulant. In his worst case scenario, he imagined Will forcing him to sincerely ask for the dogs’ forgiveness as well.
The lock clicked open and Hannibal was greeted in the foyer by Harold and Roger, tails wagging. Harold jumped up and slurped Hannibal’s face. The mastiff mix had an odd fixation on Hannibal. Normally, Hannibal’s policy toward anything that licked his face was immediate death, but the beast’s assaults made Will laugh.
“Hello, Harold.” Hannibal scratched the mutt’s ear before he gently pushed him down. “I see I was missed by one member of the household.”
Roger nudged his head under Hannibal’s hand for a scratch, before wandering off toward the kitchen. Harold made sure to slobber on Hannibal’s hand before loping toward the study. Their aimless activity was proof that Will wasn’t up yet. He could perhaps shower and change out of his three-day-old ensemble before he was forced to prostrate himself.
Hannibal climbed up the stairs slowly, listening for any sounds of life on the second floor. Will’s door was shut and Hannibal ran a hand lightly over the cherry inlays before moving toward his own bedroom.
The door was open. An oddity given his distaste for dog hair and slobber, but perhaps he had forgotten to close it before he left. It wasn’t until he saw his vintage Saint Laurent leather tie on the floor that his pulse began to race.
Will wouldn’t.
He dove for the tie. The supple hide was scuffed by what was undoubtedly an errant paw, short brown hairs soiling the delicate finery. Hannibal took a shuddering breath. Will was angry, surely one tie would be a worthy sacrifice if –
Hannibal looked up to the open doors of his walk-in. There, on the wooden floors, were the ruins of his formerly glorious wardrobe. Hangers were strewn on the floor, ties strung about the polished racks like tinsel. On the floor the remnants of two of his Kiton suits had obviously served as a dog bed. His shoes seemed mercifully unharmed, even Will was not cruel enough to carry out his reckoning on his Louboutin loafers. Still, if Hannibal was lucky, all that remained in his closet were a fine selection of footwear, dog-ravaged wool slacks, and a few Hugo Boss ties.
He hadn’t noticed that he was wrapping the leather tie around his hands like a garrote until he looked down. Hannibal tried to breathe. Surely it wasn’t all gone. He rushed to his sweater cabinet and flung open the doors.
Empty.
Henri had hand woven each of the pieces for him. Hannibal had even chosen the wool. He clutched the tie tighter in his hands.
Will Graham was going to die.
Leather tie still coiling in his hands, Hannibal stormed toward Will’s door. The man he loved had systematically erased every piece of him from the closet. Had he treated the kitchen similarly? Hannibal froze for a moment, picturing a fridge filled with Bud Light and frozen pizza, his pristine counters cluttered with sticky take away menus and Frito dust. The monster snapped and clawed at his brain, he would not be erased from Will’s life – not again.
Hannibal clutched Will’s doorknob, careful to turn it soundlessly as he entered the room. If Will woke, if he saw those blue eyes open and uncaring, Hannibal might be foolish enough to stop again. He shuffled softly to the bed, waiting for his eyes to fully adjust to the shrouded room. His foot hit something soft and he looked down.
His blue cashmere weave.
He retrieved the garment from the floor. It had been in a heap, which was terrible for the weave, but was otherwise unharmed. It smelled strongly of Will. Hannibal’s brow furrowed and he let the sweater fall back to the floor. Will hated his sweater collection. Why would he wear this?
Hannibal moved closer and soon the bed came into focus. Hannibal’s missing wardrobe was strewn about the bed. Suits, ties, silk socks, boxer briefs – all had been woven into an elaborate nest atop the bedspread. In the center lay Will, eyes puffy and nose pressed into Hannibal’s favorite merlot sweater. The rest of his wardrobe seemed to cocoon Will, who’s boxer-clad body was partially enveloped by tear stained brushed cotton and wool crepe.
The tie fell from Hannibal’s fingers, joining the blue sweater in a heap on the floor.
He had been missed. Will Graham had missed his scent. And while his empath would never lower himself to call and beg Hannibal to return, he apparently could not sleep without the promise of Hannibal when he awoke. He would gladly sacrifice every piece of his wardrobe to offer Will that peace.
Hannibal wanted to crawl into bed with Will. Coil around him and wake him with soft kisses lavished upon the back of his neck. But it was too soon, and they had much to discuss.
Shrugging out of his jacket, Hannibal laid the material over Will carefully, delighting when the empath snuggled into the covering. Hannibal pressed a feather light kiss into the curls at the crown of Will’s head and moved away. He would start breakfast, lúcuma pancakes and sausage – Will’s favorite.
Stepping soundlessly out of the room, Hannibal stopped briefly by Will’s dresser, rifling through the drawer. When he found what he wanted, he smiled and headed for the kitchen.
Will woke with a groan. A steady diet of whiskey and tears had made his head feel swollen and dry. He needed water. He needed a new liver. He needed Hannibal.
The scent of his cannibal was especially strong today. He had spent last night chasing it from the threads of his sweaters, trying desperately to remember the comforting smell of lemon soap and warm skin. It seemed to surround him now, an odd but not unwelcome side effect of the hangover, he assumed.
Another breath. Another overwhelming lungful of Hannibal. He buried his nose in the collar of the coat, where the smell was strongest and inhaled.
The coat.
Hannibal had left wearing his coat.
Will sprang out of bed with a pounding head and panic coursing through his veins. The coat dropped to the floor in a heap. Hannibal had been in his room. Hannibal had seen what happened to his closet. Will could feel his carotid pulse, the long smile that stretched across his stomach started to itch. He was a dead man. Worse, he was a humiliated dead man.
Will’s whiskey-thick mind began to catch up with his racing pulse. He could smell something other than Hannibal for the first time in days. Sausage? Will blinked. Hannibal had found Will in a nest of expensive clothes and his reaction was to make breakfast? Will’s eyes focused on the bed, the bottle of Old Crow had been replaced by a tall glass of water with a perfectly cut lemon wedge sitting on the rim.
Something flared in the back of his brain, a bright pulsing hope that Will had thought long abandoned after months of little progress with Hannibal. He had tried small touches, long looks over wine, abandoning shirts altogether whenever possible, hell, he’d even sucked the blood off of Hannibal’s finger. Did Hannibal…not understand Will’s intentions? More importantly, did he share those intentions? Will grabbed the glass of water, taking long pulls to wash the hangover out of his system. One thing was certain, Hannibal liked that Will had missed him. Instead of murdering him for ruining thousands of dollars of fine tailoring, Hannibal had rewarded Will by wrapping him in his scent.
Will closed his eyes, his head still pounded, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his face. He plucked Hannibal’s blue sweater from the floor and moved to his en suite to brush the taste of stale whiskey out of his mouth. Minty fresh and with renewed resolve, Will followed the scent of sizzling meat to the kitchen. They needed to have a reckoning.
The tile was cool against Will’s overheated skin as he padded into the kitchen. Hannibal stood at their range, casually flipping pancakes, sausage draining on a china platter beside him. Harold and Roger sat at his feet, holding vigil for a scrap of meat or drip of batter.
“Don’t tell your father,” Hannibal murmured, flicking two links into the air and chuckling as the dogs scrambled for their prize.
Hannibal looked easier than Will had seen him in weeks. His bangs fell loosely over his eyes, a few days of stubble coating his chin and a small curling smile playing at his lips. He looked like a human, a really attractive human.
A human who was most definitely wearing Will’s favorite t-shirt. The black cotton of the Led Zeppelin shirt stretched taut against Hannibal’s broad shoulders, his pecs making the arch in Icarus’ back more prominent. It looked like it was reaching for Hannibal’s face, and in that moment, Will couldn’t blame it.
“Forgive me for borrowing this without asking,” Hannibal caught Will’s eye. “It seems I’ve run out of clean shirts.”
Will smiled, a careful, fragile tilt of his mouth. He wanted to run his hands over that cotton-clad chest, slip his hands under the hem and chase the trail of fuzz up to Hannibal’s chest.
“It’s fine. You look good in poly-blend.” His voice was rough, two nights of washing down tears with Old Crow had left him raw.
Hannibal raised an eyebrow, smile tugging harder at the corners of his mouth.
“No one looks good in this sartorial abomination.” He plucked at the worn shirt. Will wanted to touch the curving corners of his mouth. “But it makes me think of you.”
Will was moving, unsure steps edging him around the breakfast nook and toward Hannibal. He paused.
“And when you think of me, do you still see vases soaring through the air?” Will lifted a hand to touch the hem of his shirt, where it stretched tight over Hannibal’s stomach. His knuckles made Hannibal’s belly contract as they grazed his skin, fiddling with a fraying piece of machine stitching. Will kept his eyes on the errant thread, he didn’t trust himself to look up yet.
“When I think of you, I think of your mouth,” Hannibal’s breathing was a little quicker than he would have liked. “How you laugh, the way your smile can be bright and fierce in the same breath, if your beard would tickle-”
Will yanked at the shirt, dragging Hannibal into his chest. His free hand found the base of the doctor’s neck and pulled him the final scant inches to his mouth. The kiss was soft and coaxing, Will gently sucking at Hannibal’s cupid’s bow and tonguing the seam of Hannibal’s mouth.
Will moved back, lips still ghosting along Hannibal’s jaw.
“So,” Will whispered, raising an eyebrow. “Does my beard tickle?”
Hannibal released a small breath against Will’s mouth, before springing into action. With one hand he slapped at the stove, turning the burner off. He didn’t care if the pancakes burned, but a kitchen fire would take him away from that beautiful mouth. Pushing Will against the breakfast bar, he pinned the empath to the sparkling granite. Will clutched the cheap material on Hannibal’s chest, digging his fingers into it to haul Hannibal closer. The next kisses were wet and deep, Will groaning into them as his leg coiled around Hannibal’s hip. Hannibal ground forward, pressing into Will’s thickening cock and eliciting another wanton moan from the empath.
The dogs were barking next to him, confused by the new game their daddies were playing. Hannibal wrenched himself away from Will’s mouth.
“Hannibal! Hannibal, wait.” Will grabbed for Hannibal’s arm, but was dodged. The doctor whirled to the oven, grabbed the platter of sausage and strode to the door, Harold and Roger in hot pursuit. He flung the meat, platter and all into the sand, carefully shutting the door behind the dogs as they chased their good fortune.
Will couldn’t stop the laughter, even as Hannibal’s hands landed back on his hips.
“Did you just fling a bone china platter out the goddamn door?” Will shoved himself up on the counter, wrapping warm legs around Hannibal’s waist.
“A paltry sacrifice for this,” Hannibal whispered into Will’s neck. His hands were already inching under Will’s boxers. Will rolled his hips, seeking friction. Hannibal met Will’s movements, blindly thrusting as he bit and sucked behind Will’s ear. “My heart is full of so many things to say to you - ah - there are moments when I feel that speech amounts to nothing at all - Cheer up - remain my true, my only treasure, my all as I am yours. The gods must send us the rest, what for-”
Will shoved at Hannibal, pushing him back a few paces. He hopped off the counter, snatched at the hem of his sweater, and tossed it at Hannibal’s feet.
“Less talking Ludwig,” Will’s thumbs hooked under the waistband of his boxers. “And for Christ’s sake, less clothes.”
A quick tug and Will was naked, moving back to Hannibal and slipping his hands under the t-shirt. His nails scratched their way up Hannibal’s chest, dragging cheap cotton as they explored. Hannibal took one unsteady breath before removing the shirt with trembling fingers. Will ducked his head, pressing his face into the nest of dense chest hair. He laved a trail from Hannibal’s nipple to his neck.
“Pants off, cock out.” Will bit softly on the tendon flexing in Hannibal’s neck. “Please.”
Hannibal’s hand flew to his belt, his fingers suddenly clumsy as he worked the fastener. The doctor scowled at his suddenly inept surgeon’s fingers. Will bit his lip to keep his smile at bay.
The smile died on his face when Hannibal finally worked himself free, pants and boxer briefs dropping from his hips. Will had seen Hannibal naked dozens of times, to debride wounds, check for infection, and carefully re-bandage injuries. Without the specter of death hanging over him, Will was finally able to see Hannibal in his vital glory. Will ran a fingertip down Hannibal’s broad, heaving chest, delighted in the slightly soft flesh he found on Hannibal’s stomach, and brushed the tip of his flushed cock, which made the doctor flex the powerful muscles in his lean legs.
“Fuck.” Will whispered, taking a step back to take in all of Hannibal. “You’re spectacular.”
In a blink, Hannibal was on him, snapping his teeth into skin and sliding large hands all over his body. He bent Will over the breakfast bar, leaning over him to worry the nape of the empath’s neck. Will pressed his cheek to the counter, he saw Hannibal reach over him for a large green bottle.
“I believe you suggested fewer words?” Hannibal poured some oil on his hand, smearing it on the inside of Will’s thighs before wrapping his slick hand around Will’s cock. “Squeeze your legs together.”
Will clamped his legs together, his body trembling. Hannibal thrust between his thighs, setting a frantic rhythm. Will fucked himself on Hannibal’s fist, the friction surrounding him too good to resist. Hannibal tightened his grip on Will, his thumb teasing at the slit as he pumped.
“Jesus fuck,” Will grunted, pushing himself back and forth between Hannibal’s cock and hand. “We should have been doing this since Baltimore.”
Hannibal hummed.
“Indeed.”
Hannibal dragged his teeth along Will’s shoulders, the pressure of a bite without the sting. Will pressed back into the teeth, moaning. Hannibal bit down hard. It wasn’t the first time Will felt himself breaking apart in Hannibal’s hands, but it was the first time he welcomed the fracture.
Hannibal’s hips stuttered, his body tensing. Hot pulses of come painted Will’s thighs as Hannibal shuddered behind him. The powerful body sagged slightly on Will’s shoulders, Hannibal’s legs wobbling. The feel of Hannibal undone, of the slack mouth on his shoulder whispering more words of devotion into his skin, ripped Will’s orgasm from his body. He came, spurting over Hannibal’s hand and the cherry cabinet doors.
Slumped together on the counter, they drew ragged breaths together, waiting for muscles and minds to catch up to their racing hearts. Will heard a scratching noise. Harold and Roger were at the kitchen door, sandy and panting.
“The dogs want to come in.”
Hannibal looked at Will with the most beautiful confused expression.
“What?”
Will stole a kiss, then nodded.
“The dogs, they’re at the door, watching you hump me.”
Hannibal closed his eyes, he looked vaguely pained.
“I can only hope I haven’t given Harold any ideas about expressing his affection for me.”
Will’s laughter filled the kitchen.
Hannibal insisted his clothes were a lost cause. He’d have to make the trip to Lyon to see Henri in the spring. His suits were being triaged by the local dry cleaner, who gaped at the lump of tattered finery Hannibal handed him. Hannibal pouted for days that he had nothing to wear, but Will found it hard to feel guilty – nothing was becoming his favorite look for Hannibal.
Still, Will acquiesced that Hannibal probably had to wear clothes at some point in the next few years, so he offered to take his cannibal shopping for a new wardrobe.
“My treat,” Will said, tugging Hannibal down an alley toward O’Higgins Square. Hannibal wore the only linen suit that had survived the outburst, Will’s Led Zeppelin shirt stretched tight beneath the light jacket. The Sunday morning flea market was in full swing, Will steered Hannibal past the tables of antiques, until he found a rack of clothes. Hannibal touched one t-shirt and recoiled.
“You’re treating me to flea market clothes,” Hannibal said with a slight sneer.
“Snob.” Will pulled a Jimi Hendrix shirt from the rack and held it up to Hannibal.
“"This material is cheap." Hannibal squinted at the shirt. “And the design is gaudy.”
Will huffed incredulously.
“Well, it’s just to tide you over until you get those tasteful paisley suits back in your wardrobe. Plus, I quite like you in concert t-shirts.”
Hannibal hummed, examining the shirt again. He still looked like he was steeling himself against a great burden. Will leaned into Hannibal, pressing his lips to the doctor’s earlobe, a fleeting nip.
“Plus, the cheaper the material, the easier it is to rip off of you, my dear,” Will whispered, waggling his eyebrows when Hannibal’s head snapped to regard him. He pressed another quick kiss to Hannibal’s neck and turned to pay.
“We’ll take these as well.” Hannibal slapped two Rolling Stones t-shirts onto the pile and Will bit his lip trying not to laugh.
“The Stones, huh? Always figured you for Queen.”
“I believe you were the one who sought out fat bottomed girls, Molly, Alana…”
Will smacked him.
“Rude, Dr. Lecter.” He took Hannibal’s hand, dragging him away from the t-shirt stall and past the antiques. He stopped suddenly, causing Hannibal to run into him.
“Will?” The empath was staring at a table filled with broken and chipped pottery, a young boy the proprietor of this broken teacup establishment. Will didn’t respond to Hannibal, moving closer to the table.
“Hola señor!”
“Hola,” Will sounded distracted. He picked up a bone china platter, a large crack running down the middle. “¿Dónde encontraste esto?”
The boy wrinkled his nose. Will’s accent really was hopeless.
“Uh, en la playa cerca de Isla Negra.”
Will’s face lit up.
“¿Cuánto cuesta?”
The boy smiled, he could tell the man before him was eager to buy.
“50,000 pesos.”
Will smirked.
“You got me, kid.” He reached for his wallet. Hannibal’s hand caught his.
“Will, it’s cracked.”
“Since when does a scar put you off?” Will raised an eyebrow, handing the kid a wad of bills. He waited for the boy to carefully wrap the platter in some newspaper. “Besides, it’s cracked because someone chucked it out the door.”
Hannibal’s mouth twitched.
“And now that you have your broken $76 platter, what do you intend to do with it?” Hannibal asked.
Will rolled his eyes at Hannibal.
“”I’m hanging it over our bed.” He said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Hannibal smiled, his chest puffing just slightly. “OK, ok, I’m as sappy as you. Shut up.”
“I shall revisit this moment in my mind palace often.”
“Gross.” Will rolled his eyes. “But since you’re in such a good mood, let’s go over there, I think I see some cargo shorts.”
Hannibal blanched, then sped after Will.