This might as well be for @moku-youbi, since I was creeping around her Tumblr today and would like to thank her profusely for this wonderful fic. NSFW!
It is the way Hannibal looks at him one morning, rain hissing against the windows. Suddenly he can’t breathe. He feels his ribs strain and creak as he gasps for air, and he closes his eyes as he places a palm against his chest: still, still. When he looks up Hannibal is gone.
Later, he sees Hannibal’s eyes bright in the doorway and remembers handjobs in high school, unsophisticated groping in college that led to aborted attempts at fellatio and the resounding clink of cheap beer. Harmless. He tosses the blanket aside and rejects the strange sound that climbs onto his tongue. When Hannibal kneels on the bed he feels as though his chest might burst, and when Hannibal places a hand on his knee they both recoil as if bitten. Will scoots back and sits up against the headboard.
“Hannibal,” he says. His voice is small. Hannibal shakes his head as if trying to clear it. He stays where he is.
Their explanations are rushed and clash mid-sentence. Will feels himself grimace. “You go,” he says. He feels Hannibal’s breath as much as he hears it.
“I had hoped to avoid a conversation. I sensed…”
“Yes,” Will says. Every part of him is on fire, flushed and embarrassed. “You did sense it.”
The rain has slowed, but errant drops pop against the ceiling, clicking minutes. It is a long time before Hannibal moves, and when he does he slips from the room in silent shadow.
After three days, Will think he might lose his mind. Hannibal has been courteous, brief, avoidant. Will wants to scream at the top of his lungs and tackle Hannibal to the ground, so he chooses a happy medium. He places his wine on the mantle and sits next to Hannibal on the couch, the seams of their pants fitting close. Maybe he didn’t expect Hannibal’s eyes to be open when he turned to look at him, maybe he didn’t think to steel himself first, but when he looks up into Hannibal’s face he feels that horrible breathless feeling, a kind of overwhelming surge of adrenaline and heat that cripples his heart. Hannibal brushes his fingertips lightly over Will’s cheek.
“Oh,” Will gasps. He has to close his eyes.
“Try,” says Hannibal, and at least he sounds as broken as Will feels. Will experiences their lips meeting like an electric shock. He can see the synapses in his mind stretching out and firing, tingling. They lead him to Hannibal.
You you beautiful Will you too much please love danger too much Will please.
Will grunts and places two hands on Hannibal’s chest. “Too much,” he echoes. He finds that he is on the verge of tears. Without sparing a glance at Hannibal he rises and takes his wine, refills it in the kitchen and stands with his back to the living room, letting the warmth of the fire calm him. When Hannibal doesn’t say anything Will takes the plunge. “I feel you inside me. In my skull. And when you touch me it’s like I can’t breathe.”
“Yes,” says Hannibal. Will nods. He knows Hannibal is watching him.
Will finishes his wine with a deep swig and twists the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Keep trying,” he says, and he pours himself another glass before shuffling to bed.
The next few weeks are light touches, an arm brushing his in the kitchen, Hannibal’s hand clasping his shoulder for a brief moment as they set the table. Their eyes meet sparingly at first, then for longer and longer intervals until they can sit comfortably before the fire, gazing. Sometimes Will feels the tightness in his chest, and sometimes he sees Hannibal’s jaw clench with tension, sees Hannibal clutching the countertop white-knuckled. When he’s had several fingers of whiskey after a long Saturday Will tries to articulate the feeling to Hannibal, and even though he finds words cumbersome (they lack finesse, and his tongue is heavy), he pushes through. “It’s like nothing else. No one else. Like when you touch me my blood can’t pump fast enough, like I’m leaning over a precipice and the rock will crumble at any moment. I’ve never wanted something that feels like…it feels like - “
“Like it might kill you,” Hannibal finishes. Will sees a flash of something in his eyes, and Hannibal’s lips quirk up into a not-quite-smile.
They stand together as if on cue. Will is both surprised and relived when Hannibal follows him into his bedroom. He keeps his back to him as he undresses, throwing himself into the routine of folding his pants and hanging his belt, toeing off his socks. He reaches a hand out and holds onto the bedpost, waiting.
The first thing he feels is Hannibal’s breath, and after a few beats he tries to match its rhythm. There is comfort there, and ease. “Breathe,” Hannibal says, and he skims Will’s hip with his hand. Will shuts his eyes and spins inward, meeting Hannibal’s touch with lazer focus. Hannibal’s hand is trembling.
Will keeps his eyes shut as he turns. He brushes against the smooth fabric of Hannibal’s trousers, the thickness of Hannibal’s cock. Will tips his head onto Hannibal’s shoulder and lets the wave wash over him. “Take this off,” he says, tugging at Hannibal’s sweater. “And these.” He emphasizes with a pulse of his hips, but it’s too soon.
“Sudas,” Hannibal says, swaying backwards. Will all but falls onto the bed. He chokes on a sob of frustration and arousal.
“Maybe I need to be more drunk for this,” he groans. At the sound of Hannibal’s huffed laughter he feels some of the knots in his stomach unfurl.
“No,” says Hannibal. He takes two steps forward. Will bends to them. “I want you to feel it. All of it.”
“It will consume me.” When Hannibal’s hand cups his face Will has calmed enough to receive it, leans into it. He tilts his head up and when Hannibal kisses him he is right on the edge of falling, his nerves lit hot behind his eyes, under his skin. They hold still. The sound of Hannibal’s thoughts hovers at the shell of Will’s ear, a quiet roar.
Finally, Hannibal’s tongue sweeps against Will’s lips. The darkness behind Will’s eyelids spins. “Oh God,” he whispers. He feels Hannibal nod against him, and Will lies back so that Hannibal has room to undress. Will can’t bring himself to watch. When Hannibal joins him on the bed Will can feel their heartbeats pounding into the mattress. “Is it like this for you? Is it always like this?”
“No,” answers Hannibal. To Will he sounds pained.
He turns and opens his eyes, lets himself examine the crease in Hannibal’s brow, the hair sticking lightly to his forehead. He takes the fingers of his left hand and traces the edges of Hannibal’s face, gasping as his fingertips catch on Hannibal’s lips. Will follows them with his mouth and bites softly at Hannibal’s lower lip. When he moves to pull back Hannibal’s hand comes up and grips his hair, and Will moans low and deep and feels the vibration in his bones.
“Oh God,” he says against Hannibal’s mouth. Their kisses are quick, fleeting. “Your thoughts are right there.”
Beautiful good good Will might be please Will danger want -
It crashed through him like a swift tide, filling his lungs. He feels it in his knees and his throat and his dick and his hands, crushes Hannibal to him as he cries out, wordless.
He says Hannibal’s name over and over, and he is shocked to feel Hannibal’s tears slips between them, stumble onto his lips. They rock together in slow and fast turns, Will pausing only to drag air through his mouth and nose. He kisses Hannibal’s jaw, his neck, his collarbone. Then Hannibal’s hands come to grip his hips and Will pants into his neck, a feeling of faintness whispering up his spine.
“Oh God, I can’t, I can’t.”
When he comes it is with Hannibal’s thoughts ringing in his veins, Hannibal’s release speeding with his until he is screaming with it. He tastes blood in his mouth.
He swings between consciousness and a dark, soft silence. He feels like he is in a million pieces; the effort to slide them together is more than he can safely handle. Hannibal shifts somewhere nearby and Will winces, so sensitive that the air around him shakes.
He lies still as Hannibal cleans them with a damp towel and hears the thick plump as it hits the ground.
“Make a mess,” says Will, and though he meant it as an accusation the missing words spell an open invitation.
“Gladly,” Hannibal says. His voice is rough.
Their hands barely touch on the bed, and Will is glad for it. Another touch would shatter him.
He listens to the tendrils of Hannibal’s thoughts recede from him - Will Will Will - as the silence bleeds in.
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