“You can kiss me,” Will says quietly.
Hannibal does not look at him as he secures the fresh bandage, he has barely looked at him once since their brutal tumble and subsequent survival.
At first, Will thought it was anger, but after watching Hannibal’s hands shake every time he redresses his wounds, hearing the soft little breaths every time there is the slightest accidental graze of skin, he realizes it is far from anger.
The great and fearsome Hannibal Lecter is nervous.
It was more shocking to him when he discovered the man ate people.
Shyness fits him well, it adds a lovely glow to the sharpness of his features, brings his beauty into starker relief. On more than one occasion, Will has caught himself being stared at, and it is not the wolfish devouring gaze he has been accustomed to. Now, Hannibal looks at him as though he is precious and holy, an idol that he is unworthy to be in the presence of.
Initially it had been charming and somewhat helpful as Will broached the thorny conundrum of his sexuality. It kept them at arm’s distance while Will decided if his desires to touch Hannibal were fleeting with the rage of the kill, or a new weightier permanence tied to the man himself.
He knows, after watching and being watched, that it is the latter. He had hoped that time and proximity would ease Hannibal’s vulnerability, coax him into more confident touches, but he remains tentative and uncertain.
It brings them here, now, to a quiet bedroom and healing scars, inches apart with a gulf remaining.
Close it, Will thinks, and repeats the words again.
Hannibal appears to have forgotten his own breath. He blinks once, twice, and when he finally looks at Will, his eyes are lost and wet.
“Will, I-” he shakes his head and looks away, standing to pack his medical kit.
Will wraps a hand around his wrist and stands with him.
Eyes and hands as steady as Hannibal’s are not, Will guides trembling fingertips to his mouth and gently kisses each in turn. He draws Hannibal’s hand to cup his undamaged cheek, holds it there, pressing with his own palm.
When he removes his own hand, Hannibal moves to do the same, but Will catches it.
Still, he seeks permission.
Taking both of Hannibal’s hands now, he sets them to his shoulders, holds. Then further down to his waist, holding still again. A little lower, to his hips, and Will steps in to break the distance between them, tucking his head under Hannibal’s chin.
He releases the shaking hands under his own and slips arms around Hannibal’s waist, squeezing with gentle insistence. After several aching moments of stillness, he finally feels a light pressure in return.
He stays in the embrace, breathing even and smooth whilst Hannibal’s heart pitches wildly under his ear.
When he looks up he is unsurprised to see tears. He catches Hannibal’s face between his hands and strokes the wetness away with his thumbs. His eyes close, wholly undone by the overwhelming nearness, and Will sighs a laugh against him.
Holding him still, Will pushes to his toes and kisses him, a brief little thing. It is enough to draw a sweet whimper from Hannibal, a delicate broken noise that somehow knits together all the sorrow they have ever felt and draws it into something lovely, ephemeral and new.
“May I kiss you again?” Will asks, and Hannibal’s hands splay out spasmodically before clutching back at his hips, cinching him just that tiny bit closer.
“Yes,” Hannibal breathes, his words barely felt in the chill winter air.
Will presses their lips together again, soft and warm, slowly melting away the fear with each kiss. Hannibal molds to him, shyness stripping away as his hands still their trembling, parting his lips under Will’s and deepening, filling, joining.
It is so beautiful it hurts, cracking his chest open and raw. He sobs into Will’s mouth, but the pain that tugs at his heart finds itself healed with every beat of Will’s against him.
He loves him so completely, and every fragile kiss proclaims it deafeningly.
“I know,” Will whispers in return.
He pulls one of Hannibal’s hands free, holding it firm to his chest, and the steady thrumming into his palm tells him everything yet unsaid.
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