hi this is so self indulgent but will with migraines that leave him nauseous and shaky. every sound is too loud as he hides under his weighted blankets
The house was too loud. Even in silence.
Will lay curled beneath the weighted blanket, the one Hannibal had insisted on when they found the old cottage, when it became clear that the trauma hadnât left either of them untouched.
His head pulsed in waves, deep and slow like sonarâsharp stabs behind the eyes, down the neck, blooming nausea that crept up like an incoming tide. Every breath of air carried too much...light, scent, the whisper of movement in the walls.
He couldnât open his eyes. He barely dared to swallow. The tremble in his fingers wouldnât stop.
Hannibal hadnât spoken in the last hour. He knew.
Earlier, when Will had stumbled from the kitchen and said nothing, just pressed the heel of his palm into his temple and disappeared into their shared room, Hannibal had only nodded. The air changed. The day bent around Willâs pain.
Now the door opened. The sound was a razor, but softâsoft in that practiced, precise way Hannibal had, as if his body moved through the world with the knowledge that anything could be too much.
But the air shifted againâhis scent, his gravityâand the tension eased.
A hand touched the edge of the blanket. Waited. Not demanding entry. Just there.
Will murmured something, or maybe didnât. But Hannibal slipped beneath the blanket anyway.
He brought no perfume, no aftershave. Just warmth and a body calibrated to Willâs.
He settled behind him, chest to Willâs spine, and wrapped an arm around himâlight enough not to weigh, firm enough to anchor. The pressure helped. Willâs breath slowed.
âI brought water,â Hannibal said, voice barely more than breath.
âYouâll try later.â
He felt Hannibalâs lips press lightly to the back of his neck. No movement after. Just presence.
The nausea came and went like tides. The pressure in his skull throbbed in slow rhythms. And still, Hannibal didnât move.
Will hated this feelingâhow small it made him. How helpless. How much it made him need.
But he didnât hate being held.
He didnât hate the way Hannibal touched the back of his hand, tracing the veins slowly. The way he pressed his forehead to Willâs shoulder like it was him who needed comfort.
âIâm shaking,â Will murmured.
Will didnât move. Didnât ask him to stop. He sank into the rhythm of Hannibalâs breath.
Why is it easier to be sick with him than it ever was to be well with anyone else?*
Will let the quiet take him. Let the pain pulse and fade and pulse again.
Hannibal held him through all of it, never flinching, never pulling away.
And when the darkness passedâwhen the nausea ebbed and the tight coil in his skull began to loosenâit was still Hannibalâs hand in his, still Hannibalâs breath on the back of his neck, still Hannibal whispering:
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