Kiss Away the Pain, a Hannigram short by Maverick
The drop welled up at the tip of his finger. Curious, he thought to himself.
The prick hurt, they always hurt. Rigid steel against soft linen, bursting through like a sharp knife through soft flesh. A gasp, paralleled and unexpected, ripped from the lungs.
Will didn’t often use his skills in such a way. There was never time in the day, and even when there was, he was often reminded that he had the means to replace whatever garment he was trying to repair.
The tie in his lap was a deep crimson, simple and elegant. As he ran his hands over the creases, the gentle slip of the fabric reminded him of why he needed to do this in the first place.
***
The sound of fists meeting flesh and glass meeting walls was quickly silenced, then still. Hannibal watched him carefully across the room, never wavering as he traveled the perimeter.
He was dangerous, wild, a predator wounded. He pinned Will against the wall with a stare, hands shaking as he reached out to caress his face. The first touch of a bloody hand on his cheek was all it took for Will to pull him in, devouring him. Violence understands violence, and their love was the same.
He clawed his way through the layers of clothing and mental boundaries to reach the raw, untainted nerve of Hannibal’s vulnerability.
***
He felt guilt bubbling up his throat and picked up the needle again. This part was the most tedious and the most frustrating. He pulled the thread taut and in doing so, stained it red with his own blood.
“I stitch my being into yours. Carry me with you, dear heart,” he murmured to himself. He dipped the needle to the fabric for another stitch.
***
“This was my favorite shirt, you know,” Hannibal stated plainly. The cream silk was shredded and stained with blood. His brow furrowed as his fists tightened around the remnants.
Will’s cheeks grew hot as he finished buckling his belt. He walked over and took the garment from his hands, not bothering to make eye contact.
“I’ll make it better.”
***
Will winced as he pulled the final knot closed on the tie. His fingertips were starting to bruise, courtesy of the numerous pinpricks of his sewing needle. He knew he should have worn a thimble and if he had found his, he would have.
“I was beginning to wonder where you had escaped to,” Hannibal murmured from the doorway. He turned his head to look at him, and smiled when their eyes met.
“I was working on a gift for you,” Will responded. He stood up as Hannibal walked towards him, and laid the tie in his hands. He waited in quiet contentment as his husband inspected the work, thumbing over the seam where a small stain started to spread.
The tie was placed on the table and gentle hands held injured ones. His hands were brought up for a similar inspection and he winced when his fingertips were grasped.
“These injuries aren’t from the other night. Did you hand sew this?” Hannibal asked.
He nodded shyly and replied, “Only to sew the seam. It’s the only way.”
“So these marks are the labor of your love for me.” It was a statement, not a question.
Before he could respond, Hannibal took his hands once again, turning the palms heavenward.
“And ‘as he spoke, he showed them the wounds in his hands. They were filled with joy when they saw their God’,” Hannibal lamented, “So too am I filled with joy when I see the pain my love endures.” With reverence, he dipped his head downwards, kissing each fingertip tenderly. Eyes met and each of them experienced their own exaltation.
