Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3328544.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter, Bedelia_Du_Maurier/Hannibal_Lecter, Dr.
      Frederick_Chilton/Hannibal_Lecter, Hannibal_Lecter/Original_Male
      Character(s), Hannibal_Lecter/Mason_Verger
  Character:
      Will_Graham, Hannibal_Lecter, Bedelia_Du_Maurier, Alana_Bloom, Dr.
      Frederick_Chilton, Franklyn_Froideveaux, Mason_Verger, Beverly_Katz
  Additional Tags:
      BDSM, Dom/sub, Sexual_Frustration, UST_up_the_wazOO, Fingering, Rimming,
      Oral, brutality_(not_the_mains), Sub_Drop, After_care, past_trauma, the
      secretary_au, rent_boy_AU, Human_Furniture, humiliation_play, Whipping,
      Commands, instructions, Masturbation, Sugar_Daddy, Spanking, Rough_Sex,
      posture_collars, dom_space, sub_space
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-10 Completed: 2015-05-22 Chapters: 30/30 Words: 162292
****** Selcouth ******
by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite
Summary
     He drew the inspiration first from the Jewish tradition - intended
     for them as a means of authenticating one’s desire for conversion.
     Hannibal likes to think his own reasons are much the same.
     Hannibal is 17, in college under a false age and making ends meet by
     selling his company to those willing to expend the patience and
     money. Will Graham doesn't want a rentboy. But what he wants, in
     buying Hannibal over and over, is something the young man can't quite
     figure out yet.
Notes
     A commission for the incredible kinneykid, who requested we run free
     with our sick little minds and we came up with this. In short, The
     Secretary meets escort AU meets sugardaddy AU. This is a very slow
     burn thing, very slow. It is based on the BDSM culture of patience
     and SSC rather than just impact play (though that comes later). Lots
     of touching, lots of promises and soft teasing, acting as human
     furniture for your master's pleasure, that kind of thing.
     The violence listed is fairly intense in some chapters but we will
     always warn for it. Mason is, after all, a nasty piece of work.
     This_series_has_timestamps!
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Summary
     “I had a message memorized and everything,” Will adds dryly. “You’ve
     thrown me off my game.”
     “Are you playing a game?” Hannibal asks, in a lazy drawl as he
     reclines himself across his couch. He’s found that it affects an even
     more disaffected tone when he does.
     “No, but you are.”
He drew the inspiration first from the Jewish tradition - intended for them as
a means of authenticating one’s desire for conversion.
Hannibal likes to think his own reasons are much the same.
On the first request, he doesn’t answer. Lets the call go to voicemail, takes
down the name, number, and general tone of the message, and does not respond.
On the second request, if there is one, he still doesn’t answer but he returns
the call at a later point when it is sure to go to voicemail itself. He
explains that he’s too busy to take on new clients right now, but perhaps he’ll
consider the offer in the future. He does not consider it, but updates his
previous notes.
On the third request, he answers on the third ring - all things in symmetry, of
course - and begins to make arrangements.
It serves not only to suit his sense of whimsy, but also to weed out the
passing curious, the disingenuous, the risky and those without the drive to
make his time worthwhile. Persevering to a third call with two unminded shows a
deliberate interest that Hannibal appreciates, and allows him to tell a great
deal about how the person on the other end of the line comports themselves when
they encounter resistance.
In short, it makes him feel prized, and he wants little more than that.
And the dowry that accompanies winning his attention, anyway.
After years enough in this line of work, more than he cares to admit at only
seventeen himself, Hannibal considers himself a good gauge of character through
his particular methodology. He knows when someone is calling with false
intentions. He knows when someone is too nervous to make spending his time
worthwhile. He knows when someone means him ill. But every now and then he
finds himself pleasantly surprised.
And he did not expect this particular caller to make it to three.
“Hello Will.”
There is a pause, long enough that Hannibal wonders if, perhaps, the
underestimation had, initially, been the correct path to take, before the
caller swallows, lets out a breath.
“I didn’t think you would pick up,” he says, though there is no blame or anger
there. If anything he sounds as exhausted as he had the first time he had
called this number, had left a message asking simply for company.
“I had a message memorized and everything,” Will adds dryly. “You’ve thrown me
off my game.”
“Are you playing a game?” Hannibal asks, in a lazy drawl as he reclines himself
across his couch. He’s found that it affects an even more disaffected tone when
he does.
“No, but you are.”
Hannibal doesn’t deny this, but arches a brow. There’s no rancor in the man’s
tone, nothing to indicate that he’s angry - it’s more an exhaustion, and
Hannibal wonders what has caused it. It’s late, but not so late that the call
comes at a worrisome hour - Hannibal has learned not to take any calls after
midnight, and Will has just slipped beneath the wire by thirty minutes.
Too late for dinner, for an arranged evening together, but just late enough for
someone to begin to doubt their own doubting, as the night’s darkness deepens.
Hannibal allows a smile to catch the corner of his lips, just enough to carry
the sound of it in his words. “You can tell me your message anyway if you
like.”
“But will it win your favor or entertain you?” Will muses, and Hannibal cannot
help the smile that narrows his eyes before he checks it.
“You would be surprised how infrequently entertainment is used to garner my
favor.”
“What usually is?”
“Is this your message?”
“Hardly one-sided.” There is a sound of a cigarette lighter being flicked on,
three, four, five times before it takes and Will exhales just past the
receiver. “No, my message would have been entirely simple. ‘I hope you earned
his company as he earned yours, Hannibal, have a pleasant evening with him’.”
Another exhale, like wind catching too many dry leaves at once, and Will clears
his throat.
A smoker, then, but not often by the sound of it. When he’s tense, perhaps,
when the hours grow long after an even longer day, his throat roughened by the
long drag he takes, unused to the burn. He is nervous, and Hannibal can all but
smell it on him.
“It almost sounds as if you’re jealous,” Hannibal considers.
“Almost,” answers Will, “doesn’t mean that I am.” He pauses, wetting his lips
with his tongue, and bristles, just a little. “This isn’t very professional.”
“Have you had experience with professionals before?”
“Real ones, but not those in your particular field.”
Hannibal sits up a little, propped onto his elbow now. “Then let me assure you
that I am entirely professional.”
“Is this fun for you?”
“Which part?”
“Teasing me.”
“You’re not on the clock yet,” responds Hannibal, easing into a stretch before
letting his feet slip to the floor again to stand. “I’m allowed to enjoy
myself.”
“You don’t enjoy yourself on the clock?” The question plays entirely into
Hannibal’s own script in his head, with this, but the interesting thing is that
in this case, Will knows it. A deliberate tilt in the right direction. “I
thought you smarter than that, at least.”
“You’ve thought of me?”
 
“Not a moment after considering dialing thrice,” Will replies, and there seems
to be a smile in his voice, now, though the sharp exhales of the smoke still
appear to be less self-soothing and more in self-punishment. A moment more,
another, and Will lets out a breath. “What do you want?”
At this, Hannibal pauses, toes against the rug where he had started to move to
the door to turn and come back, stuck midstep. “You ask what I want?”
“It is entirely your game,” Will reminds him, draws a breath in between his
teeth. “So I am asking, yes.”
“Company.”
“Easy answer,” snorts Will, but not without that smile that Hannibal can still
hear lingering.
“An honest one. If it were not, I’d not have answered,” Hannibal murmurs. “What
do you do, Will?”
“I’m a teacher,” Will answers, after a moment of consideration.
“Of?”
“Forensics.”
Hannibal hums. He knows then, in all likelihood, the laws that surround what
they’re conscientiously not discussing. He is paid comfortably, but not so much
that this would not be an indulgence for him. Something doesn’t fit right, and
what it is Hannibal isn’t yet sure the shape of, but nothing in his senses
prickles in alarm.
Hannibal wanders towards the bedroom of his flat - appointed as well as he can,
and still a miserably cheap rental. Luxurious furnishings surrounded by walls
with water stains older than Hannibal himself. He narrows his eyes at the
largest of them as he passes, to instead focus on his closet, and the carefully
chosen assembly of suits there. Only a few, but interchangeable, to allow for
variation with repeat clients.
“Who shared my number with you?”
A hum, a tone to suggest just the briefest indulgence in that particular secret
remaining his own before Will deigns to respond.
“Doctor Alana Bloom,” he says, waits for a reaction to the name he is certain
Hannibal doesn’t know, before adding, “through a colleague of her’s, Bedelia Du
Maurier.”
There is a long enough pause for Will to assume that that name, at least, holds
significance for Hannibal. There is no tension over the line, just
consideration perhaps, judging Will’s character by whom he knows and who, in
turn, knows Hannibal this way. Degrees of separation that read like a book and
present their own conclusions.
Characteristics that build up from multiple people to lead up to this one.
He hadn’t, after all, called late. He had, in fact, called thrice.
As though on cue, Will clears his throat again and speaks. “She suggested I
might try to call, and gauge my interest on that alone. I called once in good
faith, twice to see.”
“And this third time?”
Will makes a sound, a soft thing that suggests a smile and something deeper
still. “Entertainment.”
The suit that Hannibal takes down is tastefully dark, nearly somber compared to
what he would usually prefer to wear. From the patient exhaustion Hannibal can
hear in Will’s voice, he imagines that one of the brighter suits would make too
ostentatious an impression. “And are you?” Hannibal asks. “Entertained.”
“I’m curious.”
A genuine smile bares Hannibal’s teeth. “That’s seen to the death of many cats,
you know.”
“But satisfaction brought them back,” Will finishes, and it’s enough to make
Hannibal pause in his arrangements.
An educated man, clever and quick to not only respond to Hannibal’s games, but
do so adeptly. Well-paid enough to consider this a viable option to relieve the
weltschmerz that ladens his voice, and unlikely to risk professional
acquaintanceship were he untrustworthy. He is, in a word, quaint, and Hannibal
finds himself pleasantly intrigued.
At any rate, it’s already been a more engaging conversation that Hannibal
shares with most of his clients, and so with an accepted mourning of the night
he was to spend studying, Hannibal remarks, “It’s much easier to entertain in
person, I’ve found.”
A laugh, then, soft, but entirely genuine.
“Perhaps for you,” Will agrees. “Personally I abhor being social.”
There is a moment where Hannibal falters, considers perhaps he misheard,
considers perhaps he misunderstood, or Will had misused a word. Though that in
itself is absurd. He licks his lips to reply, question, perhaps just let the
phone drop from his shoulder to his palm and hang up the call.
“An interesting remark to make,” he tries instead, careful, tone neutral and
calm as before. He hears Will hum, hears a door swing open, close with a slap
against its frame.
“And yet, note, entirely truthful.” Will says, sighs. “I do not enjoy the
requirements of being social yet like any human being I seek out and crave
company of a particular sort.”
“Oh?”
“You play a clever game, Hannibal, but not a long one. Was the call long enough
for you to gauge an interest?”
“I believe I made an offer,” the boy responds, a little slower as he finds his
footing again, palm pressed against the suit laid out on his bed. “And it
sounded as though you declined.”
“I declined an offer of entertainment,” Will corrects him, mildly. “I don’t
need to be entertained.”
Hannibal unbuttons the jacket where it lies on the bed, fingers turning each
one open. “Then tell me what you do need.”
“To sleep,” Will admits with a long sigh, before his tone turns once more,
somehow more decisive, perhaps reassuring in a way only an exhausted teacher
can be to students honed in on that particular sense of humor. “To allow you
the same. And to seek company at a more reasonable hour, tomorrow.”
Hannibal can’t help the way his lips tilt, just so, just once, before he parts
his lips to speak. “Tomorrow?”
“Dinner.”
“Seven?”
“Eight is better.”
Hannibal smiles. “Eight.”
“Is that when the clock begins?”
“I should begin it tonight, for the entertainment.”
“You suggested that was not part of the repertoire of your paid time,” Will
reminds him, but with a sigh - a smile alongside - resigns himself to the
inevitable. Mingling of two sets of rules from two different games.
“No,” Hannibal finally answers, a mild tease. “I said that my enjoyment was
not.” This, finally, earns a breath of laughter, and Hannibal can’t help but
smile at the openness of it - as if Will is surprised to hear himself make such
a sound.
The suit is returned to the closet then, and for a moment Hannibal is remiss
and grateful all at once that Will does not want to see him tonight. It would
have been easy money, unlikely to be a repeat client but friendly enough on the
surface at least that Hannibal might have even found the experience
pleasurable. He supposes, finally slipping out of his shoes, that he will just
have to wait, and make the most of a blessed evening alone.
Hannibal chooses the restaurant, at Will’s insistent apathy. He takes Will’s
information, his credit card number, assures the man that he will not be
charged until they are finished, though swift, thin fingers tap across his
table to authorize the payment in advance. The rest of their negotiations will
take place in person, at Hannibal’s apathetic insistence, and Will grows quiet
but for single word answers.
The doubt sits heavy in his voice, and Hannibal unfurls his spine into a
languid stretch, speaking softly. “Sleep,” he murmurs. “I anticipate a lively
conversation tomorrow, and we will both need our stamina for it.”
He does not wait for a response, but merely hangs up, and takes aside the small
notebook he keeps in the drawer beside his bed to mark down Will’s name for a
rare fourth time.
---
Will, despite assumptions to the contrary, is never late. More often than not,
he is early, seated in his car and allowing his mind to calm itself to a
chaotic neutral. Enough to hold a conversation. Enough not to add his own
opinion where it is unwanted. Enough, at least, to get out of his damned car.
He had not bothered to check out the restaurant before arriving, and thinks,
now, that perhaps he should have.
The cars, alone, suggest a place where Will would rarely set foot, for no other
reason than he had no desire to pay $30 for a breadstick, singular. His lips
curl as he checks his watch, both amused, darkly, and nervous, genuinely, that
his company would choose such a place for first - possibly only - meeting
between them.
He supposes he should have guessed, from Bedelia and her preferences, from the
way Alana spoke of her, that this would happen.
Perhaps it is another test, another game.
Will gives himself a moment more to linger, before getting out and locking the
car, making his way to the front entrance. The table, he assumes, is under his
own name, but does not risk a falter, so instead he stands and waits, hands in
his pockets, glasses partially down his nose as his eyes remain open but see
nothing. Meditative, quiet, oddly approachable by those who know what signs to
read, Will stands. Will waits.
But there's no game now, not for this. Not when the meter is running and
there's money on the line.
Contrary to whatever Will Graham might think of him, Hannibal Lecter is
entirely a professional. His car is left with the valet - someone who passed
his number to promising clientele early on in exchange for a taste of
Hannibal's own services - and who knows to look out for the little auto if
Hannibal leaves with another. Elegant fingers smooth flat the lay of his coat,
a glance in the smoked glass of the restaurant’s windows assures him that every
honey-blonde hair is perfectly in place, and conjuring the most ephemeral smile
he can, Hannibal enters.
He sees Will instantly, despite how little he looks like one of Hannibal's
usual clients. No French cuffs, no glittering tie tack, no drawing up of
shoulders as if to heft the weight of his own masculinity. He looks in no part
the powerful, wealthy people that Hannibal prefers to be courted by.
But he does look like a teacher, and it turns Hannibal's smile unexpectedly
genuine. Clean and comfortable, a blue button-down beneath a grey blazer, a red
tie knotted in a four-in-hand. Simple. Unassuming. Not at all unpleasant to
look at, despite the unshaven scruff and tamed curls that still slip free for
one to fall in front of his glasses.
“I hope you were not waiting long,” Hannibal murmurs to him, unshouldering his
coat to be hung by the attentive maître d' who Hannibal turns his smile to in
passing.
Will does not startle from his reverie but takes his time slowly gathering the
information necessary to return to the now properly. He takes a breath, turns
to the same voice that had so enjoyed tugging him into conversation the night
before, and pauses, long enough that it would appear rude from anyone else, and
it is hardly charming on the man but certainly curious. Certainly worth waiting
through for the satisfaction at the end.
"I have found a way to occupy myself without incident," Will replies, swallows
in a way that suggests discomfort not hunger, before holding out his hand, palm
up, to gesture for Hannibal to enter the establishment first. He watches the
young man smile, only partially a mask, at the maître d', state his name for
the reservation. Their table is set towards the back, out of the way of the
constant coming and going of waiters, close enough that they will not have to
watch their food paraded through the entire restaurant.
A clever choice; he has been here before.
They are left to their comfort, take their seats, and Will allows his eyes to
linger on Hannibal just long enough to take him in.
"You do not match your voice,” he comments, finds Hannibal’s only reply is a
smile not quite wide enough to show teeth, though the intent is clear. He lets
his own spread across his face, entirely unfelt, disingenuous. "You sound
older."
“And you sound disappointed,” Hannibal chides, unfolding his napkin with a
sweep of fingers to settle across his lap. “Usually the reaction is entirely
the opposite.”
Will’s eyes twitch narrower, just enough, but Hannibal averts his attention to
the wine list with a murmur of thanks to the waiter who brings it to them. “I
was told that you’re an excellent conversationalist,” Will remarks, and at
this, Hannibal’s eyes lift to him.
Dr. Du Maurier’s words, Hannibal knows, conveyed as if by a game of telephone,
to be spoken by the man across from him instead of the elegant psychiatrist.
She keeps Hannibal in her attention solely for that reason, with few exceptions
that he has always been happy to indulge. A bright woman, in his intended
field, willing to share her mind and her experiences and once in a while, her
bed.
He is fond of her. As much as he is of anyone, anyway.
“I’ve been told the same, and assured them that it’s entirely false,” Hannibal
answers after a moment, and in a fit of pique, he defers the choice of wine to
Will instead. “There is a difference between listening, and speaking. Knowing
how to balance in favor of the former is a valuable skill.”
“I find it hard to believe,” Will remarks, hand spanning across the menu, “that
someone your age -” Hannibal arches a brow, the hint of a smile in his eyes
enough that Will’s protests quiet and reroute. “I spend all day teaching
students. I didn’t expect to be having dinner with one.”
The challenge in his words is intoxicating, a friction rubbing hot between them
rather than the smooth flow of dialogue that Hannibal has become accustomed to.
Spoiled by, perhaps, is a better way to phrase it, as he seeks to tighten his
hold over the flow between them and adjust it more to his liking.
“Tell me about teaching,” Hannibal suggests.
The muscles beneath Will’s eyes twitch, just barely, and he almost welcomes the
interruption from the waiter who comes to check what they would like to drink.
Will, to Hannibal's genuine amusement, orders a beer, allows his eyes to settle
on the younger man as he takes the menu himself to select a wine, one of the
more expensive, as Will recalls. He wonders if that is a challenge or genuine
desire for the taste.
He should call the waiter back, request he check ID for the drinks, as he
should have, of the younger man before him. He should. See him quietly removed
from the premises, soft requests to perhaps not, next time, choose this
establishment. He should.
"You play a very intricate game, Hannibal, why?"
Hannibal settles back into his chair, a less welcoming posture than leaning
ever so slightly forward as he had been. It is a game, really, down to each
individual movement, particularly controlled. This allows space between them,
for the man who watches Hannibal so narrowly, allows a feeling of pursuer and
pursued. But the question lingers, spoken softly but aggressive in its
phrasing, and Hannibal hums in thought.
“It is expected,” he answers simply. “Most seek out the experience as a whole,
a fleeting courtship. They know that they will win, ultimately, so there is
assurance that playing is not wasted effort. Still,” Hannibal muses, “the
challenge makes them feel as though they have worked to reap the rewards.”
Hannibal accepts his wine with a soft smile, bringing it to just beneath his
nose to take in the aroma before savoring a small sip. The price is incidental,
but Hannibal has been spoiled enough to have developed a palate for the finer
things, and the burgundy sits warm and rich against his tongue.
“You refuse to play the game,” the young man counters after a moment more of
thought. “Why?”
"Because some of my students are older than you," Will points out, watching
Hannibal grow that little bit more tense for it. It is strange, and entirely
fascinating, watching this young man discover his age is not always an asset.
But Will relents, takes a drink of his beer before setting it aside and
bringing a hand to his eyes beneath his glasses.
"Teaching is comfortable," Will replies instead, careful. “Once in a while I
come across a student who intrigues me and classes become more interesting,
questions directed at them, discussions centered on their work."
"Playing favorites?"
"Natural selection." Will’s lips quirk, and this, at least, is genuine. He had
wanted company, when he had called. He had not called with the intent to drag
the man to bed, and certainly now that is entirely off the books. A pity. He
can’t deny he finds the young man attractive. Interesting.
But it would hardly do for FBI to be caught in such a compromising situation,
and Will is nothing if not cautious.
"Teaching is an easy fallback to return to."
An interesting turn of phrase that is no less deliberate than the rest of his
words, intended to pique Hannibal’s curiosity further. A role reversal,
perhaps, but Hannibal isn’t yet willing to play that hand. He lets the obvious
question hang, files it away as information to be gleaned later, and like a cat
turning towards a swath of sun, Hannibal eases up a smile to the waiter who
appears, placing his order with a well-appointed accent sweeping lithe through
the French names.
Will, to Hannibal’s delight, orders the same.
Though the man is an interesting anomaly among the mostly faceless others with
whom Hannibal chooses to grace with his presence, what he desires - insofar as
Hannibal can tell - is nothing new. Company, truly, someone unrelated to his
fields of work or interest with whom he can share conversation, even if he does
show a peculiar inclination to wanting to dominate the nature of it. An ego
that Will himself would likely deny he has but still appears bright as day to
Hannibal, a pride that needs to be massaged in feeling superior to another.
Hannibal simply happens to be the subject of it.
He hardly cares. It’s his money to make and Will’s to spend, however he
prefers. A shame, though, that the potential to share more than that seems to
have been quashed so soon.
He’s not at all unpleasant to look at.
“You’ve never done this before,” Hannibal notes, as the waiter departs with
both their orders. “Why now?”
"Paid for company? No." Will shakes his head, takes up his beer again to cool
his throat. He considers the rest of the question carefully, dissecting it as
he would any of his cases.
"Indulging a whim, perhaps," he offers, shrugs, briefly meets Hannibal’s eyes
with his own. "Curiosity," he adds. He sits back, as Hannibal is, the two
mirroring each other in attempted avoidance, yet neither inclined to end the
conversation, call the evening a failure and return to their lives. Not yet,
perhaps. Not quite a failure, perhaps. "The potential for satisfaction at the
end of it all, once we both cede certain prides, I suppose. A difficult feat
for us both. In that, at least, we are similar."
"Satisfaction is a spectrum," Hannibal comments, finds Will’s eyes on him for
it. Pleasant. Warming. A pity.
"Thankfully so. What aspect were you seeking, coming here? Merely sexual or
following your own whims?"
Hannibal tilts his head at the question, and it requires a genuine effort to
stifle his amusement. The dismissal of ‘mere’ sexual pursuits, from one who has
- in fact - hired an escort, the assumption that Hannibal does this out of his
own need for fulfillment and the goodness of his heart - it’s all very funny
and, surprisingly, deeply charming.
“You called me,” Hannibal reminds him. “It would have been rude not to return
the interest.”
“You made me call three times,” Will answers, a breath of laughter catching his
words before he takes another sip and leans back to allow for their plates to
be set.
“And you did,” smiles Hannibal, but he can feel it fading incrementally, a
dawning frustration as their dinner continues aimlessly. He does not want to
have sex, that much is obvious now, but he hardly seems to want the
conversation. He resents it, and by proxy, Hannibal. It isn’t the first time
that a client has projected their own dismay onto Hannibal, but he hadn’t
expected it from this one.
More surprises, at every turn.
“I sought to provide a service,” Hannibal finally answers, when the waiter has
stepped away. His tone flattens, just a little, but his expression remains
neutral. “I have, thus far, attempted to do so to the best of my ability, but
you are - admittedly - making it rather difficult for me to glean the nature of
the services I should provide.” Hannibal slips his knife through the cut of
steak seared but nearly raw upon his plate, and takes the bite delicately
between his teeth. “It doesn’t matter what I want, in truth, but in order for
me to make this worth the time and money you’re already spending, it would help
me immensely to know what you want, Will.”
“I’m getting exactly what I want,” Will tells him, brows up in earnestness as
he takes up his cutlery to start on his meal as well, though he is more
interested in watching the young man in front of him hold his composure through
obvious frustration. “I sought the service of your conversation, and I am
rather enjoying it. What you find frustrating, I think, is that I am not
allowing you at all to gain a baseline on me.”
Will tilts his head, takes his time setting the piece of steak between his
teeth, curling his tongue over it, chewing slowly to savor the taste.
“So you we are at an impasse,” Will adds. “Not knowing anything about the other
and refusing to give enough of ourselves. Though that, surely, is a frustration
you face frequently.”
And there, that spark of dominance and pride that had flared before, in wanting
to control the situation, the conversation, everything in even the smallest
way. It is entirely enraging, crude, ridiculous, yet still the young man does
not stand up and walk out, does not give Will the satisfaction of seeing him
leave.
And in that, finds himself watching a brief flicker of relief, when he remains
sitting.
It is no wonder he pays for company. He is, in a word, insufferable. In more
words, smug and overbearing. Hannibal wonders how long it’s been since Will has
had a night out with anyone, lowered himself to such mundane things as being
sociable, thought anyone worthy of it who would indulge him in return. He
doesn’t ask, of course, that would be unbearably rude, but merely chews in
silence for a moment, before washing the steak - bleeding rare - down with a
swallow of wine.
“To the contrary,” Hannibal considers, in earnest. “I find the people with whom
I work remarkably willing to reveal themselves to me.” The pun earns a snort,
and Hannibal’s smile widens before he can stop it. Slowly, though, he reels it
back, though his words remain entirely genuine. “And you would be surprised in
their revelations how little most mind me at all. I am a companion for them, in
whatever they form they need, in collaboration or in conflict, affection or
sex.”
Hannibal considers his words, and watches Will now, as he speaks - passing
their impasse, he hopes, to meet in an agreeable middle rather than suffer
through the rest of dinner in silence. “There are very few who know me as I am,
who desire that at all. And I must, for my own well-being, consider them
carefully before I move the mirror aside into which they project themselves,
and let them see me. Know me.”
A pause, tongue pressing between his lips to savor the blood, the wine, that
reddens them, and a smile curves sharp. “But you’ve no interest in that,”
Hannibal reminds him, and though his voice is scarce above a whisper, his words
are pointed. “What interest could someone such as yourself have in someone
younger than your students? I do wonder.”
“I hardly find you interesting,” Will responds, watches the tension in
Hannibal’s jaw tighten, relax, before his smile widens and he tilts his head,
and Will, in turn, feels his eyes narrow in pleasure. “Now there,” he says.
“I’ve given an inch, and you can tell when I lie to you.”
A moment to take a long drink of beer, nearly finishing the glass before Will
sets it down again, takes up his knife once more.
“I admitted to being misled by your voice, by proxy your age, I didn’t think I
would be having dinner with someone younger than a student. So my interest in
you is yet unknown. I know you study, but I don’t know what. I know you did not
lie about your enjoyment, this is a necessity, not a pastime. I know a lot by
looking and reading you, but none of them are things you would tell me, so I
cannot use them.”
He raises an eyebrow, takes another bite of his meal. “And I abhor being
social,” he reminds Hannibal almost lightly. “People say I lack the skills for
it. You are doing amicably, the wine is still in your glass.”
Hannibal accepts the praise with a tilt of his head, before he takes another
sip, eyes alight. “As we’ve established,” he murmurs, “I am a professional.” He
lifts his napkin from his lap, pressing it neatly against his lips before
folding it onto the table, hands folded. “And you’re not the worst I’ve met.”
The older man grins, just a flash of teeth, at the light rejoinder. “No?”
“No.”
“But not the best either.”
“No,” Hannibal agrees, allowing his amusement to show now. He doesn’t see the
harm in it, really - he’s making plenty tonight just from eating a good dinner
and being mildly berated, from someone who has much more to lose than he does
were it ever to come to light. Hannibal’s insurance, always, in his youth if
not his choice of profession. “I am studying medicine. Surgery, in particular.”
“That would explain the fee you charged,” Will agrees, eyes on Hannibal as he
finishes his beer, sets the glass down again and watches as Hannibal savors the
liquid in his own glass. “Early,” he adds, raising an eyebrow to see if
Hannibal would deny it, argue. He doesn’t. Will presses his lips together and
parts them to take a breath. Around them, the place is filling up quickly,
apparently popular further into the later evening. Will ignores them. Hannibal
is aware of them but doesn’t turn to look.
“Do you enjoy it?” Will asks at length, curious, finds a small smile in answer.
“I would not work so hard for it did I not,” Hannibal replies, much to Will’s
pleasure, watching him reach for his glass again, his own teeth set against his
inner lip before Will lets it go and sits forward, just enough.
“Are you good at it?”
“I have yet to fail a paper.”
“Admirable,” Will responds dryly. “Not failing a paper is not the same as doing
well in it.”
Dark eyes settle on him and linger, long enough to make clear his exasperation
before he shrugs gently, a graceful motion. “I am within the first three of my
class in every subject.”
“Better,” Will replies, sitting back as he was. “I would hate to be paying a
delinquent and truant.”
He considers the young man before him, the way he has resigned himself to this
being the closest to ‘friendly’ either would get this evening, considers how it
truly is a shame he is so young, the hate sex would be well worth the hangover
the next morning. Will presses his teeth to his inner lip again, holds for a
breath, releases on an exhale.
“You’re done with your wine,” he tells him, as Hannibal reaches, once more, for
it.
Quaint. The word keeps springing to mind and it makes Hannibal smile each time
it does. They might have had a truly pleasant evening, all things considered,
even if they didn’t wind up in bed together. Will is clearly intelligent, has
experience alluded to but not yet illuminated, and Hannibal has found himself
capable of upholding satisfying conversations about nearly everything - music,
history, theatre, anything - with nearly everyone.
Nearly.
“I don’t believe I am,” Hannibal responds, brows twitching inward as he takes
up his glass. “You see, there’s still more in the glass, which means -”
“That you’re done,” Will finishes for him, and Hannibal pauses in lifting it to
his lips.
“I will be,” challenges the younger man.
“If it means I need to insist that the waiter check your ID, yes. You will be
then. Or you are now.”
The forcefulness of the statement, the threat in it, plucks at something deeper
in Hannibal. It’s familiar, this kind of control, but - as the night has proven
time and again - wholly unexpected from the grumpy, grudging professor sitting
across from him. And so Hannibal sets his glass back down, unfinished, and
arches a brow.
Will offers little more than a blink, a brief tilt of the corners of his lips
to suggest genuine amusement as he studies Hannibal in front of him. Then he
considers his own glass, his plate, most of dinner eaten, partially enjoyed -
usually he prefers his meat cooked - and the possibility of making them both
suffer through dessert.
The thought alone draws a brief snort from him before Will sits up, gestures to
the waiter for the check.
“You are very good, Hannibal, at your means to an end,” Will tells him, and
there is something there beyond the sarcasm and dryness, something warmer,
perhaps. Or maybe Hannibal is being too generous. The check comes and Will
folds his card into it without a word, to be taken away again.
“And you are welcome for dinner.”
Hannibal’s jaw works in a movement he can’t stop fast enough, a blatant flicker
of annoyance to have even this - a simple thanks - undermined by someone who
apparently has little better to do than pay an exorbitant amount of money to
share an unpleasantly terse dinner with a stranger. He should charge him again,
out of spite, because no matter how many times Hannibal reminds himself he
should be grateful for such a relatively effortless evening, the fact remains
that he has gone out of his way to make this appointment, to spend his time
here, and it was for little more than to be berated and disdained.
That, and enough money to cover his lab fees for a little while longer.
He forces his expression to ease, allowing it to fall to a sedate neutrality,
to hide the bruising of his own ego. It never gets easier, this part, when a
client is reminded of the nature of their interaction and uses their leverage
to revile that which they themselves have sought. It is Hannibal’s fault,
always, that they are in this position. Hannibal’s fault, always, for what he
has chosen to pay for his schooling. Hannibal’s burden to carry another’s
shame.
He does not bother to say thank you when it is so clearly unwanted.
They stand to go, and as Hannibal shoulders into his coat again and buttons it
neatly, he chooses to ignore the blue-eyed gaze that glances over him again.
Hannibal waits until they’re outside, then, and with as much disinterest as he
can muster - it doesn’t take much effort to manifest at this point - he asks,
“Are you seeking additional company, then, or are you satisfied with services
rendered?”
Will raises an eyebrow, watches him a moment more before ducking his head and
adjusting his own.
“I offended you.” It’s not a question, though Will makes no attempt to
apologize for the obvious slight. He can see Hannibal standing straight-backed
next to him, eyes away perhaps for want of any distance he can achieve, be it
only partial. Ostrich with his head in the sand.
Out of sight, and all that.
A car pulls up beside them, simple little thing, and the valet hands Hannibal
the keys with a smile, familiar, warm, before going on his way, back to his
station. Will lifts an eyebrow as he lifts his eyes to Hannibal again. Valet.
Dinner. A suit he is fairly sure did not come from his own savings. The boy did
know how to enjoy himself. A poor thing beneath a veneer of riches.
“I won’t pull more emotional labor from you by making you pretend you want to
spend the rest of your evening with me,” Will says, rolling his shoulders in
his coat. “It would do us both a disservice.”
With a thin smile he makes to walk past the parked car, around it and almost to
the lot before turning, perhaps thinking better of his parting words before
adding, earnestly, “I did enjoy the company.”
Hannibal glances up, halfway into his car already, and affects a smile that
does not reach his eyes. “I’m glad that I could provide,” he responds, before
slipping into his car. “Good night, Will.”
The words are spoken in earnest, as Hannibal releases a long-held breath and
settles his hands against the steering wheel, reminding himself as he goes of
the payment now posting to his bank, and that all it cost him was his time.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     “I’m seeking company.”
     “It is unavailable.”
     “I did not say for today,” Will counters. “I am amenable to
     negotiation.”
     “And if I’m not?” Hannibal asks, tapping his pen against the book
     propped against his knees, back against the headboard of his bed. “It
     is, contrary to whatever preconceived notions you have, a two-way
     transaction. I choose my clients. I choose where I spend my time. And
     my time is no longer available.”
     “To me,” clarifies Will, unnecessarily, but to push, and it rankles
     Hannibal into a frown.
“Hello, Will.”
Hannibal cradles the phone against his shoulder, displeased enough that the man
would bother calling him again at all, and of course - of course - it would be
on a day that Hannibal has already been far too busy. Classes started at eight
that morning, after a very long night and two stolen hours of sleep, lectures
and labs throughout the day until five, and Hannibal now finds himself studying
desperately in the scant hour he has to himself before he’s due to see a client
at seven - one who will make his evening hell if he’s late or less than
perfect.
And now, this. After a week since the most miserable dinner that Hannibal has
experienced in a very long time... this.
Him.
“I’m glad that you called,” Hannibal continues, flat. “I’m sorry for the
inconvenience, but I’m unable to take on new clients at this time. My apologies
-”
“Displacement.” Will replies lazily, presses his wrist to his lips to stifle a
yawn, though he’s fairly sure Hannibal hears it regardless. “You’re not angry
with me.”
“I’m not angry,” Hannibal responds with a sigh, and he can almost feel the man
smile at that. It’s infuriating. “And I am not taking on new clients.”
“I’m already in your book,” Will counters, though it is just as calm, just as
lacking in force as their last phone conversation had been. “I am far from new,
and I would suspect well beyond novel.”
Will allows the pause that greets him to take a breath, press his lips
together, ask simply, “I’m seeking company.”
“It is unavailable.”
“I did not say for today,” Will counters. “I am amenable to negotiation.”
“And if I’m not?” Hannibal asks, tapping his pen against the book propped
against his knees, back against the headboard of his bed. “It is, contrary to
whatever preconceived notions you have, a two-way transaction. I choose my
clients. I choose where I spend my time. And my time is no longer available.”
“To me,” clarifies Will, unnecessarily, but to push, and it rankles Hannibal
into a frown.
“Not everyone is guaranteed a second chance, Will.”
“Was it so unpleasant?”
“Not the worst,” Hannibal echoes, setting his pen between his teeth. It’s
already been more time than he wanted to spend on this - on him - and Hannibal
glances to the clock beside his bed with a sigh. “You seemed to have little
enough regard for what I do at the time, and at risk of overspeaking, I can’t
imagine why beyond desperation you would seek me out again. Your curiosity has
been sated, has it not? To try something new, to step outside whatever staid
boundaries you maintain. To feel danger, perhaps. And you found me wanting in
all measurable ways - my age, my services offered, beyond being a warm body
across the table for you to berate.”
Hannibal pauses, cutting short his own tirade, unlike him entirely to show so
much but with little time enough for himself today, his patience is thin. And
grows narrower still when he hears Will laugh.
“I far from found you wanting,” Will tells him, amused, warm, despite the anger
he can feel directed at him, the displeasure, the genuine hurt that Hannibal
hides behind the other two. “Your age surprised me but your services were
rendered without fault or error. I don’t think I have had a decent conversation
without someone trying to butter me up for a better grade or easier lesson
plans for months, before you.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Hannibal responds, brings a hand to his eyes to rub
them, exhausted, hardly patient or forgiving. And yet he has yet to hang up,
when it is entirely in his power to, to get rid of Will and that soft near-
laugh in his ear.
“Did I truly berate you that much?”
Hannibal considers, jaw tense and book growing heavier against his knees. An
irritation, yes, but it had not been a cruelty. Not like certain other people
he hosts, not like some whose call he narrowly avoids.
“It was far from a carefree evening,” Hannibal comments. “I’m sorry, Will, my
time is not free to give. Not today, not -”
“Tell me what you’re studying, now.” There is no pleading there, not a
distraught man caught in a lover fantasy gone wrong. No, Will is as indifferent
as he had been the first time, as he had been at dinner, and just as before,
Hannibal finds he does not, really, want to lose his voice just yet.
“You were rude. And dismissive.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“You didn’t ask at all.”
“No.”
The word is like a sip of whiskey, heating Hannibal’s throat and gathering hot
in his belly. He squirms a little, sitting more upright, and presses his lips
together in thought. The silence between them isn’t silent at all, and Hannibal
isn’t sure if it’s the hum of the call against his ear or his own pulse buzzing
louder.
“Organic chemistry,” Hannibal answers, in as ambivalent a tone as he can
muster, stopping the book from sliding from his knees with a careful hand. “At
the moment, I’m not studying anything,” he adds, “because you called. Is that
all you wanted?”
“No.”
The same warmth, the same fluttering indecision as Hannibal considers that he
should just hang up. Lets his finger move to the button and just linger,
caressing it but not pushing. For a moment more, there is nothing, before Will
takes a breath.
“Touch yourself.”
It’s so blatant, so entirely without lead-in or subtlety that for a moment
Hannibal just blinks, lips parted in surprise.
“What?”
“You’re taking no information in, your mind is not there. What you are doing is
reading words and forgetting them. You’re not grounded.”
“So you want me to touch myself?”
“One sure way to blank the mind entirely when it’s already exhausted,” Will
reasons, still entirely indifferent, almost lofty with what he asks and how.
And Hannibal considers that in this, too, he didn’t actually ask. He told.
“I can’t afford to be exhausted,” Hannibal answers, a literal truth. His
protest hangs - disregarded, ignored, or perhaps simply accepted without change
to Will’s request. The hum in his ears seems louder somehow and Hannibal slips
his book to the bed, tucking his pen inside the well-worn pages, marked with
notes from past students who owned it.
Already the heat in his stomach has spread downward, lower across his belly to
gather between his legs and bring him to half-hardness. Hannibal looks towards
the ceiling and restrains a sigh - he won’t give him that yet - before working
his pants quietly open.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t.”
Frustration pulls his brows in and Hannibal glances to the clock again. He has
thirty minutes before he needs to leave, time enough - since he’s already been
pulled away from any hope of studying - to at least pick up a little extra on
the side.
Pressing his palm flat into his briefs, Hannibal murmurs, “You know I’m going
to charge you for this.”
“And here I thought I was special enough for a free show,” Will murmurs, and
there is that smile, that curve of it, that Hannibal can hear. “Are you
charging by the minute or the word? Because if it’s the latter, I would pay to
hear your voice break.”
A subtle click of the ‘k’, another humming silence after. Hannibal keeps his
eyes on the ceiling, splays his fingers against himself but does not rub.
Thirty minutes to please a man he does not want to please, who had called him,
essentially, to hear him come undone through the phone. Because Hannibal would
not see him.
The blame web grows tangled, sticky like the webs of sleep that tug at him
still, too close, and with this even closer.
“I have no more than thirty minutes,” Hannibal tells Will, who hums his
understanding, inevitably asks what will happen once the time runs out, and
Hannibal finds himself answering before he can think clearly enough to come up
with a lie, to even tell the man to mind his own business, when Hannibal is
clearly none of his.
“I’m providing company.”
“Then I am providing your client a service. Perhaps I’ll put it on my tax
return.”
“Write it off as a charitable donation,” the younger man considers, and when
Will laughs, Hannibal curls his fingers around himself to tug just softly, to
savor how he hardens against his own hand. A pleasure he rarely affords
himself, in truth, when others will pay him for the opportunity.
He listens for a moment, the phone tucked warm against his cheek, to the hum of
the line, the steady breath on the other side of it, the movement of air -
wind, perhaps, or a fan. Closing his eyes, Hannibal tries to think of nothing
at all, but finds himself instead recalling the particular slope of the
professor’s hunched shoulders, the scruff clinging to the strong curve of his
jaw. The way his eyes became ever so slightly darker when Hannibal returned his
wine glass to the table, unfinished.
Because Will told him he was done.
“I won’t finish for you,” Hannibal tells him, without rancor. “One must reserve
their energy when company is planned.”
“You’re young,” Will says, a tilt to his voice that is entirely too amused.
“I’m sure you can recover.”
It should be infuriating. It is. Infuriating. To be played like this and yet
Hannibal finds that his mind wanders right back to the man again, with his
light eyes and tense lips, so much held behind a well-honed mask. He must be
insufferable at work, must be entirely impossible to get along with. The worst
teacher. The harshest marker. Wherever he works, Hannibal is glad none of their
classes intersect or ever will...
“Tell me what you’re doing,” Will says quietly, and his tone’s dipped as
Hannibal’s breathing had quickened.
Hannibal’s fingers curl tighter at the command, so softly spoken, no more sound
in the room than the soft rustle of fabric as he shifts his palm against
himself and those that come through the phone. He could fake this, he tells
himself, but it isn’t entirely true. The tightness in his voice, the
unintentional hitches of breath - they only sound right when he’s actually
doing it, or unless the person on the other end of the line is drunk enough
that it doesn’t matter.
And Will, with his carefully clipped words and thoughtful pauses, is as sober
as a priest.
“I’m touching myself,” Hannibal answers, pressing his shoulders back against
the headboard to arch a little, stretch and loosen more room for his hand to
move as he hardens. It’s the most dissatisfying answer he can give and he grins
a little, despite himself, in wait for the response.
“Of course you are,” Will murmurs. There’s a click, just gentle, like a tongue
against lips as they part further. “Tell me how.”
Hannibal considers another generic answer, ‘with my hand’ perhaps, but finds
himself answering more or less honestly. “Palm. Slow slide down and up again.
Fingers curled.”
“Draw your nails up,” Will tells him, tone just the same. “Let your hand press
to the head as you splay your fingers back down.” A pause. “Are you bare?”
He doesn’t wait for confirmation that Hannibal has done it, but receives it
anyway as Hannibal draws a soft breath when his nails skim across the silky
skin of his cock, sighed out roughly when he pushes his palm hard down the
length of it. Hannibal’s knees spread open, tilting to the bed, and he feels
his cheeks finally warm, flushed from the sensation of touching himself how he
knows he likes to be touched.
How Will tells him to be touched.
“I was studying,” he finally answers, spreading his palm to push his cock
downward again. He knows the response before he hears it, and adds, “No. Pants
and an undershirt. Briefs.” A pause, and Hannibal adds with a mischievous
amusement. “No socks.”
A soft snort from Will and another breath as he just listens to Hannibal touch
himself, reluctant but obedient, beautiful in his personal struggle over this.
He wishes he could see him, languid hands and quickening breaths, skin
pinkening from this, lips reddening.
“Slip the foreskin back,” Will tells him, voice entirely unwavering, entirely
unaffected where Hannibal feels his heart skid against his Adam’s apple
listening to the words. “Touch.”
“I -”
Will hums. “I will have your voice break even if I make you touch yourself in
every way to find what does it.”
“You won’t have the time.”
“Perhaps not tonight.” Will’s smile warms the words. “Touch.”
Hannibal wants to discount the instruction to a lucky guess, that Will would
assume him uncut, but in the scant amount of time they’ve spent together,
there’s been too many assumptions already that have hit uncomfortably close to
home. It makes sense, he supposes, for someone who teaches forensics, but -
“Now.”
The word draws Hannibal’s spine up into a curve and pulls a moan from him
before he can stop it. He obeys. Bringing his cock outside of his briefs now,
with careful fingers he skims the tight skin back and bites off another sound,
almost a whimper, baring the swollen, slick head of his cock to the air. He
touches only softly, closer than he’d like to be, teasing a fingertip against
the slit to spread the clear precum that leaks from it.
“Five minutes,” Hannibal warns him, but the strength has left his voice now and
it sounds small, frustrated and helpless.
“Plenty of time,” Will says, voice just a little more breathy, but otherwise
entirely steady, entirely unaffected. Hannibal wonders if he is, at all, or if
he’s laughing at him on the other end of the line, if this is nothing more than
one final fuck you. “Again.”
Hannibal does, swallowing, keeping words entirely from his mind as he obeys,
refuses to let his words snap from this despite how good it feels, how it warms
him entirely. He tries to not think of the way Will’s eyes had narrowed behind
his glasses when he had counted tallies against his own personal victory, tries
not to think of the flashes of white teeth he had seen between the snarls and
smiles.
“Two minutes,” he sighs, doesn’t care if it’s entirely inaccurate, doesn’t care
for anything but how close he is and how good it will feel when he’s granted
release. And he will be, words or no, beyond a game the man controls nothing at
all of Hannibal’s life, of his choices and direction of his thoughts.
“Slow,” Will tells him calmly, allowing it to draw the length of a breath as
Hannibal’s hitches. As Hannibal touches. As the seconds tick away and his toes
curl warm against the bed. “Stop.”
Hannibal stops. Touching, breathing, nearly the beating of his own heart seems
to stop and hang on the word. The few times this has happened - a client gone
away but lonely - Hannibal has been the one who spoke, they have been the ones
who touched as Hannibal folded his socks or copied notes. It has been Hannibal
in control, always, and the voice on the other end of the line far more eager
than his own.
And now he hangs suspended, perched on a precipice that is dizzying, and
Hannibal only stops his fingers from trembling just above his cock by pressing
them against his thigh instead, breath held in anticipation.
For a moment, it seems neither breathes, before Will hums, a soft, warm note,
and swallows.
“I believe you have a client to see this evening.” His voice is quiet, gentle,
almost soothing, before there is a sound of fabric on fabric and the man
stands, a slow exhale as he does. “I won’t keep you. That would be rude.”
When Hannibal finally releases his breath, it trembles as hard as the thigh he
digs his nails into now. He wants to tell Will that he’ll finish anyway, to
spite him not allowing it. He wants to tell him that not finishing is his own
choice, not Will’s. He wants to tell him not to call again and that he’s going
to block his number and that he isn’t certain the last time he was so entirely
aroused by no more than a phone call.
Instead, Hannibal simply swallows, sticky in his throat, and pulls his hand out
of his pants, wincing as he moves to try and stand. “You’ll see the charge
momentarily,” Hannibal informs him. “My apologies that I’m unavailable
foreseeably.”
“Foresight is overrated,” Will says, then waits on the line, silent, as
Hannibal moves around his room, works through the transaction and finally just
kicks his pants off so it’s not so distracting to stand - just stand. A moment
more and Will laughs, genuine, warm.
“Prick,” he murmurs, almost fond, before just hanging up the call, and tapping
a charge through for the same price as a night with Hannibal had been. He
supposes, rubbing his hand against his face, smiling, that he deserved that, at
least.
---
Hannibal has to press his lips taut to stop the curse that threatens to spill
from them as he arrives late. It isn’t like him to ever - ever - show up late,
but he’d needed to wait for his cock to soften again before he could dress in
the sleek fitting suit that his company prefers, slick back his hair and shave
smooth.
An extra minute was spent scratching out Will Graham’s name from his notebook,
but that, at least, was a worthwhile delay.
In a suit of dark indigo checked with stripes of bright gamboge, Hannibal
leaves the cab driver with far too large a tip, but can’t be stopped enough to
bother with it. The night air is cold in his lungs, and he takes a moment to
straighten himself, gather his wits about him, and - there.
There it is.
An effortless soupçon of a smile, eyes narrowed as if aware of a secret that no
one else has ever heard.
Perfect.
He has to be.
The door is held for him and Hannibal inclines his head graciously, lifting his
eyes from the toes of his shoes, unfortunately unpolished, to the gathering of
society frills that span before him. He draws his cell from his pocket and
doesn’t let the three missed calls lessen the glowing little smile he’s managed
- somehow - before pocketing it again, and making his way towards the bar.
“Frederick,” Hannibal intones warmly, finding him just where he expected him to
be.
The man is not tall, but holds himself to be taller. Perhaps because he walks
with a cane, elegant and almost archaic. Why he does, Hannibal does not know,
and has never gotten a straight answer when he has inquired, but it hardly
matters when the man wears it both with honor and resentment. It is because it
is.
He is here because he is.
Frederick Chilton is not a man of patience, and the sigh that greets Hannibal
is entirely predictable, entirely practiced and adjusted to perfection. Just
enough displeasure in there to cling to Hannibal's skin, enough sound to be
noticed by others. He regards Hannibal with a brief look, enough to see he is
well-presented, groomed, handsome as the boy ever is, worth his time and money
to be shown and seen with.
"Late, Hannibal?" Is all he says, sits in such a way as to face Hannibal but
not open his body to him, hand out to rest against his glass again before he
takes it up for a sip. He regards Hannibal as the young man ducks his head in a
quiet apology, a submission, that the doctor accepts with a hum and a gesture
to the barman for another drink. Hannibal sits down and Frederick takes him in
from closer up.
A pleased curl of his lips at the lay of the suit, the cut of it. A vanity, in
a way, knowing he has a beautiful boy to show off. He lingers on Hannibal’s
shoes, as the younger man shifts to casually curl his feet away against the
stool, and a frown darkens his features. He says nothing more, though,
continues to wait for Hannibal's excuse.
Hannibal wonders how long he can go without answering before the doctor becomes
truly aggrieved. Better not to push it, he decides, and leans toward Frederick,
as much to hide the view of his shoes as to offer supplication.
"I needed to ensure I was dressed to your liking," Hannibal tells him.
The doctor's brow raises higher, and he doesn't need to glance at Hannibal's
shoes for his giddy displeasure to make itself clear behind the rim of his gin
and tonic.
"I was held up studying," Hannibal adds, reluctant, not the whole of it, but
not a lie. Never an outright lie, not when certain people are just as skilled
at Hannibal as detecting them.
Dr. Frederick Chilton is one of those people.
His eyes squint sharper, as though just having caught the waft of something
unpleasant in passing, but when he presses his tongue between his lips and
parts them with a put-upon sigh, Hannibal knows he's given up the scent.
"You had all day to study," Frederick grumbles, and rather than correct him,
Hannibal simply splays a hand across the older man's knee. He doesn’t presume
to touch higher than that, nor for any longer than a stroke of reassurance.
That he is here, that he is submissive, that he is Frederick’s pretty thing to
be displayed and corrected when he asks trite questions and makes incorrect
statements to allow the doctor to flaunt his own cleverness.
"And I have all night now for you," Hannibal reminds him, with just the trace
of a smile as he sits back and takes up his glass. "How might we make the most
of it?"
Some clients buy Hannibal for a specific sort of company. Bring him home, allow
some short back and forth in conversation before the beautiful suits come free,
and they explore the other aspects of Hannibal’s talent with company.
Frederick buys Hannibal as a foil, to use as a conversationalist, who doesn't
overspeak his bounds, to use as a way of making himself feel stronger, more
important than his everyday job makes him feel. He is never cruel, nor is he
particularly demanding in more than his time. But nights could be spent going
to lavish dinners and events, strategically planned to be seen and heard,
before returning to the doctor's home.
Sometimes Hannibal leaves before midnight, other times he goes early in the
morning and forgoes a cab home to walk his muscles loose.
"Drink," Frederick tells him, following his own advice and savoring the
bitterness of the drink. "I have reservations. A colleague of mine is hosting a
presentation I am very interested in discussing with him. It will be good for
you,” he nods towards Hannibal, but hardly seems invested in his words, "to
meet some of the people in the field. Understand how to cheat your way into
their good graces."
“You’re very thoughtful,” Hannibal tells him, washing down the half-truth with
another sip. He has no interest in conducting himself as Chilton does, in
pandering and flattery, in manipulation and scheming, but it is a worthy lesson
to see how a man like that works his wiles. Benefits well beyond what Frederick
intends, of course, but Hannibal is nothing if not gracious. “Thank you for
having me.”
“Thank you for finally showing up,” Frederick responds, before unfurling from
the barstool to make his way into the restaurant. He pauses, though, tilting
his head over his shoulder to murmur when Hannibal leans obediently near.
“Shine your shoes next time, you look as though you’ve walked here.”
Hannibal says nothing but inclines his head in acknowledgment, and spares a
thought to the man whose call prevented him from doing so. He ignores the
fluttering sensation that ripples through his stomach at the thought of it, and
follows Frederick in.
He plays the part beautifully, and needs no praise to tell him that he does. He
knows it’s not forthcoming anyway. The conversation happens around him after
polite introductions are made, Hannibal careful to order little and eat less as
if in rapt fascination with the conversation that provides him relatively
little insight into the field of psychiatry, and a great deal into the personal
lives of the other doctors they discuss at length. Information stored away
should it prove useful in the future, and a study of dynamics - how men of
certain power and proclivities conduct themselves when they think themselves in
safe company.
An insight into psychology, via direct observation, for which Hannibal does
find himself appreciative.
But his thoughts wander, as he is plied with unnecessary drinks so that Chilton
can flaunt his money, his control, as Hannibal picks at his food and
straightens his shoulders to seem more attentive than he truly is. He does not
take his phone from his pocket but imagines, for a moment, that perhaps Will
called again. Left a voicemail, maybe. But Hannibal isn’t able to see the
imagining through more than that, because he knows that Will knows he’s busy
now, and that he wouldn’t interrupt.
Hannibal wonders why he cares at all and disregards the thoughts entirely,
manifesting a smile as they stand, shake hands, and - in a pleasant twist -
Hannibal is offered a card from the acquaintance of his own companion. He
accepts it politely, and wonders as he pockets it if the man knows the nature
of his being there, or is simply being gracious.
He chooses not to notice the look that Frederick arches towards him as they
make their way to the car.
It is always an experience, going anywhere with Frederick, as much as he wants
Hannibal seen, he detests when he himself is not. Hannibal is a bauble, a
pretty thing but not the main attraction. He is not allowed to talk better than
the man he is accompanying, he is not allowed to entertain - his job is to be.
Just to be.
“He is a difficult man to impress,” the doctor comments, watches as Hannibal
gets into the passenger seat of the car and carefully undoes one of the buttons
on his jacket to accommodate the motion.
“He is a polite man, and I would think a very good colleague, for you,”
Hannibal counters carefully, amicable smile and warm expression. Unswayed by
anyone but the man near him, uninterested in anything but their conversation
and their evening. Turning the conversation to the man’s favourite topic. “The
card to me was an afterthought, a gesture.”
It seems to pacify the man for the moment, enough to start the car and peel
from the lot. It is warm within the car, and quiet, no stereo or sounds from
outside the vehicle so Hannibal’s mind wanders again, just briefly, to thoughts
of the man’s voice on the phone, the calm there, how collected he had remained
the entire time. He wonders if Will had hung up and touched himself, gone to
his bedroom and imagined. He finds his lips tilting before he can stop it and
swallows the expression and thoughts away.
The house is lit gratuitously, as it always is, when they arrive. A large thing
of glass and stone, showy, expensive, secured against threats Hannibal is sure
are entirely imagined. He leaves the car first, careful to hold the door for
the doctor behind him, before bending to unlace his shoes.
“The card really was just a gesture, Hannibal,” Frederick tells him. “A show of
good faith, inclusion of the element that doesn’t belong. I would not use it,
nor call the number. Do not drop names, they will fall flat.” The tone is
lofty, feigning indifference where a weight hangs beneath them, warning,
perhaps, or a demand for reassurance.
A satisfying climax can only take place after a building crescendo, and so
Hannibal turns to hang his coat. “What reason would I have to call?” Hannibal
considers, resisting the urge to smile when he hears Frederick’s footsteps
stop. “Perhaps only to thank him for the company at dinner.”
“He didn’t pay for dinner,” Chilton reminds him, and Hannibal turns towards the
man with fingers set against the buttons of his own jacket, and finds his hands
stilled with Frederick’s own. “Leave it on.”
Hannibal tilts his head, another gracious nod, and follows on silent socked
feet across the cold tile floors behind his temporary companion. “The company
alone then,” amends the younger man. “You’ve taught me a great deal about the
importance of,” Hannibal pauses, tongue against the back of his teeth, and
smiles, “networking.”
“It was a gesture,” Frederick responds, his words clipped as he turns to
Hannibal, only slightly taller but Hannibal knows to duck his head to lose
another inch. There is a tension rising in him, expertly conducted, of an
animal who feels their territory is being encroached upon, but fears the
greater foe. Not Hannibal, particularly, but the information that Hannibal
holds. It thrills the man in a way that only dread can, frightened that with a
single phone call, this important psychiatric busybody might be undone with a
simple offer of company to another.
Hannibal takes Frederick’s hand in his and presses the man’s palm against his
clean-shaven cheek. With his other, he removes the card from his pocket, and
relinquishes it to the older man.
The crescendo reaches its peak, and Frederick’s relief is tangible. Power and
control returned to him in an instant, a beautiful and brilliant boy subdued by
him, and with dark eyes alighting from beneath a sweep of hair, Hannibal meets
Frederick’s gaze and takes the man’s thumb between his lips.
Hannibal’s mouth is what had impressed the doctor initially in the boy, enough
to call again for another evening together. A mouth that can speak on so many
topics, remain contented being knowledgeable in only few. A mouth that can open
so obediently and take so much. For now, it is just a gentle stroke over a hot
tongue, deliberate motions that Hannibal quickly adapts to a rhythm.
The card is turned, placed alongside Chilton’s own in his pocket as he takes a
breath that fills him, and exhales the tension that had crippled him not
moments before. He will always be good. Always return unwanted things, because
he gets enough of what he wants already.
It is the ideal arrangement, a boy he does not have to take care of but can
have, at his beck and call, at any arranged time.
Frederick pulls his thumb free, draws over Hannibal’s plush bottom lip with his
own saliva and curls his hand to settle beneath the young man’s chin to raise
it.
“The importance of networking is in knowing when to do it,” he says quietly,
“when it is appropriate, expected, welcomed. You will learn, in time. Your hard
knocks taken by me, in your stead, so you don’t make fatal mistakes in a place
you don’t yet belong.”
Altruistic, generous, everything and anything a student, any boy, would need,
and he watches Hannibal’s eyes close softly in thanks, perhaps, submission,
surely, and moves his hand once more to slide up into the dark blonde hair,
enough pressure to bring the boy gracefully to his knees.
Hannibal’s hands spread down Frederick’s legs and come to rest behind his knees
as he lifts his eyes, past where the doctor unfastens his pants to meet his
eyes instead. “Here?” Hannibal asks, but his hopes of leaving without bruised
knees are dashed when Frederick simply smiles in response.
Hannibal returns it, and unfurls his tongue obediently to take the older man
into his mouth.
The hand in his hair tightens just a little, a harsh sigh gusting past
Chilton’s lips as he eases into a slow rhythm, savoring as Hannibal curls his
lips around him and bows his head to suck.
Touch yourself.
He considers it, the echoed words resonating into a twitch between his legs far
more than the service he provides to the man standing over him. Frederick likes
his control, but he isn’t a client who has particular mandates - or interest at
all, really - in whatever pleasure Hannibal does or doesn’t take from their
appointments. Lowering a hand from the older man’s leg, Hannibal presses his
palm against himself, finding his arousal building quickly from being so denied
earlier.
Draw your nails up.
“Eyes,” Frederick reminds him, drawling the word into a long curl of pleasure
when Hannibal raises them, tilts his chin up to take the man deeper past spit-
slick lips. He curls his fingers against himself, nails catching against the
fabric of his trousers.
Let your hand press to the head as you splay your fingers back down.
The boy moans, spreading his tongue against the throbbing pulse of Frederick’s
cock, and he pushes hard back down between his own legs.
It’s not new for the boy to be so enthusiastic in his work, he is hardly ever a
chore to deal with, professional and good at it, but this is entirely
different, entirely involved, and it is at once uncomfortable and addicting.
Fingers squeeze in Hannibal’s hair to make him moan again, softer this time,
though, as he continues to touch himself.
Frederick watches, head tilted, eyes barely open, the way the boy takes him
deeper with a quick breath through his nose, holds, before pulling back. Cheeks
pink and eyes bright. He is beautiful, wanton and exceptional, and Frederick
shifts his hips against him a bit faster to feel the way Hannibal’s tongue
uncurls around it, draws just the tip over the vein and the sensitive skin
against it.
“Such outings always make you so hungry,” he sighs, pleased with how quickly
Hannibal works him hard, contented to let the boy do anything to himself he
wants, in the meantime. It saves him the effort, in the end, Hannibal knows he
will get little from Frederick that the man doesn’t feel like giving him.
When Hannibal pulls free to catch his breath, he lifts his fingers from his own
hardness to swipe away the trail of spit that joins his lips to Frederick’s
cock. His voice rough, now, warm with his own pleasure, Hannibal murmurs
against the side of the doctor’s damp dick, “Gratitude for good company.” His
lips close along the soft skin, heated kisses dragged long, lips parted by his
tongue that he curls around the shaft, tilting his head so that Frederick can
see him.
Can revel in his own power over Hannibal, to win such favors from him.
All a game, but both are willing participants in it. Frederick has never been
cruel to him - unkind at times, dismissive often - but he is not wholly
unpleasant to deal with. He has never once chastised Hannibal for his services
or, from what the boy has seen, ever felt any shame about it at all. Hannibal
imagines that he goes to sleep feeling eminently satisfied with himself, as
much as by Hannibal’s own ministrations, and thinks little of him until he
wishes to use him again.
It is an amicable enough arrangement.
“Don’t tease,” scoffs Frederick, rolling his eyes a little even as a wry smile
dances across his lips. Grinding his palm against himself, rough shoves to
delight in the pressure, the friction there, Hannibal opens again to swallow
Frederick deep.
Eyes flicker closed and Hannibal indulges in allowing his own to do the same,
for just a moment, as he strokes faster, thinking of someone else before him
now, instead, fingers softer, perhaps, or maybe harsher… possibly harsher,
nails over his scalp to make Hannibal shiver as he swallows and opens his
throat more.
Slow.
He slows, deliberate sucks, gentle hums and the occasional touch of teeth.
Hannibal can feel Frederick allowing himself to come undone, allowing the
rhythm he holds to waver to erratic, his breathing to hitch and pull sounds
from him, that he will deny later and Hannibal will pretend not to remember. He
won’t need to, making the sounds himself just at the memory of being told, of
being used without being touched at all.
Too much, almost, and he blinks his eyes open, up, watching for the clear signs
of the doctor’s pleasure reaching a peak. And there, after another slow suck,
another hum just around the head, and Hannibal is held in place as he works his
throat to swallow, his own cock twitching helplessly in his own hand where he
continues rubbing gentle little circles.
Stop.
Hannibal does, with a whine, a soft shudder that has him leaning against
Frederick’s leg trying to catch his breath.
The doctor indulges in a moment of gentleness, stroking Hannibal’s hair from
his face to see it, slack in his own pleasure, lips parted and wet, eyes closed
and dark lashes over his sharp cheekbones. A beautiful and clever thing. Easily
bought, easily returned. Good company for as long as he stays here. Easy
arrangement.
Hannibal draws in a deep breath, holds it to steady his heart, and pulls
himself to stand as gracefully as he can manage, legs stiff from kneeling
against the unyielding tile. Frederick tucks himself away and Hannibal leans to
him, not in an embrace, but to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. The
doctor is one of the few who allows it at all - insisted it, when they first
began - and Hannibal can’t help but think it’s so that he can taste the traces
of himself from another’s willing lips.
Fingers brush Hannibal’s cheek, almost fondly, and he tilts a smile to the
doctor, both choosing to ignore the fact that Hannibal is still visibly hard.
“Thank you for dinner.”
“There is another event next weekend. I’ll call with the details.” Quick hands
snap his clothing back into place, lips twisted into something between
satisfaction and scrutiny as Hannibal slips back into his shoes and takes up
his coat.
“I look forward to it,” answers Hannibal, obliging.
“Shine your shoes next time,” Frederick quips, his smile twisting wry again
before he calls for the cab that will come to take the young man home.
It isn’t terribly late by the time Hannibal is there again, but his feet feel
heavy against the stairs of his walk-up. Fingers gracelessly fumble for his
keys as exhaustion catches up with him, but not - curiously enough - sleepiness
itself. His body feels heavy, but his mind is alert, too many potentialities to
consider, between study, booking another night with Frederick.
Him.
Hannibal checks his phone and is unsurprised to see that no calls have come
during his appointment. He tosses it onto the bed beside his textbook before
uncurling slowly next to it, stretching his back without yet bothering to
remove his suit.
Touch yourself.
He does, and this time, he finishes.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     “You charge me for breathing in your presence, Hannibal, the new
     expense is hardly a surprise.”
     “Then why bother with the expenses for something you can predict?”
     Hannibal asks, tone quiet, tired, a sigh following the words as
     though he truly could not care for the answer. He catches Will giving
     him a look, brief scrutiny, before his eyes move away again.
     “Because I enjoy the company,” he responds, allowing a smirk to tilt
     his lips for a moment.
As if it wasn’t enough that his rent was raised.
As if it wasn’t enough that his rent was raised in an apartment one too-hard
step from crumbling around him.
As if it wasn’t enough for all of that to happen when nearly every professor
has decided to toss in a test that needs to be studied for.
No, it has to be that Will Graham lives over an hour outside of the city, in
some backwater, and Hannibal had no choice but to seek him out for an
appointment to make ends meet despite a dire need for the one resource Hannibal
never has:
Time.
To study, foremost, to sleep if he can afford it after that. But every night
not spent seeing to appointments is another slip backwards into debt for school
and his flat and his car and every other thing that never stops costing him.
This, now, costs him, and Hannibal frowns at the meter resting precariously
close to empty before he slips out of the car.
His skin prickles as cool air rustles the trees and tall grasses around the
little house. It’s far enough away from civilization to make him nervous, and
Hannibal slides a hand across his pocket to ensure himself that his butterfly
knife is there, honed and ready if he has somehow entirely misjudged the nature
of this man. A mournful look is cast to his shoulder bag in the passenger seat,
but he steels his expression as he makes his way to the house, lips pursed, and
lifts a hand to knock.
He’s hardly touched the screen door before a cacophony of barks sounds the
alarm for him.
It’s a surprise, honestly, that there is more than one, though only mild,
considering how far out Will Graham lives. What is more of a surprise is that
when the door opens, with soft clicks for the dogs to keep calm, and a murmured
promise that they won’t hurt him, Hannibal counts seven.
“They are social on my behalf,” Will says dryly, smile curling his lips in an
expression that is surprisingly genuine before, with another sound, the dogs
are let loose to swarm the young man on his doorstep as Will leans against the
doorframe and watches. Hannibal takes to the dogs well enough, staying stock
still but not frightened, more astounded, confused, perhaps a little
intimidated until a large orange dog nuzzles against his knee and earns a
stroke behind his ears, and then they all vie for the attention.
Will calls them off with a whistle and sends them on their way to explore
outside before gesturing for Hannibal to come in, giving him a brief once-over
and pursing his lips in amusement.
“With an expression like that, I can only imagine how pleased you are to see
me.”
It’s almost a relief, in some way, that Hannibal in no form feels compelled to
put on an act for the man who has rebuffed every attempt he’s ever made at it.
He removes his shoes by the door - habit - and shrugs up a shoulder. “I’m
busy,” Hannibal admits. “But I made time.”
He takes in Will when the older man steps further into the house, a stolen
glance to watch his stride, to confirm that he is - if Hannibal is being honest
with himself - every bit as becoming as he grudgingly remembers. His attention
shifts away before Will can catch him watching, taking in instead the rows of
books upon the shelves, mostly nonfiction covering too many topics to tell
Hannibal anything. Dog beds beside the fire. A piano, dusty. A bed.
In the living room.
A smile quirks the corner of Hannibal’s mouth but he doesn’t ask yet, instead
pressing his tongue between his lips. “I was not aware it would be such a
distance to get here. I will need to charge for travel expense,” he tells Will,
folding his hands in front of him as he follows him further into the cozy
house. “It must be a tiresome drive every day.”
Polite, enough.
Well-dressed, in a sweater and slacks - enough.
Just enough without endeavoring to be more, and grateful for the honesty that
saves him that time, at least.
Will snorts gently, stops to gather a few things from his table, flip a journal
cover closed over a pen with it, push everything aside so it’s out of the way.
“You charge me for breathing in your presence, Hannibal, the new expense is
hardly a surprise.”
“Then why bother with the expenses for something you can predict?” Hannibal
asks, tone quiet, tired, a sigh following the words as though he truly could
not care for the answer. He catches Will giving him a look, brief scrutiny,
before his eyes move away again.
“Because I enjoy the company,” he responds, allowing a smirk to tilt his lips
for a moment. “Why do you come, when it is such a burden to?”
But he knows the answer, can read it in the curve of Hannibal’s shoulders, the
bags under his eyes.
Because I have to.
The young man is exhausted, stretched thin between his obligation and his
desires, the need and want to study, to work in his field versus the demands on
his body to pay for it all. Will swallows, moves around the table again and
leans his hips against it, arms crossed as Hannibal’s are, just as deliberately
locked off, a comfort mirroring in a way. Reassurance.
“What would you be doing had you not come here?”
“It doesn’t -”
“Answer me.”
Hannibal’s jaw works, tongue pressed against the back of his teeth in annoyance
- at the demand, at the effect the demand has on him no matter how hard
Hannibal works to convince himself there’s no effect at all. It doesn’t matter,
he reminds himself, how he feels about it. He needs to be here and he needs the
pay.
So he’s here. And he might as well keep playing along.
“Studying,” the boy answers.
“For what class?”
“For all of them,” responds Hannibal. In a fit of pique, he unfolds his hands,
and sets them against the hem of his sweater, to twist it off over his head.
“What would you be doing, had I not come?”
Will’s eyes do not leave Hannibal’s face, though the boy is clear enough in his
intent as he tosses the thing to the arm of the couch behind him around the
corner.
“I would be marking my papers, but I decided I simply needed my weekly dose of
unapologetic distaste from someone.” His jaw works a moment before Will stands
up again, regards Hannibal before him in his upset, his tiredness. Will presses
his lips together, takes a breath.
“Did you bring it with you?”
“My distaste?”
Will’s eyes warm with a smile. “Your work.”
“I don’t think it matters.”
“But you did,” Will confirms. “To catch glimpses of pages at the red light,
when the traffic crawled in the city, yes?”
Hannibal watches him, jaw tight, teeth gritted, breathing controlled to a slow
angry exhale.
“I have it.”
“Get it,” Will tells him, and just like that, the tension is gone, Will passes
by towards the kitchen, does not turn to check if Hannibal obeys.
Hands stretch, curl into fists at his sides, and release slowly again before
Hannibal follows after him. He lingers in the doorway as Will begins to make
coffee, unhurried, without turning to regard the boy whose irritation must
surely by now be tangible. A step closer then, as Hannibal forces himself to
slough it off, another, shedding annoyance like a snake sheds its skin, inch by
inch, until he can rest a hand on the counter beside Will.
“What would you like to do today?” Hannibal asks, tone softened. “I’m sorry for
being short. I’ve no excuses to offer for behaving that way, and my matters are
not yours to be concerned by. My apologies.” He ducks his head, almost winsome
as he lifts his eyes. “The day is yours to spend however you would prefer it,”
he murmurs.
Will turns, finds the young man closer than he had expected, perhaps had
wanted, and just watches him, eyes down to meet Hannibal’s, lower still to
where the boy sets his teeth against his bottom lip. Tempting, pleasant, and
Will takes a slow breath before releasing it and returning his eyes up.
He is persistent, at least, determined to be this thing he has come to make
himself known as. Will supposes that, at least, is admirable. He can’t fault
him his professionalism.
“Back,” he says softly, tone warmer than before, softer, something that perhaps
Hannibal is more used to hearing in his time with another. “Where you were. At
the table.”
He watches something pass behind Hannibal’s eyes that could almost be
displeasure, regret, but he stands to move back, obedient, quiet, a beautiful
malleable creature to anyone who has the money for him. Will follows, enough to
watch him set his hips against the end of the table and cross his arms again.
“Your shirt,” Will tells him, eyes down, back up to Hannibal’s again. “Off.”
He watches Hannibal obey, hesitant, perhaps, for the unexpected turn of the
day, but he obeys. Will allows himself to take the younger man in, just
briefly, before tilting his head.
“And your pants.”
With this, he does not let his eyes linger, resolutely against the young man’s
chest, starting to slowly dust with hair. He does not look down when Hannibal
removes his pants, his underwear, socks, sets them all on the couch. He looks
just past him, up to Hannibal’s eyes when the boy straightens.
“Turn,” he tells him, watches the way Hannibal’s jaw works, the way there is
just the beginning of color in his cheeks before he turns away. “Bend.”
There is a smug satisfaction, at least, in Will becoming who Hannibal had
predicted him to be since the call that made Hannibal hard for fully a week
after. Bossy. Domineering. Seeking control over someone to make up for whatever
control he feels he lacks in his daily life. Will certainly isn’t the only
client that Hannibal sees who wants to see the younger man perform to suit his
whims.
And Hannibal can perform beautifully.
With a lackadaisical stretch, he bends forward to press his forearms to the
cleared desk. Bending his back, he arches his hips higher, head ducked but dark
eyes watching from beneath a drape of golden-brown hair. Hannibal allows a
slight smile to tug at the corners of his eyes, as he displays. Presents.
He may be back to his studies sooner than he had considered, and with extra pay
for his troubles.
Will closes his eyes on a slow inhale and opens them on an exhale, directed up
above where the boy stands, beautifully bent over his table.
“Feet wider,” he says, waits for Hannibal to obey, swallows, adjusts his
instructions. “Against the table legs. And eyes forward.”
He waits until that, too, is obeyed, before Will returns to the main room,
moves towards the couch where Hannibal’s clothes lie neatly folded. He finds
the keys easily enough, in his pocket, along with a little knife. For a moment
he is still, considering the weapon, then he just leaves it where it is, and
takes the keys silently into his palm before moving towards the front door.
“Stay still,” he commands over his shoulder, lets the screen door slap shut
behind himself.
For a moment, there is no sound but the bubbling of the coffee on the stove,
the wind outside, the occasional whine from one of the dogs that still happily
meanders outside. Then the sound of a car door slamming, footsteps up the porch
steps, the door opening and closing where Hannibal cannot see it.
Then quiet again, the sound of Will breathing, moving through his space.
Preparing, perhaps, as Hannibal sets his forehead to the table and lets his
eyes close, hands clasped lightly together. He wonders if it will be a fucking
or a beating, what kind of man Will Graham really is when he stops pretending
he hadn’t called Hannibal for this and this alone.
There is a sharp slap against the table and Hannibal startles, jerks back on
reflex and opens his eyes to see his notes seeping across the table from their
taped-together folder. More quietly, carefully, a mug of steaming coffee is set
down at Hannibal’s side before Will puts his hands flat against the table and
bends to meet his eyes.
“I would like to spend my day watching you actually earn the education I am
paying for,” he tells Hannibal quietly, eyes on Hannibal’s, no lower, before
his expression soothes, warms again, and Will swallows. “You will study. As you
wish to have this session play out as I imagine so many of yours do, you will
study as you are.”
Hannibal’s eyes lower to his notes, discomfortingly out of place here, with him
like this. Now and then he encounters someone who gets off on the fact that
he’s a student, but usually only in that it allows them to play teacher and he
the naive schoolboy, which then only ends up with a cock in his mouth. Just
like everything, really, but to see his paperwork here in an unwelcome overlap
of lives jogs Hannibal’s heart a little faster.
He narrows his eyes, noting how Will avoids looking anywhere else, and a sharp
smile appears in contrast to the softness of Hannibal’s words. “You’re not even
going to look?” asks Hannibal, brow lifting.
“No,” Will answers, and Hannibal only just stops the shiver that threatens to
rattle him from appearing anywhere but snarled in his stomach.
The boy’s tongue appears to dampen his lips, and he ducks his head with a
breath of laughter. “My sessions,” Hannibal purrs, “play out with lips, and
hands, and a ready body to be filled. Not with studying.”
Will’s expression soothes to a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes at all,
like a mask, elegant and false. “It is hardly my place to judge your clients,
or your taste in them,” he murmurs, in the same tone, just to watch the boy’s
cheeks color at the feeling of it against him, “that would be ironic. Most
likely unwelcome. So as you asked me how I wished the day to go, I will
reiterate.”
Will sets one hand beneath Hannibal’s chin, just his knuckles curved against
the warm vulnerable skin there. “You will study, as you would have had you not
come here. You will complete the work until you feel satisfied in the efforts
you have made today. You will do it bent and bare for my personal amusement,”
Will’s eyes narrow briefly, “and your insistence on being a temptation. Once
you have fulfilled that particular… service, perhaps I will think of more for
us to do.”
Will brings up his thumb, just briefly to press to Hannibal’s chin before he
lets him go and steps back, towards the end of the table unused, and unoccupied
by a beautiful shivering boy. There he settles, with his own work, flipping
open the ledger once more and retrieving the pen to slide across the table to
Hannibal’s notes, should he need it.
He doesn’t even look up at the young man, just takes his own book into his lap,
one leg crossing over the other in a comfortable recline.
“Begin.”
The word ricochets, gunshot loud, and leaves a buzz in Hannibal's ears. He
strengthens his legs, stretching them long to shake the weakness in his knees,
and works his lips between his teeth in thought as Will sets pen to page.
He could leave. Gather his things and go back to Baltimore, letting the screen
door bang loud behind him. Write this off as a loss and scratch Will Graham out
of his life, again.
Scramble to fill his car with gas.
Hustle to cover rent when he can barely make ends meet as it is.
Return the call he's been avoiding for weeks that he knows will pay, but will
cost him dearly.
Just to prove a point, to satisfy his own ego before he has to debase himself
for far more than the peculiar proclivities of a man who does seem, in earnest,
content to just let Hannibal be.
It's a rare enough thing that the swallow needed to choke down his own pride is
easier than Hannibal would have expected. He stretches to drag his folder
close, the pen along with it, and wonders at what point he became so hard that
his cock brushes the desk when he leans across it.
"What would you like me to study?" Hannibal asks, spreading his coursework
before him.
“Whatever demands your attention,” Will replies, lifts his eyes just once with
a clear look indicating he means Hannibal’s schoolwork. “However you usually
work through your books. You have many hours with me. Use them.”
It is dismissive but not cruel, only in that Will already sounds distracted by
his own work again, pen to paper as he makes notes, shifts some papers around
to see them better before he continues. Hannibal wonders if perhaps the man is
simply uninterested, in the way he’s bent, displayed, presented for him - if
perhaps Will Graham is a man without sexual attraction at all. But he remembers
the small breaths, the way Will’s jaw had worked to swallow, to force himself
not to look…
Perhaps he is just a man of infuriating patience.
Hannibal sighs, reaches for his work and selects the papers closest to him. He
is so behind on all of it that it hardly matters where he begins, just that he
does. The smell of coffee draws him to take a sip, rich, thick stuff that is
more than he can afford on a good day, and with carefully measured sips, he
starts to work.
How long passes is hard to say, but Hannibal cannot stay still. Shifting as
cool breezes lick against his legs from the door, as the table beneath him
grows hard to lean on one way so he adjusts himself to lean another. Over and
over he shifts and every time his eyes go up to Will, seated as still as
Hannibal isn’t, spinning the pen between his fingers before he marks something
else against his list.
He watches as Will stands, passes Hannibal without a second glance, towards the
kitchen again. Tenses in the most delicious anticipation as Will nears him
again, but he finds only that his empty mug is replaced with a full one, the
other taken away. Then Will returns to his seat, as before, and sets his ledger
to the table.
Hannibal watches him, from the corner of his eyes. He carries himself in an
unassuming way - too large shirt, glasses perched on the end of his nose, still
unshaven and sitting with shoulders curled ever so slightly - but there is more
than that. It appears in flashes, a quick furrow in his brows, the movement of
his mouth when he hesitates before marking with his pen. A masked
determination, staid and solemn, of some fascinating fortitude that he tries to
demure through his outward presentation.
Blue eyes catch his own, and Will intones, “Study.”
The boy can’t help but grin, holding Will’s gaze a moment more before smoothing
his expression with a roll of bare shoulders, and ducking his head back to his
paperwork, cheek resting against his hand. After a moment more, Will returns to
his own work, and the silence resumes.
One subject becomes another, each set of notes poured over as if Hannibal were
a starving man at a feast. After a few lines he lifts his eyes towards the
ceiling to commit the information to memory - formulas and compounds both
organic and inorganic, origins and terminations of anatomical structures,
pathogeneses and symptoms. And only after the second cup of coffee is finished
does Hannibal realize how sore his legs are, stretched tight where his
hamstrings have been extended for so long.
He pushes up onto his hands, grimacing at the pull that spasms up his back, and
holds himself upright, only barely bent, as he continues to read.
“Down.”
Hannibal has to blink himself back, understand what the word means before he
looks up, finds Will just as determinedly staring at his own work as before.
“I gave you no permission to stand.”
Hannibal’s brows furrow, an indignation unfurling in his chest as surely as his
cock stirs at the word. Permission.
“I don’t need your permission to stand,” he says, and finds Will raising his
eyes to him slowly, a careful and deliberate blink before just watching, blue
eyes clear above the frames of Will’s glasses before he parts his lips with
just the tip of his tongue.
“Down,” he repeats, and although his voice is not at all louder, harsher, the
tone is entirely different, and this one sends shivers down Hannibal’s back
that he cannot control, curling his fingers against the table to stop them
shaking. He spreads them flat, presses them hard against the warm wood where
he’s leaned for so long already, and though every muscle in his legs, his core,
his shoulders burns for relief, Hannibal bends.
Down.
The words in front of him are a blur, and though he can blink the sensation
away, he cannot so readily ease the trembling in his body. Strain, arousal,
frustration, everything all at once, but he holds. He holds because so little
has been asked of him, but this. He holds because he has been treated not
unkindly, and given time to do something of more value than simply being
fucked.
He holds because Will did not give him permission.
Hannibal’s breath is unsteady, his pulse and his cock throbbing as intensely as
his muscles, and he starts to shift a leg to ease it but stops himself when the
solution becomes clear.
“May I stand?”
Will had followed the boy’s movement down, had watched his face twist in brief
motions of pain. Had watched as Hannibal had so well obeyed him despite that
pride of his curling fingers against his throat. He watches just a moment more
before setting his ledger aside, his glasses atop it.
“You may stand,” he says, sitting back, fingers clasped together against his
stomach. “You may walk and stretch, use the bathroom. You may take as long as
you feel you need. And when you return, you will bend, set your legs, and hold
that position until you ask again.”
A brief quirk of eyebrow to see if Hannibal understands, to see, honestly, that
flush against his skin with the effort of holding still, with arousal. Then
Will looks away again, stands, permission clear that Hannibal can do the same.
He manages, somehow, to make it as graceful as he can, pushing up right in a
slow coil, rolling neck and shoulders in turn as if he were completely alone,
shaking off a long day of classes and a bad appointment. Arching his back
deeply he leans against the desk, chest out, and savors the feeling of freedom
that teases pleasant twitches beneath his skin. Up onto his toes and flat
again, one leg behind the other as he works his hips one way, and then the
other, opening them.
It feels nearly as good as knowing how hard Will is trying not to watch the
blatant display.
Slender fingers scratch gently across his chest, downward over the soft fuzz on
his stomach, and Hannibal asks, polite once more, “Bathroom?”
He waits for Will to raise his eyes again before skimming a thumb across his
own half-hard cock, twice, before folding his hands behind his back.
A swallow, perhaps deliberate, perhaps unavoidable, and Will points, a graceful
gesture, over his shoulder and deeper into the house. He does not look down
beyond Hannibal’s chest as the young man walks past him but when he has, Will’s
eyes close and his jaw works, hands turning to fists against the desk as he
slowly returns his composure.
Slowly, piece by aching piece, his outward indifference returns, and he takes
up his glasses again to set against his nose, arches his own back in a stretch,
hands above his head and groan withheld in case Hannibal hears it, misconstrues
it for exactly what it is.
By the time he returns, Will is back to grading his papers, wondering if
Hannibal will take advantage of the offer of free movement, wondering if he
will find the boy obedient in the instruction to return; in his own time, but
return all the same.
Will has always been a particularly good judge of character.
Bare feet click softly across the wooden floors as Hannibal makes his way
across the house. Slowly, very slowly, studying his new surroundings as if he
were a new stray to be added to Will’s existing pack. Hannibal is content,
though, to trace a finger along a shelf of books, to tap a note on the detuned
piano, to survey the bed that sits strangely in the center of the room, rather
than the bedroom further off.
Will lives alone, certainly. Though the space is clean and host to its own
particular sort of organization, there is nothing out of place that would speak
of anyone but the professor who sits still grading at the desk. A single
toothbrush in the bathroom. A shirt hung on the door handle. A dog toy half-
chewed between the living room and the kitchen, where Hannibal makes his way to
refill his mug.
Through the window he sees only long dry grasses and far off trees, shifting in
the breeze that prickles across Hannibal’s bare, smooth skin when it comes in
through the screen door. The dogs are at play or sleeping, and Hannibal cradles
the mug and takes a sip.
“May I ask a question?” Hannibal murmurs, terribly amused with himself.
“You may.”
“You have a great deal of dogs.”
“That isn’t a question.”
Hannibal hums against the mug, teeth resting against the rim for a moment
before he sips again. “Why do you have so many dogs?”
Will considers the question, eyes glazed as he looks through the lenses of his
glasses before lifting his head and bringing his pen up to gently ease them up
his nose.
“I enjoy the responsibility of caring for something living,” he says, and
Hannibal finds that it is entirely earnest, no brush-off answer, no quick cheat
of a jibe, no question with a question. “The dogs ask little of me beyond care.
To feed them, to keep them warm, to give them affection. In turn they provide
me with their own care. Genuine symbiosis with another living being. Would that
people were as easy.”
Will’s smile is thin, but genuine. He turns to regard Hannibal by the door,
blissfully bare and entirely beautiful. He commits it to memory, Hannibal
standing there, for his own mind to render later to something else, a shift in
weight perhaps, a turn and a smile before he comes closer, climbs back into
bed, lays warmly there.
Will blinks. Hannibal hasn’t moved from the door.
He does not make him return to the table, in fact he says nothing about it. But
he does turn his head down to regard his work again, lips pressing together
before he releases them with a breath. “Why do you carry a knife?”
Hannibal turns to regard the professor over his shoulder, a genuine amusement
narrowing his eyes as he strides slowly closer to the desk. “You didn’t ask if
you could ask me -”
“No,” Will responds, eyes fixed on his work. It’s enough to give Hannibal pause
in his movement, allowing the disallowance to sear hot between his legs. Not an
equal footing, then, at least in instruction, but there are always other ways
to play.
Will’s pen stills as Hannibal stands behind him, at his side, and rests the
hand not cradling the mug against the desk beside Will’s own. He doesn’t touch,
but hopes the older man can feel the heat radiating from bare skin so
dangerously near, and Hannibal skims the paper with disinterest before turning
his attention towards Will’s dark hair, curling down the back of his neck.
Hannibal lets his gaze drift across the man’s broad shoulders and over well-
muscled arms hidden beneath unflattering flannel.
“It would be foolish for one to go unprepared when strange men call them into
the woods.”
Will turns, just enough that Hannibal can see the sharp line of his jaw, his
throat beneath as Will swallows again, ducks his head a little to blink,
consider his answer. He knows the knife is not for him. He knows the knife has
seen use. He wonders, hopes, that Hannibal had not had it replaced, that this
is not a new one when another had failed him.
“Certainly,” he murmurs, does not raise his head, does not move into the
pseudo-embrace Hannibal has against him already, though he wants to, genuinely,
exhale and allow himself to lean back, to feel Hannibal nose against his hair.
Fantasies.
Illegal pretty things.
Hannibal stretches back to stand straight, fingernails curling a little against
the desk before he turns to lean back against it instead. Will is quick to tilt
his head enough to lose Hannibal from his periphery, but the boy is not so
easily forgotten as that. He rests the mug on his thigh, grasping it by the
rim, and turns his wrist just enough to press his palm against himself, only
once.
It’s enough to make the professor’s cheeks darken, and Hannibal’s smile widens,
pleased and feline.
“May I ask another question?”
“You may,” comes the terse response.
“When you return to teaching,” Hannibal asks, “from what are you falling back?”
Will sighs, a slow release of air that lowers his shoulders and seems at once
to straighten them. Relief, perhaps, or merely a patient indulgence of the
young man now, because Will knows he will not leave on his own, and he refuses
to command him to. He thinks of making up an answer, or denying his own words
altogether. Thinks that it is entirely none of Hannibal’s business what he does
or how, why he does it or who for. Yet when he lifts his chin to answer, he
answers truthfully.
“I am an FBI profiler, I work cases.”
Hannibal seems surprised by the answer, his smile lingers but softer now,
interested to hear more if Will is going to offer more. And he does, after
another breath, after drawing one of his knees up a little, heel up against the
leg of his chair.
“I see into minds of killers. And then I return, fall back," clicked
consonants, tone suddenly tired, so tired, “into my own. And recall what I had
seen to eager students who hang on every word.”
Strange, to see Will’s defense come up this way, back to sarcasm as Hannibal
returns to his own pride. But it is not his work he is protecting, there is
something vulnerable there that had blinked up before it was smothered again.
When he turns to look at Hannibal again, as close as they had been in the
kitchen, with Will seated and Hannibal curled where he sits to watch him,
Will’s eyes narrow, a brief flicker of the bottom lids, but he does not move
back.
Nor does Hannibal, not yet, regarding Will with greater consideration than he
had any point before now. “That’s very brave.”
“It isn’t. It’s pattern analysis and forensics.”
“Not the profiling,” Hannibal amends, tongue against his teeth as he considers
his words. “Letting them in.”
It is Will, rather than Hannibal, who cuts short the tension between them -
finding his ground again from the uneasy place he found himself - and he
watches Hannibal lift the coffee to his lips again. “How old are you, really?”
“My admissions paperwork says nineteen.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
The snap in his tone twists a sound into the sigh that Hannibal exhales, cheeks
growing dusky. He hopes, futilely, that Will didn’t hear it, but knows he did
and averts his eyes now, instead. “Do you really want to know?”
“I asked,” Will replies softly, his voice an iron glove wrapped in velvet.
“Two years less than that,” answers the boy, hesitating before correcting
himself. “Seventeen.”
“How did you pull off getting into university?”
Hannibal’s smile says it all, a jaded thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. He
appears, for a moment, much older than the seventeen years he professes. Will
sees it, and Hannibal knows he does, and it’s jarring enough to send him to
stand. There is room to breathe now between them but neither do, not until
Hannibal circles the desk and sets his mug against it. He affords himself one
more stretch, arms above his head, and lowers them once more to the desk to
resume his study.
For a moment more, Will remains entirely still, entirely quiet, eyes in the
general direction of where Hannibal had gone but glazed, unseeing for the
moment, thoughts working too quickly in his mind. The forefront of them all
that Hannibal had obeyed, by himself, to return to how Will had set him, prone
and uncomfortable, vulnerable and bare.
Then he watches Hannibal take up another set of notes, closing his eyes or
directing them up to memorize a fact before returning to start another, and
stands to leave the room, and the boy alone.
In the kitchen Will checks the coffee, cold now but still there, and pours
himself the last dregs and winces at the taste. He had thought Hannibal young,
but not that young, had thought the boy entirely desirable but now? A hand up
against his lips, just breathing slowly before Will drops it. Perhaps he won’t
see him again, forget he tried, once, to see. Forget he did, often, see, and
what. He rubs his eyes, just beneath his glasses, a slow thing to stretch the
skin and send stars scattering in his vision.
For all his wiles, Hannibal is a boy, a desperate, lonely, utterly determined
boy, and as much as Will wishes to see him gone, spared this, if he allows
Hannibal to write him off for good, he fears the other men that will find him,
take advantage of his unwilling yet committed submission. He almost hates to
use the word, for how inaccurate it is.
Will swallows another mouthful of the cold revolting coffee and leaves his mug
in the sink, making his way back to the main room, allowing himself to look at
where Hannibal is bent, how, beautifully spread and shown and shameless in it.
And obedient.
Will takes his time getting back to his seat, stopping behind Hannibal and
watching the slow coil of muscles that presents, despite his put-on apathy, the
young man’s nerves at being watched this way, stood so close to. Will reaches,
sets his knuckles just soft against the inside of one thigh, drawing them up to
where it curves, rounding, before Will splays his hand, fingers wide, and
places a palm there instead. He moves it slowly over Hannibal’s skin, over his
backside and up higher still, to the small of his back, fingers skimming his
ribs and higher, higher up until he can curl them beneath Hannibal’s chin
again, feel his pulse rocket against Will’s soft fingers.
He holds, just a moment more, and then lets go, returns to his seat to take up
his work, to not watch the boy across from him as he knows he himself is being
watched.
Minutes, hours, days seem to pass before Hannibal’s lungs ache and he exhales
the shaky sigh that held itself there. His skin is warm, still, he imagines it
would be anyway, if he touched it, traced the lines that Will’s hand followed
over him - firm in his certainty, a tangible study of what Will has watched
throughout the afternoon. Considerate, not to touch him between his legs
despite how painfully stiff Hannibal’s erection now. Reassuring, in not taking
even still what Hannibal has offered, but to instead touch so gently that it
burns inside Hannibal’s chest.
“What -”
“Study,” Will answers, and Hannibal ducks his head.
Not ‘leave’.
Not ‘go’.
Not suck or spread or swallow or cry or any of the other countless commands
that Hannibal has heard too many times to count.
Study.
And so he does.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     The boy huffs a sigh, not caring for the moment that Will can hear
     it, taut frustration in finding himself torn between what he wants
     and what he needs, and utterly unable to sort out which is which.
     “It takes me an hour to get to Wolf Trap,” Hannibal finally relents.
     “I can’t be there in twenty minutes.”
     “Try.”
Usually, he manages to be more professional. More often than not Hannibal will
prepare for a call, a glass of cold water, slow breathing to allow his mind to
settle, to bring up the persona he needs available, just there, to answer on
his behalf.
Usually.
With Will Graham he does not play with a persona, he merely adjusts himself to
no longer hold his tongue when he is irritated. Or exhausted.
“I’m just confirming your desire for company tomorrow.”
“You’re yawning.” Will’s voice is not surprised but almost offended, though
Hannibal knows, somehow, it is not at all aimed at him.
“Did you want -”
“Hannibal, when was the last time you slept?”
This makes the young man pause mid-sentence, throat clicking as he swallows his
words and adjusts for new ones. A slow retrace of synapses from point A to
point B until he comes up with an answer he knows Will is not going to
appreciate. Perhaps he likes his voice. Perhaps it’s the first time he’s felt
his heart calm in a week.
“When I slept.”
There is a sound on the other end of the line, a brief exhale and something
else, a word perhaps, a curse maybe, but it’s unintelligible and Hannibal is
far from caring enough to ask it to be repeated.
“Call a cab,” Will says, finally.
“I -”
“A cab, Hannibal, that will add to my usual expenses, and you will direct it to
my house.”
Hannibal sighs and considers the time. By the time he dresses, finds a cab who
will take him so far out, and actually gets to Wolf Trap, it will be no sooner
than half-past midnight, and with the rest of the night yet to go.
In truth, Hannibal can’t answer Will’s question, because he finds himself
unable to recall the last night he hadn’t spent keeping afloat of his studies
or at an appointment.
Weeks, certainly.
Months, perhaps.
He pushes his tongue against his teeth before finally deciding. “Tomorrow,”
Hannibal assures Will, his voice softer than ever usually lets it be. “All day,
as you’ve asked. I will gladly share my company with you then.”
Will does not comment on the fact that Hannibal has, for once, not showered him
with blatant indifference regarding his - possibly now standing - appointment.
He does, however, gently lower his tone, soften it, tilt it to that timbre he
knows makes Hannibal’s back unfurl rigid, at attention.
“Tomorrow begins in less than twenty minutes. I will not ask for you to reveal
where you live, and I will not call a cab for you. But you will, and I will not
ask you again.”
Hannibal’s first dozen protests die on his lips, parted slack and silent as
goosebumps scatter like rain across his skin. He shivers, feet pressing a
little harder into the bed where he sits. “I’ll have to dress,” Hannibal tries
to explain, finding only silence and Will’s words ringing in his ears. “I -”
The boy huffs a sigh, not caring for the moment that Will can hear it, taut
frustration in finding himself torn between what he wants and what he needs,
and utterly unable to sort out which is which.
“It takes me an hour to get to Wolf Trap,” Hannibal finally relents. “I can’t
be there in twenty minutes.”
“Try.”
The phone clicks off and it’s all Hannibal can do not to hurl it across the
room in frustration, exhaustion like sandpaper against raw nerves. Money, he
tells himself, he needs the money for this. He was only going to study tonight
anyway and he can instead have an hour of sleep in the cab on the way there, on
the way back again… two nights from now.
Hannibal hopes his laughter doesn’t sound as desperate as it feels as he
unlocks his phone, and calls for a taxi.
---
He jerks awake only when the taxi driver shakes him, a gentle thing against his
shoulder that stops as soon as Hannibal’s eyes are open, hands up as though in
defense.
“You gonna pay the fare, kid?”
Hannibal releases a breath, quick, nods in quick jerking motions and seeks in
his pocket for his wallet. The house before him is lit, almost too bright in
the middle of nowhere, and Hannibal stifles another yawn against the back of
his hand as he makes his way up the porch steps, dragging his bag up them
behind himself.
He doesn’t knock, the dogs herald his arrival, and then Will opens the door
before he can anyway, in another loose flannel shirt, but jeans today, casual
outside of the week, not bothering to dress for Hannibal either. He regards him
with dark eyes, a brief once-over, as the dogs bounce and slither around the
young man. Then he steps aside to let him in, leaning against the door as
Hannibal side steps through it and leaves his bag by his shoes, allowing the
dogs to take their fill of sniffing both.
Will closes both doors with a click and checks the locks before turning to
Hannibal again. There is no pity in his look, nor admonishment. He looks,
perhaps, concerned. If Hannibal believed it was at all directed at him.
“When, Hannibal?” Will asks instead.
“When what?”
A beat of annoyance from the older man passes as Hannibal bends to pet the
fluffy mottled dog who greeted him before, sinking his fingers through fleecy
fur.
“When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”
“I don’t know,” responds Hannibal. “Does it matter to you so much? Truly?” It’s
late, now, past one already and Hannibal can hardly stop from swaying as he
straightens slowly, voice pitched with frustration. “I might have had one
tonight, perhaps, and seen you tomorrow as agreed. But before you correct me
again, I can’t tell you because I don’t remember. I can’t remember because it
hardly matters.”
What few fuses are left pop dark by the heartbeat.
Hannibal pauses, and ducks his head. Color blooms rosy over his cheeks and he
murmurs an apology for the outburst, spreading his hand down the shirt he
managed to twist into. He is underdressed for meeting with a client. Unpressed
shirt, yet untucked, hair scattered across his brow from sleeping in the cab -
he is better than this, he knows he is, and he knows that clients expect him to
be. He looks - as he hopes to never do - like a student.
An exhausted student, run ragged to near incoherency, gaze dimmed by the dark
circles beneath them that swallow any light before it can reach his eyes.
“I did the best I could, on short notice,” Hannibal murmurs, ceasing his
fidgeting to fold his hands behind his back.
Will watches him, exhausted and angry, and still, after everything, trying to
please. Trying to be pleasing. And useful and beautiful and -
"Take it off," he tells Hannibal gently, watches the way his brows crease a
little before he moves his hands to the front to obey. Will clicks his tongue,
a gentle thing, and the dogs move obediently to the living room, each finding
their bed or a couch of preference to drape over, contented to just watch.
Will watches Hannibal's fingers fumble with the buttons, but does not step up
to help. And he wants to, wants to push the shirt down Hannibal's shoulders and
kiss the skin there, soothe between his shoulder blades with a nuzzle, breathe
the young man in. Hannibal discards his shirt and reaches for his pants,
unprompted, working those almost angrily off before watching Will with sleepy,
narrowed eyes.
Will points past himself to the bed, waits to see if Hannibal will obey, and
finds that the boy takes just the two steps needed to get closer before
kneeling at Will’s feet, a motion that would have been entirely graceful had
Hannibal his wits about him. Will swallows, steps back, catches Hannibal's
hands when they seek for him and he nearly overbalances.
"Bed," Will commands softly.
Hannibal’s nerves are frayed, his patience shot, and he shifts his weight from
one bruised knee to the other. He tries to hide the grimace but it hurts,
either way, and so he simply leans as if to nuzzle the front of Will's pants.
Hands still held in Will's, the older man steps back, and Hannibal closes his
eyes with a sigh when his cheek turns only against air. "Please. Here is fine -
"
"It is also not bed," Will tells him, waiting, and Hannibal swallows roughly in
the silence, consternation in his knitted brow. It's Will who presses his
fingers beneath Hannibal's chin. Will who lifts it and brings Hannibal to
stand, their eyes to meet. Will who parts his lips to speak again and Hannibal
who stops him.
Rising to his toes, Hannibal gathers soft flannel in his fists and rocks their
mouths together. Seeking something - a decision, an inevitability, his own
pathetic need for nearness - their lips slide smooth against the other until
Hannibal feels Will's body stiffen, and his mouth still. Old smoke and warm
whiskey and resistance, as clear a taste as all the others.
And it's Will who frames Hannibal's shoulders and eases him unsteady back to
his heels.
Stop.
Down.
No.
"Bed," Will reminds him. Almost tender. "I do not like to repeat myself."
Hannibal could laugh, and only after he hears it happening does he realize he
already is. He loosens his fingers from Will’s shirt and takes a step back,
another, before turning to go and choking his laughter into silence. Fingers
spread across thin sheets as Hannibal presses them to the mattress and slinks
atop it. Kissing makes him too human, he knows, too much like others that his
clients may have genuinely cared about, but worth a gamble he supposes on this
man who has made himself so entirely difficult to please.
He is unsurprised by the reaction, unhurt beyond a dull bruised ache that
throbs in his sternum with every beat of his heart. Hannibal remains on all
fours, but folds his arms beneath his head and lays his cheek against them. A
smile dawns, slow and sleepy, as he thinks of how Will’s scuff felt
unexpectedly soft against his skin. Eyes hooded behind the fine, clean hair
that drapes in front of them, he arches his back a little deeper to open his
hips, and waits with resignation for the fucking he does not particularly want
right now, but will accept anyway.
“Like so?” Hannibal murmurs. “Or on my back?”
Will draws a hand over his face and wills himself patience. Hannibal is almost
drugged, the way he moves, almost slurs his words, trembles from his body quite
simply reaching its brink. And yet he is still playing that coy, desirous
thing, still wanting Will to treat him just the same as others do. Because he
simply expects that he will.
"On your side," Will replies, voice rougher than he would like it, but he can
still taste Hannibal against his lips, still feel the warmth of him pressed
close, and he wants him. He wants.
He watches Hannibal sigh, obey, slipping his legs to the bed and turning to
curl on his side, face away from Will, hips still cocked just so to be
inviting. And he is, truly he is, and part of Will wishes nothing more than to
give him what he’s so determined to have and determined to hate, spread him and
fill him, feel Hannibal's form tremble more, fingers splaying and curling in
the sheets, sweet little sounds as he’s taken...
Will steps closer, watches Hannibal tense, and quietly, gently, sets a hand
against his hair to stroke it from his face. The response is an almost violent
shudder, though Hannibal does not move away. So Will keeps it up, carding
fingers through his hair, over and over, to soothe him until all thoughts of
being that thing Hannibal claims he is are gone, until his breathing hitches as
it tries to settle.
"Sleep," Will tells him softly, sliding a few strands behind Hannibal's ear
even as the other fussily shifts, tries to protest.
Tension curves Hannibal’s jaw for a moment, thins his lips, but they part again
on a sigh when Will works his fingers deep through his hair. He has thought at
length about what this man is after - a long courtship perhaps, to feel as
though he’s earned the right to fuck Hannibal, some peculiar prurient interest
with which Hannibal isn’t yet familiar - but the simplest explanation is the
only one that fits fully with the behavior Hannibal has seen in him.
He wants company.
He wants control.
He wants to care for something, like his dogs, and feel as though his effort is
not being wasted.
And he is willing to pay for it, to the tune of covering a semester’s worth of
books, so far.
Hannibal does not protest the instruction, cannot in truth, as his eyes close
heavily and his breath begins to settle, anxious tension dissipating with every
sigh that he turns against the soft sheets where he lays bare. “When you
start,” Hannibal murmurs, voice already thick, “I will feign sleep, still, if
that is what will please you.”
"It will please me if you sleep," Will tells him, still just touching
Hannibal's hair, down to where it barely curls against his neck, over and over
until Hannibal's breathing has soothed, eased to rest, and when Will stops the
gentle touches, he hears no protest.
Will takes a moment, flexing his fingers in midair before walking quietly
around to the other side of the bed to see Hannibal sleeping, eyes closed and
lips parted on slow, deep breaths as his body is finally allowed to rest. No
interruptions from clients as Will has the weekend. No pressure to be a thing
used, when Will does not want to use him.
A beautiful boy, pulled too thin by obligations he has set upon himself.
Will swallows, reaches to draw his knuckles over Hannibal’s cheek, to feel the
heat of the skin there, but it does not stir the boy to motion again, even his
eyes still beneath the lids where he is not even dreaming - too tired. Will’s
exploration of the sleeping boy extends no further than to feel his soft
breaths against the back of his hand before he leaves the room to go to the
porch, keeping his dogs inside despite the soft whines of protest.
Outside, the air hits him cold, and Will leans against the door, head back and
eyes closed. What is he doing with this boy? What is he cultivating? It would
be so easy to play into his whims, do what so many others do to him. It would
be an easy release, against the stubborn boy who would refuse an end if it
would please you.
Will thinks of the way his lips had tasted, soft and warm against his own, he
thinks of how hard it was to not open his mouth to it and accept him there.
He smokes his second cigarette of the night, careful to exhale away from the
screen door, to burn away the taste of Hannibal’s lips spreading tenderly
against his own.
When he comes back in, he’s careful to stop the door from slamming, careful too
to quietly lock the other behind it. Hannibal has not moved, not to put his
head on the pillow rather than resting on his folded arm, not to slip beneath
the blankets though he lays bare in the chilly house. But he’s not waiting,
now, as he did before with such calm acceptance of what he assumes, always,
will happen - his breath is slow and steady, fingers curled beside his mouth,
coiled small where he lays.
Gentled by sleep, without the proud narrowing of his eyes or the set of his jaw
that ages him, he appears young enough that Will averts his eyes. He gathers
the blanket at the foot of the bed and drapes it softly over Hannibal,
lingering only to watch Hannibal shift and draw it around his shoulders.
He came, because Will told him to.
He stayed, because Will told him to.
He sleeps now, only because Will told him to, providing no such kindness for
himself but accepting it, however grudging, like this.
Will shuts off the lights, and settles into the couch rather than his bed.
Draping an arm across his eyes, he thinks of the gratitude of strays, when
they’ve been found by someone who will ask for no more than to care for them.
---
Hannibal wakes only once, when his muscles scream in pain from how he has
coiled himself. He stretches, turns to his other side and wriggles up to rest
his head on the pillow. Blanket up over his shoulders, up to his nose, and he's
asleep again, no mind or care or notice for the dog stretched at his side, the
larger bed, the unfamiliar blankets.
In the morning, he wakes only because the light hits his eyes from the window,
reaching across the floor - not his floor - to the bed - not his bed - to him.
Hannibal stills, breath held and muscles tight suddenly. He can hear soft
breathing in the house from many sources and it takes him a moment to remember
where he is.
Not there.
No lined bunks and timed rest.
He turns very carefully and laughs softly, a helpless and surprised thing, when
instead of Will beside him, he sees the speckled orange dog. It wags its tail,
soft where it connects with Hannibal's legs still beneath the blanket, but
doesn’t move, comfortable and well-trained. Hannibal reaches out, to feel the
nuzzle of the cold nose and silky muzzle, hot tongue just once against his palm
before he takes his hand away.
Besides the breathing, the house is silent. So far out into the country, here,
he wonders if more than silence ever even happens. Hannibal seeks for his
clothes, finds them folded on top of his bag - certainly not where he left
them. A moment of consideration and he moves to stand, to get them, passing
Will’s sleeping form on the couch as he does, pulling him to pause, to look,
curious.
The man frowns even in his sleep. Brows drawn and lips thin, the same
expression he holds when grading papers, when Hannibal doesn’t play according
to the rules of asking before he asks a question, when Hannibal makes reference
to his occupation even in passing. He wonders what plagues the man so deeply
that even his sleep is troubled.
Pattern analysis and cold scenes.
Hannibal hums.
He slips into his briefs and pulls his shirt on, unbuttoned for now, before
surveying the rest of the house, dogs kicking in sleep or beginning to stir
with wide yawns as they regard the increasingly familiar young man who stands
among them. Hannibal pads back to the bed, the blanket still warm from his own
sleep, and takes it up to carry it back to Will. Careful not to touch the man,
he drapes it over him as softly as he can, and takes a small pleasure in
providing that comfort, at least, amusement in the thought that Will would only
take comfort from him when he’s asleep.
Will barely stirs, and Hannibal makes his way to the kitchen to prepare coffee.
He’s careful to put everything back where he found it, to open no more cabinets
than necessary to find the grounds and set them brewing in the copper pot. A
moment more of consideration, as the fluffy dog who shared the bed with him
watches with a cocked head and wagging tail, and Hannibal sets to finding their
food as well.
He is unexpectedly delighted to see that Will prepares his own dog food, stored
in the refrigerator and marked with dates, and occupies himself contentedly
with spooning it into the myriad bowls that litter the floor.
The dogs swarm just as they had the night before, entirely gentle things,
affectionate, clever, controlled only to the point they need to be. They do not
sleep outside, they are not cruelly chained or starved, not beaten, nothing.
Seven dogs who eat home-cooked meals, who run free reign through the house and
outside as far as the eye can see.
And they always come back.
Hannibal watches them obediently eat only from their own bowls, lick them clean
and sniff around Hannibal's feet for treats, or maybe more food. He doesn’t try
to understand, and lets them out, after a quiet fiddling with the locks, to
explore where they want.
The house smells of coffee, and Will has yet to stir. Hannibal considers how
humble this all is, considering the man spends enough on Hannibal alone to
suggest a home like Frederick’s. He wonders if it is choice or necessity.
Perhaps he just needs the silence, the space for all his strays to roam.
Hannibal thinks of how Will has never raised his voice or his hand, how he had
not touched him at all while he had slept, unlike so many others who would have
taken advantage.
"It will boil over." Will’s voice is sleep-rough and entirely too pleasing in
that timbre. He leans against the door to the kitchen and gestures with his
chin towards the coffeepot.
It sends a scatter of goosebumps across Hannibal’s skin, and he’s hardly enough
time to wonder why before his feet are carrying him back into the kitchen to
remove the bubbling pot and switch off the burner. In an instant, without even
needing to be asked, a honed skill for knowing when something is wanted and a
desire - always - to satisfy that want.
Especially, for some reason, for him.
He stretches onto his toes to take down two mugs and tries to recall, fingers
against his lips in thought, how Will drank his coffee when Hannibal studied
there. His back aches as if in memory, a welcome sensation, and he pours both
cups black before bringing one back out to Will. Long strides and a slow bend
as he sets Will’s mug on the small table beside him, and cradling his own with
both hands, Hannibal himself against the arm of the couch, at Will’s feet.
A moment more of thought, a fit of pique, and Hannibal brings his mug down to
rest against his thigh, extending a finger to just brush the side of Will’s
foot.
He wonders if he’ll be scolded for it - for doing, rather than asking to do -
and the thought alone warms color to his cheeks.
“How would you like to spend the day?” Hannibal asks, if only to hear Will’s
sleep-rough voice again and feel another frisson like fingers down his spine.
“It is yours.”
Will considers the young man, his careful touch, his quick obedience earlier,
working while Will had returned to the couch. It is rare he does much on his
weekends, if it is warm he might fish, walk the dogs for hours in the forest
nearby. If it is not, he reads, ties lures, listens to music, tries to remember
he is real and whole and here.
He takes up the mug instead of answering, to give himself more time to, to
distract his eyes from the bare thighs and unbuttoned shirt that rests tempting
before him, so close.
It would be so easy...
"Did you sleep?" He asks instead, still gentle, still low. And he cares, the
concern in his voice genuine, eyes studying Hannibal not as a thing but as a
boy Will had brought here, it seems, for no other reason than to be allowed a
reprieve from his life.
Hannibal watches his coffee, to let himself be watched without the worry of
reading into the other’s attention. His smile is small, just a twitch of a
thing, but entirely genuine. “Yes,” he answers. “Better than I have in many
months.”
He doesn’t touch the man again but instead presses his thumb against the rim of
the mug, slow circles back and forth, and wonders if Will sees him in the same
way he sees his dogs - a lost little thing that needs to be fed and cared for,
asking nothing more than receptiveness to someone else doing so. The thought
should be more discomforting than it is, but the fact remains that Hannibal is
- for once - well-rested, unbruised, no pull in his muscles when he sits to
remind him of his place, and entirely content.
“It’s an unusual way to use your time,” Hannibal notes, glancing sidelong just
to let his eyes drift down the length of the older man’s body, stretched long.
He forces the words, but they fall softly. “Thank you.”
Will nods, finds a smile coming to his lips despite himself. The coffee is
good, to have it in company is better still. It is rare that Will ever does. He
can hear some of the dogs yip outside, enjoying their morning. Fed, as he had
seen, touched and gentled and not ignored.
"I'm glad you slept," he says, shifting a little, sitting up a bit more before
drinking some more coffee. "I hope the weekend is enough to rest you for
school."
"Why?"
Will blinks.
"Why do you spend your money on letting me sleep? On letting me study? What
satisfaction do you get?"
Will watches, listens, thinks of what is behind the words, the actual question
there, and sets his teeth against the rim of the mug before replying. "The
satisfaction in knowing my money goes somewhere worthwhile."
"What gauges that?" Hannibal asks him. "My worth?"
"Do you need me antagonized, Hannibal?" Will asks gently. "Do you need me to be
the man you try and push me to be? I won't become him."
Lips pursing, Hannibal presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, still
tracing the edge of his mug as he considers the questions, the tone of them -
the intentions of the man watching him who for all Hannibal has thought of him
seems to be entirely, painfully earnest. He takes a slow sip, and when he
answers, it is with a tone that Will hasn’t yet heard from him - uncertainty.
“I know how to respond to that man. I know when to act as if company is enjoyed
or loathed. Touches welcome or unwanted. I know how to be many things to many
people, but,” Hannibal pauses, eyes narrowing at the coffee. “You are not,
wholly, like any of them. And so I’m unsure how to respond. I’m unsure how to
act for you. And every attempt to sort you into one of those archetypes that I
understand has failed.”
His frustration is evident, a curve tightening his shoulders, tensing his
words. Not at Will, but at the situation that has made him feel, for the first
time in years, like a failure.
“I would sleep with you,” Hannibal says, brows twitching inward. “You’ve been
kind to me, and I would enjoy it, I think. But you don’t wish for that any more
than you wish for me to be clever or coy or sullen or sultry.” He presses his
tongue between his lips, and sighs, “I don’t know why you wish to see me, or
what you think I can do for you since you want, seemingly, nothing that I’ve
offered.”
Will swallows, a careful thing, sets his mug against his stomach. "You have
offered me a lot I rarely ask for, I have appreciated it. I enjoy it, and you."
Will draws his brows up, raises his eyes.
"But there are a great many things I do not voice, Hannibal," he says. “It does
not mean I don’t want them." Will thinks of propriety, of the wrongness of how
much he wants a seventeen-year-old boy, despite him being wiser beyond his
years, having seen enough haunting things to age his eyes if not his soul.
Perhaps because of it.
Will takes a breath, releases it, tries to think of a way for this to make
sense to them both. "I do not have to wish for you to be clever, nor coy, nor
sullen nor sultry - you already are, as your mood swings. But you’re looking
for something as much within this means to an end as you are in your life
without it."
Whatever willingness is there, for company, for sex, Will believes it genuine
but not without weight, too soon still from the time Hannibal had thought him
there to want just that. Mere hours since he had sunk to his knees to offer his
mouth. Mere hours since he had held himself like a soldier at ease waiting for
something to happen.
There is a damage there Will wants nothing more than to understand, to heal, to
help. But just as strong as that desire, so, too, is the desire for the boy to
decide this on his own. Without coercion and the need to prove something. And
Will is patient. Will can wait. A pointed look, careful, deliberate, and he
curls his lips between his teeth briefly. "Until your own pride stops blinding
you, I can’t give it to you."
"Why?" Hannibal frowns. To his surprise, Will smiles.
"Because I want you to ask for it."
Despite the jab about his pride, Hannibal feels it unfurl tight across his
chest. “You’re the one paying me.”
“I know.”
“So you’re the one who should tell me what you want,” Hannibal reiterates, jaw
working.
“I have.”
“For me to ask.”
“Yes.”
“For what?” laughs Hannibal, just a curt breath of it, fingers clenching around
the mug. “For sex?”
“Is that all you’re looking for?” Will asks. “It seems as though you have it in
spades.”
“Not with you.”
Will’s smile widens, but he doesn’t say anything. And regardless of how open
the invitation sits, now, between them, Hannibal still can’t bring himself to
do as Will wants for long aching minutes, a chasm between what he wants and
voicing it.
Between coercion and submission.
He stands, and isn’t sure why he does but finds that it does nothing to ruffle
free the tightness in his muscles, curling up his spine and pulling under his
skin. The boy’s cheeks burn with heat, dusky darkness spreading across the
bridge of his nose as he lingers, unmoving, eyes unfocused towards his cooling
coffee rather than the man who lays beside him.
“If I don’t know what you’re offering me, how can I ask for what I want?”
“If you don’t know what you’re asking for, you’re not ready to have it,” Will
tells him simply, and this smile is somehow warmer, different to the others.
One Hannibal, to his own infuriation, does not yet understand.
Will pushes himself to stand, draws hands through his hair and seeks for his
glasses on the floor. There is a strange vulnerability in that, seeing Will
adjust himself in such a way, return the face that sees the world back to
itself, show just the bare crack of the quiet man beneath in the little
gestures before he stops them.
“Did you bring your books?”
“Which?” Hannibal asks, watching Will pass him, turning his head but not his
body to listen as he goes down the corridor towards the bathroom.
“Whichever you need to study from.”
“You are the only person I have met who gets off on the concept of my studying,
not the concept of my being a student.”
“Hardly,” Will responds, then pauses as the water runs and he rinses his face,
brushes his teeth. Hannibal listens but does not go to him, gives him that
space, and enjoys, oddly, that vulnerability of Will’s as well.
“It may be a pretentious, coined term but sapiosexuality is something a lot of
people find themselves attuned to.” Hannibal lifts an eyebrow, and Will ignores
it, passing by him to gather something from the living room, from one of the
bookcases, before returning to the large table.
For a while, Hannibal doesn’t move, and Will does not command him to do
anything. He doesn’t, in fact, tell Hannibal often what to do, more often he
will tell him what not to do, and it is in that, that Hannibal gains his
reluctant satisfaction. That strange shiver up his body from the word no.
“May I study at the table?” He asks after a time, setting his feet against the
soft cushion of the couch.
“You may.”
Hannibal feels his lips tilt up in a smile.
“May I study at the table?” He adjusts, amuses himself with the length of time
it takes Will to consider before he replies, as neutral and calm as ever.
“No, I believe we’ve established your study routine here, it would be a pity to
break it.”
There it is, that word that untwists the tension from inside the boy. A word
with certainty and meaning, with weight and substance. Do not. Hannibal lifts a
hand, pressing the backs of his fingers cool against his warmed cheek, and his
smile narrows his eyes.
In truth, he has little interest in forcing study right now. Too tempted by the
bed that’s still so near - too fascinated by the man next to whom Hannibal sets
his mug, removes his notes and separates them neatly by class. But he has an
interest in what Will has obliquely offered to him, in the sensations that sing
electric across his skin when he has made demands.
But Hannibal’s smile curves devious, as he folds his sleeves up his arms,
barely clothed as he presses his forearms to the desk again, and bends. There
has been no demand yet.
And so he waits. Waits with bated breath and a quickened heart, with pupil-
blacked eyes and tongue pressed just visible against his incisor. And when the
word comes, it’s like a whipcrack, sharp enough to rip a shiver down Hannibal’s
spine.
“Study.”
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     Stretching out the wonderful burn in his legs by raising onto his
     toes, palms flat against the desk, Hannibal lengthens himself with a
     deep groan, twists this way and that, lifts his arms above his head
     in a feline movement and then lets them slip to his sides again. He
     pads away from the desk, leaving his notes for now in some thin
     comfort from seeing them there - as if he will return to them
     tonight, tomorrow, the next day, here, rather than return to find a
     late pay notice under his door.
     “May I put on a record?”
Two nights in a row of unviolated sleep.
Two days of uninterrupted studying.
Four meals, one shower, countless cups of coffee, and a clean pair of boxers to
change into with a fresh undershirt above it.
Hannibal feels as if he should be paying for this weekend, rather than Will.
Toes tapping bare against the floor, arms folded beneath his chest where he
leans over the desk, Hannibal glances towards the clock. Approaching dinner,
minutes dripping in seemingly speeding increments closer to when Hannibal will
have to leave to get back to the city.
He ducks his head again, and asks softly, “May I be done for today?”
Will, too, checks the clock from his armchair, book in his lap. “There’s still
time left.”
“That’s not what I asked,” grins the boy, to only bare amusement from the older
man.
“Have you finished reviewing everything you needed?”
“Yes.”
“And your anatomy notes, again?”
“Yes,” Hannibal smiles, leaning over his arms a little more, pleased with
himself. Pleased that Will is pleased with him, too, when Will relents with a
nod.
Stretching out the wonderful burn in his legs by raising onto his toes, palms
flat against the desk, Hannibal lengthens himself with a deep groan, twists
this way and that, lifts his arms above his head in a feline movement and then
lets them slip to his sides again. He pads away from the desk, leaving his
notes for now in some thin comfort from seeing them there - as if he will
return to them tonight, tomorrow, the next day, here, rather than return to
find a late pay notice under his door.
“May I put on a record?”
It’s a fun game, asking, and Hannibal rarely forgets to do so now - every
occasion seems to call for the boy to ask permission, and in nearly all of them
that are not intentionally facetious, Will agrees. This time, too, Will murmurs
that he may, and Hannibal bends at the waist, elegantly lithe, to trace his
fingers over the thin ridges of cardboard record covers. He takes out one
that’s upbeat and jazzy, the record itself older than he himself, twice over,
and sets it to the spindle. The needle snaps and pops into place, and for a
moment Hannibal simply watches it turn, before he turns to Will in kind.
The click of his bare feet on the floor herald his return as the music plays,
and Hannibal drags his fingertips along the top edge of the armchair where Will
now sits. Downwards then, touching Will’s sleeve just enough to unsettle the
fabric, before he taps against the cigarettes on the small table beside him.
“May I have a cigarette?”
“You don’t smoke.”
“I get carded when I try,” Hannibal muses, smile widening.
Will considers this, considers the young man beside him who is entirely too
full of energy after spending most of his day bent over the desk studying.
Hannibal had grown to accept the concept of asking quickly, by the end of the
first day he simply asked, for everything, learning slowly things which he did
not need permission for and those for which he should seek it.
Will reaches into his pocket for the lighter and passes it to Hannibal, eyes on
how close their fingers come to brushing before he himself retracts them.
“You may.”
Having Hannibal in his space has been oddly soothing, the company of dogs is
one thing but a person is quite another. They breathe differently, move
differently, seek different things and can get most on their own. Hannibal had
spent time working, had curled himself into the armchair Will now sits in to
read when the evening had grown dark and the dogs had started to snore in
sleepy comfort by the fire. He has spent, as much as Will can tell, time
relaxing - allowing himself, for a change, to feel a weekend pass him, not
pressure him.
“Outside,” Will comments, as Hannibal puts a filter to his lips, brings the
lighter up.
“Will you come with me?”
“No.” A smile from them both, slight, the word now a game in itself, the length
of it, the timbre, the roundness, enough to suggest its very own language both
are learning to speak.
“Am I to dress?”
“Go as you are.”
Hannibal smiles. “I’ll get cold.”
Will’s eyelids flicker, the bottom ones drawing up as his lips bow, hiding a
smile.
“Then you will,” he says, watching Hannibal a moment longer before returning
his eyes to his book.
Hannibal’s smile - faint but there far more often in longer than he can recall
- lingers as he turns to go, accompanied by several of the dogs when the screen
door opens. It is, as predicted, cold. The sun sets beyond the trees and pulls
long shadows over the field, no more sound here but the crackle of flame to
tobacco, the susurrus of wind across the grass, the music playing now from
inside. Hannibal holds the smoke against his tongue before breathing it deep to
seep into his lungs, his blood, humming now as it quickens his pulse just a
little.
He remembers how it tasted on Will’s lips when he tried to kiss him, and his
pulse speeds even more.
Will has made good on everything he has offered and everything he has asked of
Hannibal. Company and obedience to his rules in exchange for time and care. An
insistence not on stripping Hannibal of whatever he can before his time expires
as others do, but on giving Hannibal room to recover from running himself
ragged at every turn.
Hannibal taps the ashes from the end of the cigarette before slipping the stiff
filter between his lips again, curled damp and warm as he inhales.
There is still, for Hannibal’s own self-preservation perhaps, a precariousness
between them. What makes Will hesitate is unclear to the boy, but he knows that
he, himself, is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s hard to imagine
that this truly is all the man desires when there is so much more ripe for the
taking, and the longer they spend together the more Hannibal wonders how
questionable Will’s inclinations might be if this is, in fact, a long con.
For now, though, Hannibal won’t press. He likes it here. He likes Will, despite
his eccentricities. Maybe because of them. He wonders how he could ask for
another weekend like this without it seeming manipulative, and can’t imagine a
way it wouldn’t.
The thought turns his last drag sour but he sighs it out with the smoke,
careful to stub out the remains in the ashtray near by before returning inside
with a stretch.
Will is just where Hannibal left him, flipping a page in his book as the song
in play strikes a swifter tempo than the one before it. Hannibal wants him. To
touch, to feel close, skin against skin in a way that makes more sense to
Hannibal than the distance that Will maintains between them.
And with nothing in his book for another appointment together after this,
there’s no time like the present to ask with his body, perhaps, instead of his
words.
Slow steps carry him nearer to the chair, a turn in his hips out of time with
his steps that proves enough to lift Will’s eyes above his frames.
It is distracting enough that Hannibal is so close, lithe and beautiful, now
rested and fed and without the stress of needing to catch up on his work. But
this, with him taking his time to take a step, careful as he does not need to
be on the flat floor, no obstacles, and yet -
There is a rhythm beneath the main line of the music that Hannibal has honed in
on, that his body shifts to, not in a dance so much as a sway, a shiver, a
stretch. It is - he is - entirely intoxicating. Will swallows and forces his
eyes down again. He wants to do this and he cannot do it. Not with the boy
still so wired with the thoughts behind the concept, consent, perhaps, but the
damage beneath that is something Will has yet to figure out how to fix.
He knows Hannibal has come closer because the small hairs at the back of his
neck stand up at the proximity, because his breathing draws shallower when he
smells the tobacco - his brand - on Hannibal’s breath. He lifts his eyes to
tell him, to ask, to ask so Will has a way to say no, but he finds that the boy
already is, with every curve and bend of his body before him, beneath scant
clothes.
Will’s clothes.
He manages to swallow the groan coiling in his chest, and sits back, book
closing on his finger to keep the page, set in his lap for now. He doesn’t ask
Hannibal what he’s doing, he knows well enough, he asks himself. What is he
doing indulging the boy like this? With money and whims? What is he doing not
asking him for the names of his clients to report them? What is he doing not
talking to Bedelia himself about his, asking why her, why this, why any of it?
Why this talented, clever, coy boy is here, now, entirely - for all intents and
purposes - his.
Perhaps all he wants is this? Will thinks.
But there was such a deep resentment behind every motion, when he’d knelt, when
he’s bent and spread himself. In everything there was a disgust, a detachment.
That is what Will cannot wipe from his mind, from his thoughts. That is what
stops him from setting his hands against the slender hips of the boy before him
and sucking marks onto his chest.
Hannibal’s fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt and curl it, up over his
own palm, a flash of bare wrist before that, too, is covered up. It is a slick
motion, but unpracticed, and Will watches, helpless, as Hannibal folds the
shirt up over himself, over his head and lets it slide from one arm and just
holds it with the other.
“You are beautiful,” Will tells him softly, and he means it, brows furrowed as
Hannibal tosses the shirt aside, swallowing quietly as Hannibal takes another
step closer to him.
Hannibal’s eyes narrow and close as his smile curves higher, basking in the
praise like a cat in the sun, lips parting on a curled sigh as he pushes both
hands back through his hair, soft now that - for Will - he needn’t tame it
back. He is near enough to touch, now, near enough that he can put a foot on
either side of Will’s, legs spread over the older man’s knees. The movement
takes him, snares his body in unexpected ways and Hannibal abandons his own
restraint to let it. Hips tilting, the developing muscles of his stomach taut
as he twists for Will’s pleasure, for his own, a toss of his head to clear the
hair from his eyes and a grin as it drapes back in front of them.
The youthfulness in Hannibal now is not an affectation, but a genuine boyish
delight. Freedom to move however he pleases with no demands or grasping hands
upon him. Knowledge that Will’s breath hitches short for him, for Hannibal
only. Power to make it to do so.
Hannibal rolls his waist and curls his fingers into the waistband of the boxers
that already sit so low, teasing inches of skin free with every turn of his
hips until he feels Will’s hand against his wrist, holding firm.
“Stop.”
He does, but savors the way the word stumbles free. Straddling Will’s legs,
Hannibal bends, sinuous undulations still curving from shoulders to legs, and
when Will releases his wrist he sets his hands against the arms of the chair.
Arching low, his words are soft against Will’s ear.
“May I touch you?”
Will swallows hard. “No.”
Resisting the sound that wants to shake from him in pleasure at the admonition,
Hannibal tilts his head, just enough that he can feel the brush of curls
against his nose. “Hands above the waist?”
Will’s eyes close, music just a white noise in his ears now, nothing at all
coherent or logical or anything at all but the young man in his lap, so close,
so painfully close… Will sets his book aside, losing the page and uncaring,
avoiding brushing his hands against the skin before him, warm and young and
smooth, paler than his own.
“Hands above the waist,” he relents, taking only the air he needs to keep
himself conscious, it doesn’t matter otherwise if he breathes or not, he barely
can anyway. The touches are exploratory, soft, almost as though Hannibal has
never touched someone else before and Will imagines, for one fleeting hopeful
moment, that perhaps like this, he has not.
Fingers over the fabric of his shirt, almost delicate, almost little, shifting
it enough to feel, enough for the touch to be entirely too intimate for what it
actually is. Will holds his breath, head ducked to watch Hannibal’s hands, to
see the way his stomach bends, to see how he is stirring to hardness in boxers
Will had given him to wear. Will swallows, parts his lips as Hannibal turns his
head to nose against his temple.
“Quid pro quo?” Hannibal whispers, and his hands slip higher up against Will’s
chest now, pressing the warm fabric close to his skin, feeling the way his
heart beats hot against Hannibal’s palm. It is intoxicating, it is dizzying,
and Will wonders why, why he is holding back still, when he can have this,
right now, take the boy up and toss him on the bed and peel the last of his
clothes away. Flailing limbs and seeking mouths and pink-flushed knees and
cheeks, dusky-warm thighs, spread legs, hard -
Will skims his fingers down Hannibal’s side, relishing the way he twitches at
the tickling, moves to splay his hand against Hannibal’s skin as he had the
first time he had him over his table, setting it against his hip, warming to
the skin there, turning his fingers just enough to gather the hem of the boxers
beneath them, to feel the silky skin of Hannibal’s thigh where it curves to his
backside.
He wants.
Hannibal sighs against Will’s cheek, eyes barely open, another undulation curls
his spine and he’s hard enough now that his cock tents into the thin boxers,
brushes Will’s belly when he leans closer still. The boy’s hand drops to catch
Will’s that is yet unmoving and press it to his bare thigh, a rough shove of
palm against soft skin. He draws a little breath, voice catching in a scarcely-
there moan when Hannibal sighs again.
Will’s fingers press beneath the legs of the boxers, wrapping inward to tease
Hannibal’s inner thighs and tickle the fine hairs. The boy moves, forward,
needing more - wanting, genuinely, more, an unfamiliar sensation when normally
this is all done dutifully at most - and Hannibal sets a knee against the chair
alongside Will’s legs. The other follows in kind.
And Hannibal sits astride his professor, pressing through the soft scruff
across his cheeks to smooth Will’s wild curls back from his face. A gyration
brings them together, rocking steady and insistent, and a sigh breaks against
Will’s brow where Hannibal’s lips graze.
“I like it,” he admits, his voice pitching higher, younger with the intensity
of his own unexpected desire. “I like it when you tell me no. When you make me
ask.” He wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and grins, crooked, down at
Will as he eases his glasses from his face. “Guidance,” he adds, and ruts down
against the older man before he can protest.
Will leans back, eyes briefly closed and throat working as he slips his hands
back up to surround Hannibal’s waist, holds him gently but firmly back from
doing that again. Breaths, just breaths, in and out, over and over, until Will
can open his eyes and regard the boy atop him, just his eyes, brown and warm
and hooded in pleasure, not lower, no, not lower again.
“You enjoy it because you want it,” Will tells him quietly, throat clicking as
he swallows, parts his lips to breathe and finds Hannibal suddenly much closer
to him, his own soft and pink and just there… just there. “So you’ve learned to
ask more, to ask right.”
Hannibal gently bites the corner of his lip, swallows. “May I kiss you?”
And Will doesn’t care. He does not care.
“Yes.”
It is electricity and airlessness, a vacuum where nothing matters but the
feeling of Hannibal’s lips against his own, the taste of him, the weight and
realness of him. Will makes a sound, gentle, and Hannibal returns it in kind,
parting his lips wider, shuddering when their tongues slip together, taste
teeth and life and need.
Will wants. To draw a hand through Hannibal’s hair and tug it hard, to bend him
back and mark him, claim him in the most primal way and let him go home
remembering. He wants to feel Hannibal shudder beneath his hands again, muscles
pulled taut and trembling. He pulls back enough to breathe and finds Hannibal’s
lips closing softly against his bottom one before he bites, a sharp teasing
thing, and kisses him again.
Where Will wants, Hannibal needs. Not for bills and not for classes, not to be
the perfect mirror of what another desires, he needs this for himself. To have
sex for pleasure, rather than on demand. To feel human again, kissed and held
and wanted - not only for what his body can provide but for who he is. To
discover who he is again, really, though he isn’t sure he’s ever known. Will
seems to know, to find parts of Hannibal that he didn’t know were there, and
even now stirs something hot and young and wild in the boy that Hannibal had
thought long smothered.
Had tried, himself, to smother.
It comes alive in the rock of his hips that Will has to hold in place, in the
laugh sighed against the older man’s mouth when he does, in the limber arms
that curl over Will’s shoulders so that Hannibal can tangle his fingers in his
hair. He catches Will’s lips again beneath his own, sucking softly against his
tongue before tracing it with his own. Teeth snare on lips snare on sighs and
Hannibal thinks of the few other times in which he’s tried to kiss someone
himself, first, and how often he was chastened for presuming something so
revolting. He thinks of the times he has been kissed instead, brutal smothering
things to make him squirm.
In the knit of his brows the thoughts are seen and in the hand that lifts his
chin to firmly force their eyes to meet, the thoughts are dispersed.
“Will you -” Hannibal begins, swallowing hard and attempting again, his cheeks
darkening. “May I have sex with you?”
Will’s eyes seek between Hannibal’s, curls in his eyes where he can’t be
bothered pushing them away, lips parted to breathe, to try and breathe, and
managing only a sound, a helpless, weak little thing before his eyes close
tight, enough to see stars bloom slowly behind the lids, and Will shakes his
head.
“No,” he sighs, and the agony of the word reads in the tight lines of his body
as he shakes his head, for himself, now, to convince, to remind, before his
hands slip up Hannibal’s body, to his shoulders, to his hair and he kisses him
again, works pliancy into his body from the tension of rejection. “No,” he
breathes again, nose alongside Hannibal’s as he holds him close. “Not until
you’re eighteen, Hannibal, I can’t -”
It’s a moment, so clear in its intent and weight that Hannibal’s breath stops
against Will’s lips. A rejection for morals, for care, not for lack of wanting,
not for lack of needing and aching and pleading.
“But then,” Will adds softly, fingers curling in Hannibal’s hair. “Then, if you
let me then, yes, God yes.”
Good enough to torment and tease and touch.
Good enough to display and spread bare.
Good enough to pay.
Always on another’s terms.
Always the pieces, and never the whole.
Hannibal twists his head just slightly when Will tries to bring him closer
again, taking the kiss against his cheek as he feels his body grow heavy. The
record hisses quiet and Hannibal watches it spin in silence, the music long
stopped, until he feels Will’s hands lower from his hair.
So much for asking.
“Thank you for the weekend,” Hannibal intones, polite and soft-spoken. He lifts
Will’s hands from where they came to rest light as feathers against his
shoulders, and sets them back against his own chest, before slipping free of
the chair. “Is there somewhere I should leave the clothes?”
Will watches him, curling his hands into fists, one up to quickly press to his
lips and away again, the other just resting in his lap, still. He doesn’t speak
for a moment, breathing still shallow, eyes unfocused, mind spinning so fast he
might be sick.
Change your mind.
Bring him back.
Will’s lips press together and he closes his eyes.
No.
“On the bed is fine,” he says quietly, spreads his fingers to still his lips
from saying more, holding the words forcibly in, choking him, stifling him,
pulling at his lungs and chest and throat. He wants him. To feed and pay for
and care about, to touch and kiss and call his own. He wants him, bent over, on
his knees, on his back, neck arched and lips parted and he wants to taste every
inch of him.
“You didn’t come to me for this,” Will says finally, listening to Hannibal
shift around behind him, where he cannot see, where he doesn’t turn to look.
“Not initially, not now. So why does this drive you away?”
Why do you want it so badly now?
Because you do not know what you want yet. Not enough to ask.
“Didn’t I?” Hannibal asks idly. “Come for this.” He smooths the boxers flat,
standing bare again, and folds the shirt atop them.
“No.”
The word does nothing, and Hannibal hums past the mirthless smile that it
earns. He takes up his clothes and begins to dress. “You called me. You asked
me to come, for a night and the weekend,” Hannibal says, his back towards Will
to hide the trembling of his fingers as he buttons up his shirt. “I’ve done so,
and done as you asked while I was here.”
It is, perhaps, just that simple. Another job, strange, but ultimately no
different than the rest. A performance in which Hannibal lost his grounding,
promises made in poor judgment that could not be upheld.
A reminder.
Hannibal takes up his phone and finds that the battery has died, pocketing it
and turning towards Will. “May I,” the words curl sharp, “use your phone?”
Will just nods, he doesn’t even answer, but it’s enough for Hannibal, who steps
past him again for the cordless, takes it up and walks away again, to the
porch, to call himself a taxi as Will watches.
He can see, in increments, in tiny flashes of something he can’t name, how this
path will lead Hannibal to destruction. Of himself, of others. The abuse he
subjects himself to, mentally, physically, emotionally, will snap him, bend his
beautiful mind to ill, turn his thoughts to blood and fire. He does as he must
and finds himself desperate, enough to sell his body, his soul, slowly and
piece by piece until the agony of it is too much for him.
And it will be, it will take its toll and Will watches the boy, now, and sees
him as that monster, too calm, too quiet to be seen at all. Unknown to those he
walks amongst, but the most dangerous for it.
Will would give the world to be able to tell people what he sees and have them
believe him.
His eyes are glazed when Hannibal returns, fingers in a steeple before his lips
as he just breathes, thinks, lets this wash over him and through him, away, as
before, as always. Because it’s not his life to control, it’s not his choice to
make, and even as it eats him, he will not tell Hannibal to stay, he needs him
to come back on his own.
The screen door slams and Will just blinks, just once.
“I’ll pay for the fare -”
“No need. I have enough.” Hannibal regards him, lofty, again, as he had been on
their first meeting, eyes down and chin raised. A lordling. A beautiful boy.
Will nods, does not otherwise move. Questions and curses his choices but does
not retract them. Presses his fingers to his lips to keep them locked away.
It is comfortable behind the mask. It is safe. Hannibal settles into the lax
expressions of passing interest and winsome distance with only minimal effort.
And behind it, another little death cracks inside of him. Le petite mort. He
has never experienced it in the sense of a sexual orgasm, but in this way,
enough times to know it. Another sort of climax in the release that spills hot
inside his chest.
Disappointment, for being unable to predict another’s behavior.
Abandonment, for carrying expectations of anything else.
“You agreed to stay through dinner,” Will reminds him in a murmur.
Hannibal’s smile remains unswayed, a convincing replica of graciousness. “I
will adjust the bill accordingly. Forgive me. One is not always able to do as
they claim.”
Will sits a moment longer before the lack of motion pulls at his bones and he
stands, sets his hands at his sides and flexes his fingers, over and over,
until he can feel them again. He does not go to Hannibal, he does not ask him
to go to him. They stand as two strangers sharing a space, waiting for the taxi
that will take long enough for them to possibly reconcile, for them possibly to
call it off.
But neither move.
“You are more,” Will says at length, “than a hole to fuck, for money.”
Hannibal merely adjusts his smile again, indulgent, warm, wide enough that it
should touch his eyes but they speak of something entirely different. He
accepts the statement without comment and turns towards the door, willing his
escape sooner, needing, as Will is, to move and shift and rage and do
something.
“Perhaps I will wait at the end of the road,” Hannibal suggests, taking up his
bag, weighed down with his notes and books. He goes for the door, slipping into
his shoes, bending to tie them.
Will watches, as helpless as he had been when Hannibal had kissed him, pressed
to him, offered him everything both wanted before Will had rejected it,
forgotten it, forsaken it.
“May I see you again?” His voice is very quiet, the closest to pleading,
perhaps, that Will has ever gotten.
“No.”
The word rings hollow, settles over Will’s heart like lead. And Hannibal does
not wish him a good evening, does not refer to him by name again. He merely
turns the handle on the door and steps out, closing it quietly behind him.
Will watches his back disappear down the endless driveway, watches the stoop of
his shoulders, the inelegance of his steps once he is only within general view
of the house, though Will can still see him. He watches Hannibal return to his
life and forget the possibility of this one. Without a word, Will sweeps his
hand across the counter, knocking from it the mugs of the morning, small
plates, cutlery. A need to move, to strike, to destroy because nothing within
him will shock his system quite as hard as that one word had.
He does not clean up the shards on the floor. He takes up his cigarettes and
goes outside.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     “It makes me sad that I have to pay to see you, when what we have is
     so much more than a transaction.”
     Hannibal gives in, a brief sigh, before he steadies his wine and
     tilts his head enough to rest against Franklyn’s hand, watching his
     eyes widen in delight, his smile draw soft against his lips. In
     truth, he is easy to appease. But the emotional labor needed is
     utterly exhausting.
     One does what they must.
It has been, by Hannibal’s calculation, forty-four minutes since the last time
he spoke.
It has been over an hour since the last time he spoke more than two words.
He draws a breath and holds it, an answer perched on his lips before Franklyn
speaks through that as well, and Hannibal releases his sigh slowly through his
nose.
Forty-five minutes.
Leaning forward, Hannibal reaches for the wine - he was smart enough to
overfill it this time - and his fingers only brush the glass before Franklyn
sighs.
“Are you bored with me?”
Hannibal blinks, still snaring his wine before he sits back into the couch, a
leg drawn up beside him so that he can face Franklyn entirely. He manages to
manifest a smile, before taking a sip of the wine and sucking it lightly from
his lips. “I enjoy our time together,” Hannibal assures him, but the other
man’s brows lift above brown eyes ringed dark with worry.
“I’m concerned,” Franklyn begins, and Hannibal tilts his head to stretch the
annoyance from where it gathers taut in his neck.
“About anything in particular?”
“About plenty of things not particular,” the man snorts, with a dire laugh.
“But I’m worried about us.”
Franklyn Froideveaux, in a fit of neurotic panic, had called Hannibal no less
than ten times over his weekend away. It was once a quality Hannibal
appreciated about the man, that although it is due predominantly to his own
anxiety, he has an ardor for Hannibal’s attention that is unparalleled. He is,
to date, the only client with whom Hannibal has engaged who considers him as
more than he is, and their relationship more than transactional.
Or deludes himself into believing so, anyway.
And when Hannibal is as thin on money as he is right now, he is more than happy
to indulge. The weekend wasted had cost him. Rent is past due, now, his credit
card stretched from paying the cab fares to and from Wolf Trap. Hannibal had
not charged him. Not for the cabs, not for the extra time, not for any of the
time at all.
He does not want Will Graham’s money.
Which means he needs Franklyn’s money.
“How can I ease your mind?” Hannibal asks gently, feeling the wine warm his
chest and wondering if it is too soon yet to take another sip. Bigger, this
time. Before him, the man laughs, a nervous and little thing before he directs
his eyes to Hannibal and tilts his head until Hannibal is forced to do the
same, his smile plastic and pressed into his lips like wax.
“We don't have any secrets, do we?” Franklyn asks, finds Hannibal’s response to
be a slow blink, a gentle reassurance of what they should both know to be an
obvious lie. “I just… I fear, sometimes, when we don’t see each other as often
as we’d like. I fear that you don't think about me, that you think of someone
else, that you think through all we do and find flaws.”
Like I do remains unspoken, and Hannibal does take another sip of wine, then,
to at least wet his throat before he prepares for another forty-five minutes of
forced silence. But, strangely, the man stops, waiting for Hannibal to
contribute, to alleviate his worries, reassure him of their pure bond, or
whatever he has convinced himself they have, together.
Hannibal had learned, quickly, that Franklyn bought him for what was commonly
referred in the trade to as a ‘boyfriend experience’. Hannibal was the epitome
of the man’s desires, clever and beautiful, young and available, and at his
beck and call. Franklyn’s fantasies extended far into the reaches of delusion
involving the two of them in a long established mutual relationship. It was
easy enough to play along - Franklyn, at least, was entirely harmless.
“I’m sorry,” Hannibal starts, sets his hands both against the glass to let his
fingers brush together, drawing Franklyn’s gaze there for a moment, as he
gathers his thoughts as to how to continue. “The weekend was so difficult with
study, assignments coming quickly, now, as we near the end of the semester. I
was sleepless, working. I did not notice my phone running through its charge.”
Franklyn sighs as though Hannibal had just told him the meaning of life itself,
smile wide and eyes down for a moment in his own gentle self-deprecation. He
shrugs, nods, lifts his eyes to Hannibal again, sitting closer and setting a
hand over the back of the couch so it reaches close enough for Hannibal to lean
against if he wanted.
He doesn’t want.
“I worry. For you and your studies, your work on the side, interning is never
easy." Yet denial seems to be. Hannibal carefully brings his wine to his lips
again. “You are so dedicated to every aspect of your life, Hannibal, it is
admirable. I only wish that we had more time, to spend together, to talk about
what we have in common, what we're feeling.”
A laugh, then, slightly less nervous than before yet somehow just as
unconvincing. “It makes me sad that I have to pay to see you, when what we have
is so much more than a transaction.”
Hannibal gives in, a brief sigh, before he steadies his wine and tilts his head
enough to rest against Franklyn’s hand, watching his eyes widen in delight, his
smile draw soft against his lips. In truth, he is easy to appease. But the
emotional labor needed is utterly exhausting.
One does what they must.
Hannibal leans to set his glass down again, and presses into the couch cushions
to draw himself against Franklyn, tucked small and skinny beneath his arm. It
sinks heavy over his shoulders, to squeeze him near, and when Hannibal tilts
his head to rest it against Franklin’s shoulder, a kiss is pressed against his
hair.
“You aren’t paying to see me,” Hannibal tells him, spreading a hand across
Franklyn’s broad chest. He closes his eyes and tries not to think of soft
flannel spread across hard, heated muscle, and tilts his head upward. “You’re
simply helping me to be able to attend my classes. To pay my rent.” A pause,
and Hannibal adds, “To stay in Baltimore.”
“But isn’t that just -”
A breakthrough, nearly, but Hannibal lifts a brow. “ - what people who care for
someone else do for them.”
Franklyn takes the correction in stride, as happy to remain blinded as Hannibal
is to gently blind. He presses warm lips to Hannibal’s brow and sighs. “I want
you to be comfortable,” he insists. “I want us to keep being friends. But -”
“But?” Hannibal curls his fingers, snagging them on the fuzzy wool of the man’s
sweater.
He hesitates, stuck somewhere in his own synapses between what he wants to say
and what he feels comfortable saying. Hannibal counts the beats of Franklyn’s
heart with his fingertips, tapping once, twice, three times - “But I don’t
understand why we couldn’t just live together then. I know I’ve asked before, I
know, but then we could see each other all the time, Hannibal! You wouldn’t
have to worry about rent and we could wake up together every morning!”
This conversation has happened before. Most of these conversations have
happened before. Once in a while the fantasy of it is not enough and Franklyn
attempts to add logic to it, attempts to bring the deluded reality to fruition
by sheer force of neediness. Usually Hannibal can quell this with a brief look,
a shift in posture, soft lips and a little smile but today it’s harder to
dredge them up. He does not think of Will Graham, with his similar demands yet
entirely infuriating way of not speaking them. He does not think of the same
offer of care and companionship. He does think, instead, of the way his hands
had felt against his skin, large hands, warm, strong. He does think of how Will
had said no to him, happy to do everything to him but allow Hannibal that want
for release.
Like he was a child in that decision alone, when Will had been happy to take
advantage of everything else.
He doesn’t think of how Will never, in fact, took advantage.
Hannibal laments setting his wine aside and instead tilts his head to look at
Franklyn from against his shoulder.
“You know the demands of my study, Franklyn, my need to be so close to campus,
the rules of my scholarship, that I must use it on the accommodation made
available to the students that go to that college.” It’s partially true, his
accommodation allowance is to be used only on accommodation, but it hardly
covers where he lives, and he hardly lives where students are allocated.
“I would love nothing more,” Hannibal adds, voice lower, brows drawing just
enough, “than to leave that apartment, but I can’t, not until study is done,
not until I graduate.”
Franklyn sets both arms around his boy now, to hold him closer as though it
will change anything at all. Hannibal wonders, truly, if he is so professional
that all the lies are so easy to swallow, or if perhaps the man’s delusion is
so strong that he himself can no longer see anything but what he has made up
for himself.
“Then the weekends, when you have the time,” the man insists. “I want to see
you then, spend time with you, be there when you need a break from your
studies.” The implication is made clearer with where the man’s hands slip. “You
know I would do anything for you. I could speak to the accommodation office,
explain the situation…”
Hannibal hums, the sound soft but enough to stumble Franklyn in his words. “You
don’t think that would help,” the man clarifies, and Hannibal turns a gentle
look to him, indulgent.
“I think it would raise more questions than anything,” Hannibal murmurs. He
eases into a languid stretch, legs and arms pressed straight before he coils
small again and draws his feet up beside himself. A wide hand slips to rest,
intentionally accidental, against his backside.
“The weekends then. Friday night, you can stay, we’ll have breakfast and maybe
go to a show in the afternoon,” Franklyn decides.
For such a simple thing - playing paramour - it is more unstable ground than
Hannibal would like. He can hardly explain to Franklyn that he’d have to charge
him for that, though somewhere deep in his thoughts he certainly must know, but
to clarify would be to break the illusion that the man pays handsomely for
already.
And to agree would find Hannibal with less sleep and time to study than he
already has.
He feels the cool wind of Wolf Trap against his cheeks, belly full of simple,
hearty food and body limber from rest, mind alight with the time to work on the
things Hannibal actually cares about. His lips taste like smoke, and he presses
his tongue between them before pressing his nose in feigned fondness to
Franklyn’s cheek. Soft lips meet warm skin, a scratchy beard, the affectation
of affection that Franklyn drinks down like air to a drowning man.
“The museum, perhaps,” Hannibal relents, no more agreement than that but
enough.
And then the words are back, flowing and endless and entirely useless, and
Hannibal listens, obedient and pretty, smiling when he should, laughing when he
must, hands up against his hair, tapping his lips. Body curled and compact,
enough that any part of him can be touched as Franklyn wants, and he will,
Hannibal knows, as the night grows later and Hannibal begins to shift, check
his phone, check the time, pout that he must go home.
Again, his mind wanders to Wolf Trap, how hard he had had to work to get any
touch at all, what a game it was to have Will allow him the chance to touch
him, to kiss him and feel their bodies flush together. It had felt earned, it
had felt good. Hannibal thinks, reluctantly, as Franklyn continues his endless
tirade about one thing or another - he’s hardly listening - of Will’s voice,
the way it had cracked telling Hannibal no, as though it had been the hardest
thing on earth for him to do.
Not until you’re eighteen, Hannibal.
An amusing show of morality when the man was purchasing Hannibal for his own
pleasure. A pleasure of company and seeing Hannibal well, fed, rested… an
entirely wrong approach to buying an escort, yet Will had never bought him for
anything else.
Then, if you let me then, yes, God yes.
Hannibal reaches for his phone, finds there to be no messages, no missed calls.
Barely half his battery.
“You can’t go already,” Franklyn asks, tone as much pleading as it is whining.
“Not yet,” consoles Hannibal, just enough distance in his tone to keep the man
wanting. A reminder that their time together is finite, to which Franklyn’s
voice pitches a little higher.
“I hardly get to see you as it is.”
“It is a shame,” Hannibal agrees, letting his eyes close as damp lips press
against his neck. “This time is yours, Franklyn. We may spend it however you
wish. I am, after all, here for you.”
The man is lonely. He wants a friend, he wants a companion, he wants someone
who will listen to him and consider his thoughts worthwhile and valid. He is in
no way a bad person, and so Hannibal reminds himself that this is what his job
entails - to learn in inches how to forget himself, and become whatever the
situation requires him to be.
His thoughts are yet his own, however, and he slips his phone back into his
pocket with a dire satisfaction that he was right to lose his expectations.
And so Hannibal adapts. Evolves. Becomes a familiar person for Franklyn, an
affectionate boyfriend who cares a great deal about him, who prizes his views
of everything from the symphony to cheese plates. He slips closer still, not
the spread of legs across lap like he gave to Will, not bent in half on his
belly over knees as he has for others. He sits almost dainty in Franklyn’s lap,
attentive and tender even as the man’s demands shift from being heard, to being
felt.
It is part of the human condition to feel wanted. And as Hannibal shifts to
allow his shirt to be removed, he finds sanctuary in knowing that once he
purges himself of that need, he will be something more than simply human.
---
Water cascades hard against the chipped and browned tile and Hannibal ducks his
head to let it slick his hair over his face. White noise as he stands under the
shower spray, and for a good long while he is not wont to move from there. Sex
is hardly ever about emotional connection for him, though he can fake it well
enough. But it is messy, and he does relish in the cleansing heat of the shower
while the hot water is still on.
He thinks, direly, how it may not be next week, unless he does something. Finds
someone else.
Bedelia and Frederick always call him, he does not ever call them. He will not
beg for money from people who seek him out on a whim. He thinks of Will.
He doesn’t think of Will.
Hannibal turns the tap off quickly, so the cold water has no time to sluice
against his skin before he closes off the spray. Another turn, just enough to
make sure nothing leaks, that none of his money drips down the drain because of
a bad faucet. A quick towel down and a loose shirt, boxers and the extra moment
to hang his towel up again instead of tossing it to the floor and Hannibal
returns to his bedroom.
No missed calls. No new messages.
There is, of course, always another option. An option whose calls Hannibal has
left unreturned for several weeks. An option whose calls Hannibal had hoped -
as he stood on the porch at Wolf Trap and imagined future weekends there - he
would not have to return again.
An option who pays more than any other, and still leaves Hannibal feeling as if
he paid for the encounter instead.
Hannibal pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth, lips pursing, and
tosses his phone back to the bed. He will answer immediately when Hannibal
calls. He will want to see him immediately. He will want his services provided
immediately. And immediately, whatever the personal cost, is when Hannibal
needs money, now that he has removed Will from his book. He never charged the
man for the weekend, for the taxis, and Will never followed up to ask why.
Smart enough to know Hannibal’s intentions in rejecting him, as he had been
rejected first.
He doesn’t bother with a suit this time, finding instead a wine-red button-down
to tuck into dark slacks. It hardly matters at all what he wears, but for his
own sake and the sake of what few nice things he has afforded himself, Hannibal
learned his lesson long ago that finer clothes and white shirts would be ill-
matched for these meetings.
Taking up the phone again as he passes by to find a pair of socks, Hannibal
regards the dark screen.
No missed calls. No new messages.
He is fully dressed by the time he takes his phone up again, nothing for it. He
could study all night, go to class the next morning, but if he has no money by
next week he will be evicted. And this is simple enough, perhaps the simplest
of all his encounters if only for the fact that he does not speak, does not
have to think of interesting conversation, does not have to think of witty
replies, does not need to do anything but take what he’s given.
And he owes, in a way, he knows he does. An unending debt the man will not
quickly wipe clean.
He fidgets with his phone and decides on a message. It will be answered quick
enough.
Fingers work over the keys and he checks the number before sending it. Just a
simple thing.
Do you need me?
There is only time enough for the screen to darken before it lights again.
Need is a strong word.
There is a difference in doing what one desires, and doing what one must.
Desire comes from wanting, and wanting must be driven out. Hannibal does only
what he must.
I’m available.
He steadies the thud of his heart, little flicks of his thumb against the
screen to keep it alight, until he receives his answer.
Of course you are.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Summary
     Will sees nothing but the canvas of pain against Hannibal’s very
     being, beyond skin and sinew, into his bones, into his soul. This is
     damage far beyond the physical, this is damage that takes years to
     tell oneself one deserves, work to earn it. He doesn’t jerk when the
     door opens, but he lifts his eyes to Hannibal, regards him, before
     pushing himself to stand in front of him, blocking the direct passage
     out.
     “Let me see.”
Chapter Notes
     Just a forewarning: this chapter includes references to physical
     abuse, and descriptions of bodily injury resulting from that. If that
     seems like it might be a trigger for you, we'd recommend skipping
     this one! We love you! <3
Hannibal is already halfway to Wolf Trap when he texts. A single message that
takes him longer to force his fingers to write than it should:
Yes.
And through the dull ache that throbs in his body, Hannibal laughs, just a
breath but it feels wild and weak as his phone alights.
Come.
The drive itself is a blur, trees striping in echo to the lines of the road
that vanish beneath the front of his car. No music, no sound at all but the
numb hum of his own body and that of the car itself. He doesn’t know what time
it is. Doesn’t care. Has classes tomorrow and if he misses them it doesn’t
matter. The amount that Hannibal has paid to afford them makes his efforts to
be more than this - a hole to fuck for money - seem suddenly futile.
That is all that he is.
Will is on the porch, cigarette illuminating the curves of his face as he holds
it between his lips, and he stands as Hannibal approaches, bag held at his
side, coat pulled tight around the disarrayed clothes beneath.
Will does not help him, he watches, stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray and
pulls the door open for them both to come in, Will backwards, Hannibal as he
is, a slight limp, dropping his bag as soon as he can, leaning back against the
door that closes behind him, throat working in a thick swallow before he looks
at Will.
Will says nothing for a moment, can see the shadow of a bruise against
Hannibal’s face, beyond that, the agony in Hannibal’s eyes is almost physical.
He wants to reach out. He doesn’t.
“Take your coat off,” he says softly.
Though Hannibal’s eyes flare at the words, it’s all the fight he has left in
him. He sets his jaw to stave away the grimace that threatens to appear, eyes
closing as carefully he twists free of his coat. Shoulders work slow until it
sloughs off and he hangs it, back to Will to finally allow a bare flicker of
pain to appear once hidden from sight.
There is no relationship here, Hannibal reminds himself, forcing himself to
stand taller to give the cages inside his chest room to erect their walls.
There is no romance - here or anywhere - and there is no friendship. At most, a
concern held at distance, as a teacher has for a student. As a man has for a
dog.
For less than.
“May I use your shower?” Hannibal asks, willing his voice not to crack when he
forces it free.
Will swallows, takes in the shirt barely done up for the lack of buttons on it,
takes in the way it’s wrinkled, like hands had torn and tugged it. He takes in
the way Hannibal holds his arms folded over his middle, not pressed to it, just
against it, to protect, to allow himself space for his ribs to expand on a
breath.
He steps aside and gestures gently towards the corridor, knowing Hannibal will
go.
“Use the towel,” he says quietly. “It’s clean.”
Whether Hannibal hears him or cares is beyond Will, but he follows him as far
as the bed before sitting on the edge of it, watching as the door is quietly
closed, listening to the shower start up.
Hannibal peels out of his shirt, lips slack and brows knit, avoiding the mirror
by turning his back towards it. He lets it fall to the floor, his pants pooling
beside it, and draws a breath to hold as he bends to work down his briefs, tug
free his socks.
Water hits cold enough to pull a gasp from him as he steps into the shower. He
lets it warm against his skin, until steam fills the little room and his skin
is red with heat. Only then does he take survey of himself, pale body mottled
as if shadows hold there unmoving. The one across his cheek has paid for
groceries, for a week if he is careful. The lilac blooms along his ribs have
put gas in his car. Thighs spreading with darkness will go to his scant savings
for when business is slow and bills are high. And the blood, still fresh and
bright against his fingers when Hannibal soaps between his legs, enough to pay
for the roof over his head.
He turns his face to the water and pretends the soap makes him clean again,
until the water runs cold once more.
“There are clothes in my bag,” Hannibal asks once the shower has gone quiet,
his body held together by the soft towel around him. “Could you bring them to
me?” He pushes his hair back from his face without looking into the mirror, and
rests his head against the closed door.
He hears Will stand, hears the sound of footsteps against the cool wooden floor
as he moves past the corridor, then how they grow louder as he returns to the
bathroom. Two knocks against the door and Hannibal presses his cheek to the
cool wood a moment before swallowing and stepping back to open the door, to
take the bag without looking at Will.
Will does not stop him closing the door again. He waits, though, just outside
it, shoulders against the wall and head ducked to look just over the rims of
his glasses. He sees nothing but the canvas of pain against Hannibal’s very
being, beyond skin and sinew, into his bones, into his soul. This is damage far
beyond the physical, this is damage that takes years to tell oneself one
deserves, work to earn it.
Will doesn’t jerk when the door opens, but he lifts his eyes to Hannibal,
regards him, before pushing himself to stand in front of him, blocking the
direct passage out.
“Let me see.”
Hannibal shies at the words, just a bare twist of his head, as though he’s been
struck. He tries to step past, but Will is unmoving, and Hannibal makes his
voice steady. “No.”
Clad in sleep pants and a thick sweater, Hannibal takes solace in the fact that
only the bruise on his face is visible, but as Will watches him, it’s as though
he’s bare. Will does not relent in his words any more than in his body, and
Hannibal does not have the energy, nor the interest, in anything so physical as
pushing past.
“That,” Hannibal breathes, “is not for you to concern yourself with. It is not
your business.”
“It is entirely yours,” Will agrees, “and you brought it to my doorstep.”
It is soft, logical, Will just as reluctant to make this a physical struggle as
Hannibal is, but he needs to, has to touch, to check, to see. To remind or make
Hannibal understand that when he comes here, Will is here to shoulder whatever
burdens he brings through the door, that he will, regardless of Hannibal
wanting it or not.
“I need to see what I can treat.”
“You are not a doctor,” Hannibal responds, gripping his rumpled clothes harder
against himself. “And I am not one of your dogs.”
Will sighs, a soft thing, and his jaw works as he nods. “You are not even my
boy,” he says, brows up briefly, “but I would still see you well.”
Will considers stepping aside, but holds his ground, raises his eyes to
Hannibal again, then his chin so he can watch him through the lenses, now,
properly. “Never once have I asked of you something you did not want to give
yourself, and never once have I broken that trust, when you gave it. I will not
now.”
No.
It stings as fresh as any bruise, as soft as when Will sighed it aching against
Hannibal’s lips. The boy’s eyes sharpen, muscles beneath them drawing tight, as
if in bitter amusement. “Then you and I have very different memories of the
last time we spoke. Ask, and you shall receive,” Hannibal murmurs, nearly a
purr, mocking and low. “Unless you ask, and do not. Arbitrary in enforcing your
own rules as God himself.”
The words spit hot but it’s enough that the energy shifts, and Hannibal slips
by the older man. He drops his things unceremoniously to the floor, and stands
to face Will as if squared for a fight. “If that is what you insist on having,”
Hannibal adds with poisoned honey, indulgent and toxic, “then you will have it.
I would be very poor at my job if that concept were foreign to me. But do not
patronize me by pretending to care.”
Without waiting for response, without mind for the screaming pull in his
muscles, Hannibal strips again, body still smudged but not with dirt. His
sweater, warm and clean, is discarded to the floor. His pants, soft against his
aching skin, abandoned.
There is no respite for the weary, and so he stands, as if on display, his eyes
speaking truths that the hard line of his jaw denies.
Will takes the pain in, like a wave as he does at every crime scene, the cool
fingers of the memory of it against the corners of his mind, peeling away him,
allowing him to see. He can see. He can see the way this punishment is both
without reason and how quickly Hannibal had assigned it reason.
The bruises will darken, but nothing is broken beneath, there would be harsher
swelling, darker damage, but still, Will steps closer, sets his lips together
in a gentle motion before parting them on a breath. He turns his hand, fingers
gently bent, and brings the backs of them against Hannibal’s face, hushing him
when he flinches as though struck, as he had been struck, just as Will holds
his hand now, but no pain here, just the cool hands of someone else, wiping
away one memory, replacing it with a new sensation.
Another step and Hannibal moves back, Will’s voice steady when he tells him to
stay still, steps again to be where he intends, close enough that he can feel
Hannibal’s breath against his neck. Will turns his hand, fingers splayed, and
draws it through Hannibal’s wet hair, instead, curling his hand to draw soft
over his temple, to feel Hannibal lean into it despite himself. He does not
touch Hannibal’s scalp, raw from the abuse of pulled hair and endless tugging,
he just works it back from Hannibal’s face, lets his eyes meet Hannibal’s
before he carefully removes his glasses, folds them, and passes them to the
young man in turn.
Hannibal’s brows knit, but he holds the glasses carefully. His expression does
not ease when Will’s fingertips stroke down the side of his neck, avoiding
grasping the back of it. Over a bare shoulder, spreading flat down Hannibal’s
arm. He can see marks where none are visible, when Hannibal tenses as his wrist
is touched, where he was pulled to his knees. He can see them in the tilt of
Hannibal’s head away when Will moves near enough to sigh against his neck, held
by brutal fingers as his mouth was ravaged.
His body is a desolation, still strangely beautiful but made terrible by the
wounds it shows in skin and memory. Hannibal watches Will, from the corner of
eyes so dark they’re nearly black, observes with all the hard-earned wariness
of a beaten animal every gesture and every touch.
He feels the ones that Will does not place against him as acutely as the ones
he does.
And breath by breath, touch by touch, Hannibal begins to unfurl, until a sigh
against his ear tells him that he is beautiful, and he leans roughly into the
man against him.
Will gently sets one hand in Hannibal’s hair, the other against his side, just
to hold, not to press or relive any of the pain the boy had suffered for his
home, his schooling, his life.
Himself.
The self-flagellation for doing this, because he has no other choice.
Will holds him until Hannibal turns into him more, a soft sound there, not
pleading but close, for the closeness without the agony, without the demand of
something from him. Will does not ask if Hannibal will stay the night, he knows
he will. He does not ask if he will be charged for this, he will pay the boy
regardless of whatever this is. He will find ways, careful, gentle ways, to
have him understand that being like a dog is not being vermin, that being cared
for is not a weakness.
Will turns his head, just enough, and breathes warm against Hannibal’s skin,
not a kiss, not that, but a reminder, a guarantee.
“Will you sleep in bed?” Will asks him quietly, the words implying enough: will
you sleep at all?
Turning his head, Hannibal draws his nose in a gentle nuzzle against Will’s
shoulder, against his neck, burying his face there for the heat of it, the
darkness, the feel of another’s pulse that moves so sure and steady. Will’s
hand spreads across his back, just a touch without the suffocation of an
embrace, and Hannibal lifts his own to curl his fingers in Will’s shirt.
Terribly small and with all the weakness that he tries daily to burn out of
himself.
Hannibal hates it.
Hannibal needs it.
And though his shoulders draw up and pull tight in dread anticipation,
Hannibal’s voice is steady as he asks, softly, “Will you lay with me?”
Will hums, a warm thing, closes his eyes and breathes Hannibal in. “Yes,” he
tells him, not letting him go until Hannibal moves on his own, a bare shift and
Will removes the supporting cage of his arms. He gathers Hannibal’s clothes
when the other ignores them, and takes them to the bed for him to put on,
Hannibal slips into the pants, allows Will to pull the sweater over his head,
lean in to press his forehead to Hannibal’s before pulling back.
He does not leave Hannibal long, long enough to check the locks and secure the
dogs where they are, turn off the lights until just the moon is lighting the
bed where Hannibal sits, where he curls to lie on his side only when Will
returns and joins him, facing him and close enough to touch, before reaching
out to trace Hannibal’s cheekbone, skim his fingers down his arm.
“You’ve exhausted yourself again,” Will tells him, and a smile warms his face a
moment before it goes away.
Hannibal watches, hooded eyes tracing the moonlit curves of Will’s face,
tracking the movement of his hand each time it runs down his cheek, or smooths
his hair back again. He watches and he waits, and when after long minutes Will
does not try to move closer, Hannibal does instead.
Just the slight shifts that his body will allow, stretching his legs beneath
the blankets, reaching to slide the blankets over his shoulder, bare movements
that draw him close enough to Will that their bodies press unmoving together.
Hannibal ducks his head and brings it up to rest beneath Will’s chin, and his
eyes drift closed.
“I tell myself that there is an end to this. That it is impermanent, as all
things. A temporary arrangement until I can become who I am meant to be.”
Hannibal’s throat works a rough swallow and when his lips part again he can
feel Will’s skin warm against them. He smiles, wry. “And then I recall that
I’ve three years left in this program. More yet in medical school, and in
residency. Years and years.”
The smile fades, and Hannibal shivers beneath the hand that runs cool along his
spine. “I don’t mean to exhaust myself,” he murmurs, as if in apology. “Would
that I didn’t have to.”
Will sets an arm over the blankets, over Hannibal’s shoulders and holds him
that way, now that they’re so close together with barely breaths between them.
He wonders if Hannibal will remember this in the morning, if he will remember
this tenuous trust they’re building now, if he will let Will this near again.
He wants to tell him he doesn’t have to exhaust himself .
He wants Hannibal to believe that. But he can only do that on his own, in his
own time, by his own choice.
Will draws his thumb softly against the back of Hannibal’s neck, over and over
in soothing strokes. “Let me -” protect you, care for you, take you away, hold
you “- let me help.”
Hannibal makes a soft sound, doesn’t shift back. “I don’t want it.”
“But you need it.”
A pause, a sigh, and Hannibal brings his hands between them to curl gently in
Will’s shirt. He doesn’t want to admit it, he doesn’t want to say anything,
just allow the touching, the holding for now. Convince himself that he won’t
need this, either, once he has had his fill of it.
But he had come back. After telling Will to not seek him again, after leaving
on his own. He had come back on his own, and he is warm now. Safe, he knows.
The older man will not force himself on Hannibal, will not seek to mark his
bruises with his own hands - he will give no more than what Hannibal asks, when
Hannibal can find the words for it.
When he can admit what he wants.
That he wants at all.
It has happened before, offers like this, and Will can feel the memory of it
prickling like sparks over Hannibal’s skin. A necessary wariness of gifts too
good to be true, though Hannibal does not tell the man - yet - that he is not
the first to want to save him. Men - or women - who see him as a hapless thing
in need of rescuing, a Dickensian waif who cannot save himself from his own
tragic story. Men - exclusively - who imagine that by doing so, what remains of
Hannibal’s heart and body will be theirs for the keeping, for Hannibal’s own
good, of course.
Something to rebuild and claim, unable to imagine that Hannibal is more
equipped than he appears to live the life he has chosen. Though there are, of
course, exceptions, and as Hannibal shifts to ease his weight off a bruise,
curling his legs through Will’s instead, it’s a hard argument to make at this
particular moment.
“How?” Hannibal asks, carefully. “And for what in return? Nothing is without
cost, and energy can only change its form.”
Will considers, still unwilling to give Hannibal the answers he needs to find
himself. "I will not take your life from you. I will not possess you as a
thing. I will never ask more of you than what you can or are willing to give."
Still too easy, still too good, and Will curls his fingers in Hannibal’s hair,
stretches his legs around the boy’s own before continuing. "I want to see you,
on any timetable you will give me. I want you to be honest. I want you to ask -
" he hushes Hannibal quietly before he can interrupt "- if something upsets,
confuses or does not make sense to you, and I will explain. I want to pay for
the time so you have the money you need for your home and your schooling."
A possession of its own but by obligation only, not enforcement.
Will does not ask for his heart, his independence, his exclusivity. He asks for
time, he asks for patience and honesty. He asks as a teacher would a student,
not as a lover would another.
"I want your company."
Hannibal frowns in thought, turning the words over in his head, as he turns his
cheek against the pillow and nuzzles absently to seek Will's warmth. What he
asks is genuine, though Hannibal is wary of its evolution into becoming akin to
Franklyn, but he has no reason to mistrust what Will states with such
certainty. He has done no harm to Hannibal. Has hardly touched him, in truth,
until now and only then with brushes of fingers gentle enough to prick shivers
over his skin. He has taken him in now, without demand or expectation, and
provided what Hannibal did not know he needed.
"I don't understand," he murmurs, smile curving as Will answers gently.
"Ask."
"You are handsome and intelligent," Hannibal considers. "More charming than you
give yourself credit for, talented and comfortable in your life. I cannot
imagine there are not others who would seek," he hesitates, "more with you. A
relationship."
He leans back enough to regard Will from so near, studying the lines of his
face and the truth laid bare. There is more, though, truths not yet made clear,
and Hannibal hears the word as if it came from inside himself.
Ask.
"Why? What do you gain from this when better company is so easily found?"
"It is far from easily found, and I am far from an easy person to seek a
relationship with. Some try, few try again," Will tells him honestly, smiles
when Hannibal himself smiles at Will's admission, choice of words. "I have
friends, I have people to engage with and share with. But I find you
interesting, I find you worth my time, hope to be worth yours."
A shrug then, a simple thing, and Will brings a hand to his eyes to rub them,
tired but contented, warm and close beneath the covers together.
"I gain good company. I gain the chance to provide, in any way I am allowed,
and see someone benefit from that. I gain time with you, for personal enjoyment
of it."
"Why do you not enjoy all of it?"
Will smiles, a laugh pushed from him, breathless, before he licks his lips,
allowing the question. "Because I have not earned that yet,” he says, eyes
meeting Hannibal's, narrowed in amusement. "And nor have you."
There is a challenge, and Hannibal has - to his occasional detriment - always
sought to excel in any obstacles he senses before him. Making his way to the
states, coercing admission despite his age, challenging courses balanced
haphazardly - but balanced - against a difficult occupation. He waits, but no
explanation is forthcoming, and pressing his tongue against the back of his
teeth, Hannibal relents.
“And how does one earn it?” Elegant fingers trace the front of Will’s shirt
where Hannibal’s arms are curled between them, gestures deliberate and absent
all at once. “How might I earn what you profess to offer?”
Will brings a hand up to Hannibal's shoulder again, just touching against the
softness of his sweater. "It is less a manner of how and more of when," Will
explains, brows briefly furrowing before he swallows, smiles. “When you ask for
yourself and not for something you feel you must voice. When it is not an
obligation but a genuine desire, then I will consider."
"Consider?"
"If the choice comes before you are eighteen, I will consider," Will replies,
brows up in reminder, in amusement. “After, I will give."
“Do you always speak in riddles?”
“Mostly.” Hannibal grins, tucking his head to rest his brow against Will’s
mouth as the older man adds, “Keeps people on their toes.”
“It makes you difficult to please.”
Will slips his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, letting the strands fall soft
between them. “It’s like I tell all of my students,” he says. “I am very easy
to satisfy, so long as you do what’s asked of you.”
With a hum, letting the words rest between them - there is little enough space
for anything else - Hannibal lets his eyes slip closed. Within only a few deep
sighs, he sleeps, and the last thing he recalls is the brush of lips across his
brow.
When Will stirs the next morning, it is to slide his arms free of Hannibal. He
listens to the click of bare feet quick across the cold floor, the rush of the
toilet and sink from the bathroom. Scrubbing as Hannibal brushes his teeth.
Slower steps return across the room, with a stiff noise of pain as the boy
stretches before he’s joined by a scuffle of paws and tapping claws, and
whispers admonitions to the dogs to keep quiet as their master is yet sleeping.
Will drifts, somewhere between sleep and waking, curling into the warmth that
Hannibal left behind in the sheets. Hannibal feeds the dogs. He prepares the
coffee. Will hears him lift the cigarettes but set them back, and instead
return to the kitchen. The house fills with a warmth that only a home-cooked
meal can provide, as Hannibal prepares a serviceable French toast on thick
slices of bread, dusted with sugar, and a quick - chilly - denouement outside
yields a handful of fresh blackberries from the briar beside the house.
When he hears the table being set, he finally rises, resting a shoulder against
the doorway and finding a cup of coffee extended towards him.
“I didn’t know I had berries,” Will murmurs around the mug.
“You didn’t,” remarks Hannibal, eyes narrowing in pleasure. He checks the table
once over, and waits until Will moves closer to slip into his seat before
Hannibal joins him. “I have considered your offer.”
Will’s brows lift, and he sucks the coffee from his lips. “And?”
“If I wish to stop,” Hannibal asks, hands resting on the table’s edge, “at any
time, for any reason -”
“Then we will stop,” answers Will. “You just have to -”
“Ask,” Hannibal responds, pleasure spilling hot in his chest as Will nods.
He has been kind.
He has been honest.
He has expressed nothing that leads Hannibal to doubt his intentions.
And so Hannibal smiles, takes his napkin into his lap, and asks, “How do we
begin?”
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     “You wished to help me with my marking,” Will reminds him, carefully
     setting one book against Hannibal’s legs, its spine just behind the
     curve of his ankles, one side open against his thighs, just beneath
     his ass. The other he sets to Hannibal’s back, lighter, the paper
     tickling beside. “Stay still.”
It’s the little impatient things, the quiet that gets to him, sometimes, that
cause Hannibal to tense with the need to do something. He could ask. He knows
he could ask, asking he is very good at now, and in truth, asking gets him what
he wants, more often than not. At least, an explanation if not the thing
itself.
But he’s watching Will, now, reclining in bed with glasses partway down his
nose, one knee drawn up to balance a book on, a report on top of that, another
at his side that he refers to in his marking. Surely he’s not contented to just
sit that way, apparently engrossed in his work, apparently entirely unaware of
how Hannibal watches him from the table.
Unaware and fully aware. Hannibal frowns, shifts his feet against the floor
gently before clearing his throat.
“May I stand?”
“If you wish.”
Still no raising of his eyes, no acknowledgement of the boy at all beyond how
Will clicks his tongue and crosses something off, annotating the mistake in the
margin of the paper. Bare feet against the bedcover, soft, worn jeans on top,
another plaid shirt and hair he hasn’t brushed since they had woken together.
Will sets his tongue against his top lip in thought and directs his eyes down
again, careful in what he counts as the correct answer on a paper. He must be
ruthless, Hannibal thinks, not for the first time, in his teaching. In the end,
this, too, finds itself to be an error, and Will crosses it off deliberately
and moves to the next point.
“Do you need anything?”
Will doesn’t look towards him, used to the way Hannibal stretches now after
bending over the desk in study. “Such as?”
“Anything,” Hannibal offers, a fleeting smile there and gone again. “Coffee.
Something to eat. A shower -”
“Why would I need a shower?” Hannibal’s smile twists instead into a soft frown,
and he huffs a little sigh. “Are you done studying?”
“For now,” Hannibal shrugs, but the half-truth draws Will’s scrutiny over the
tops of his glasses. “One retains information better when they take small
breaks,” adds the boy, long sleep pants dragging across the floor as he winds
his way closer. “Is there anything with which I can help?”
“Nothing comes explicitly to mind.”
“And inexplicitly?”
Will gives Hannibal a slow look, finds the other pressing his lips together in
amusement and frustration both. He knows what Hannibal wants, seeks regardless
of Will’s apparent inattention to his needs for sexual gratification. He pays
very careful attention, has heard Hannibal groan softly in the shower, his hand
against himself and things Will has only allowed himself to imagine in his mind
as he stroked. He has seen the boy wake hard and regard Will with plaintive
neediness before accepting that without asking he would get nothing.
And he is yet too proud to ask properly.
And Will can wait until he does.
“Can I help with your marking?” Hannibal ventures again, stepping closer. “Or
allow you a small break from it to -”
“- retain more information on the current project?” Will finishes for him, lips
quirking, not needing to look up to see that Hannibal’s cheeks are flushed from
being called on his own game. Will relents, with a sigh, enough to remove his
glasses and rub his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“Perhaps,” he allows, setting his work away and stretching his legs straight
against the bed. He turns to regard the boy with a slight tilt of his head,
watching him fidget. “Undress.”
The word ripples up Hannibal’s spine and pushes it straight, but for the coy
cant of his head towards one side. Frustration sits as a weight in his belly
but Hannibal welcomes it, the knowledge that no matter how he is bared or bent,
the older man will not allow him a base satisfaction. It is in the denial of
it, now, that Hannibal takes quiet pleasure, and relieves himself by reliving
it in private.
“Entirely?” Hannibal asks, fingers easing open the buttons of his shirt to
reveal flushed skin and old bruises, the first promise of hair curling fluffy
and pale.
“Entirely.”
The boy’s smile widens, not bothering to hide his satisfaction in being given
something to do, and in not knowing what it will be beyond this first
instruction. His shirt slips from his shoulders, and he folds it to set aside
on the desk, before twisting his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and
pants and bending intentionally low to remove them.
His eyes raise first, watching Will watching him, his chin lifts next, and
slowly his body uncoils to stand again, underwear set aside, and with a dusky-
cheeked amusement, Hannibal folds his hands behind his back.
Will allows himself to take him in, a slow caress of his gaze from Hannibal’s
toes to his cheeks, lingering just beneath his eyes before meeting them, tongue
parting his lips to draw the bottom one partially into his mouth before he
releases it.
“Come here to me.”
He doesn’t beckon, doesn’t reach, but Hannibal feels as though he’s being
pulled to walk slowly close enough, for Will to tilt his chin to regard him,
there, bared and willing and all by choice. Will soothes one hand down his
thigh, to his knee and back up again before directing his eyes to his lap.
“On the bed,” he says, “all fours.”
Will leans back enough to watch, the way color floods Hannibal’s cheeks the way
his eyes darken at the words and their potential implications. He merely raises
an eyebrow when Hannibal doesn’t immediately move, and waits.
Ruffling, Hannibal draws a breath as if to speak, but whatever question or
objection was behind it dies on his lips, and his throat works to swallow as he
closes them. He lingers for only a moment more at the foot of the bed, before
pressing his palms against the mattress, twisting to drag one knee up behind
him, the other in kind. The boy’s hips shift swaying from side to side as he
slinks closer, careful to avoid the papers that are spread there, closer, until
he is nearly brow to brow with Will.
“Like so?” Hannibal sighs, and the question winds through his body, sinuous as
rippling water, little movements to stretch his fingers, open his hips, arch
and bow his back.
Will hums, pleased enough with this but still not moving further than to lift
his face a little, feel Hannibal’s breath against his lips. “Across my lap,” he
says instead, finding a coiling pleasure in seeing Hannibal falter for a moment
at the command. Will draws up his knee, just enough to brush against Hannibal’s
balls, over his cock, to feel him shudder pleasantly at the feeling.
“Move.”
Hannibal’s arousal tightens all the way up to his throat, and when he manages
to exhale again it is tinged with a moan, spreading hot across his sigh. With
careful movements, to disrupt the professor’s work as little as possible, and
rather akin to a cat picking its way over uncertain terrain, Hannibal leans
across Will’s lap. Hands on one side of the older man’s thighs, gathered
tightly into the blankets, and knees on the other, Hannibal begins to ease
himself down to lay. His cock no sooner brushes Will’s pants than Will clears
his throat, and Hannibal freezes.
“I didn’t tell you to lay down.”
The boy fights back every urge to grind harder against the professor’s thigh,
but can only smother his moan down to a frail little whimper.
“I said all fours,” Will says, his tone calm as a frozen lake and just as
yielding. “Move.”
Hannibal does. Up to all fours again and settling, his sides heave with
breathlessness that he tries to control but for now cannot. Smooth skin
stretched taut over young muscle and ridges of bone, presenting himself
obediently, and with his lips pressed thin in anticipation. His ears hum so
loud that Hannibal can hardly hear at all.
Will shows no outward signs of pleasure, but his heart beats against his
throat, his lungs feel wrung dry, emptied. Hannibal is beautiful in his
obedience, and he is, entirely, obedient to him here. Quiet, gentle in his
motions, careful to please - always careful to please. He wants nothing more
than to touch him, reward the boy with a rough stroking and whispered words but
he doesn’t.
He sits up a little, careful not to touch Hannibal at all, before ducking his
head to softly nuzzle behind Hannibal’s ear.
“Good boy,” he whispers, parting his lips enough to take Hannibal’s earlobe
between his teeth for a gentle tug. Then he lets him go, sits back, and reaches
for his work again, catching Hannibal’s confused look with a smile.
“You wished to help me with my marking,” Will reminds him, carefully setting
one book against Hannibal’s legs, its spine just behind the curve of his
ankles, one side open against his thighs, just beneath his ass. The other he
sets to Hannibal’s back, lighter, the paper tickling beside. “Stay still.”
Hannibal can hardly restrain the chill that the words send spiraling through
him, but he does, admirably, a hard swallow and a twitch between his legs the
only sign of the effect Will’s gentle commands have on him. Had he been told
that he would be used as furniture, it would have drawn a derisive laugh - more
if he had been told how much he would thrill at the sensation of it.
Only the scarcest shifting of his muscles as Hannibal settles, finds a posture
that is comfortable to maintain - for how long, he doesn’t know - but the boy
is nearly undone the first time he feels Will mark a correction against the
paper on his back, and a breath of laughter escapes him and burns his cheeks
bright. He imagines how Will’s students will never know that this is how their
papers were graded, against the back of a willing boy who serves now as a desk
for their professor. It is a perverse delight, and brings a grin that Hannibal
strives to hide but cannot.
Every brush of fingers against his skin - to lift a paper from his back, to
turn the pages in the book against his legs - pulls a tight twist of pleasure
in Hannibal’s belly. He wants to rock his hips, even just against air, to ease
the need coiling hot inside of him. He wants Will’s hands against him entirely,
down his arms and up his legs, over his stomach and across his back. He wants,
but he does not ask.
Not when doing as he was told is just as satisfying.
A buzz from the desk snaps his attention, though - his phone, back where he
spent the morning studying, vibrating against the table. Hannibal fights the
reaction to look towards it, to stand and fetch it, and his limbs tremble from
his own resistance.
“May I -”
“Who would it be?” Will asks, voice lilting curiosity.
“I don’t know.” A client, almost certainly, but Hannibal presses his lips thin
to stop from saying so.
“Someone important?”
Another mark is made, the tip of the pen tracing a long line over the paper,
over his skin, and Hannibal shudders pleasantly. “It is unlikely,” Hannibal
murmurs. Unlikely that any name he could imagine on that flashing screen would
be worth his time away from this. Unlikely that anyone he knows at all could
merit his attention so entirely.
“If you want to go, then go.”
The boy sighs, fingers splaying and curling, and eases once more.
Good boy.
The phone hums for several moments more and goes silent, and Will adjusts his
position as he sets aside one more marked report and takes up another from the
small pile on his bedside table. He watches carefully for any sign of genuine
discomfort from the boy who holds his position so obediently, but Hannibal
seems comfortable enough on the soft bed, knees supported, hands allowed to
grasp and shift as he needs.
Another report and Will reaches to turn a page in his book, allowing his
fingers to slip up against Hannibal’s thighs on the way back, to cup the curve
of his ass and squeeze gently before letting go, returning to his work.
He wants to touch more, to make Hannibal earn every single stroke against his
skin, every brush of lips that Will wants to press to it. But he doesn’t, just
enjoys the shivers as Hannibal resists moving, enjoys how, without touching him
much at all, Hannibal is growing hard from this alone, from the sheer action of
obedience
“This is written well,” Hannibal says suddenly, and Will blinks himself back to
the now, turns his head to regard Hannibal, who is calmly reading the report
Will had just set down. “You’ve remarked the writing is stale, but it reads as
a report should.”
“Like a textbook.”
“It is factual and well laid out,” Hannibal counters. “It is much better
written than some of the things you’ve set down before it, and those you have
graded better.”
Will hums, amused, and takes off his glasses as he leans back to see Hannibal
better. “No one enjoys reading a textbook,” he says. “No one enjoys writing
one.”
“You’ve written several.”
Will’s smile is genuine, wide, delighted that Hannibal had bothered to look, to
check, to even know that he had. He inclines his head and sets the pen between
his teeth for a moment before removing it, returning his glasses to his face.
“I’m a masochist, as clearly illustrated by this exercise.” He gives Hannibal
another brief look, a soft tilt of his smile before he returns to the report at
hand.
The word plucks clear as a harpstring in Hannibal and his smiles widens a
little. He shifts his shoulders and straightens his spine, careful when he
tucks one ankle over the other not to unsettle the book on his calves.
Preening, for a moment, in the boyish pride he takes in quietly driving Will to
distraction with no more than his presence.
His willingness.
His obedience.
And all given gladly.
Hannibal waits until Will has finished the paper and slid it from his back -
fingernails grazing the ridges of his spine and teasing a slight turn of hips
from the boy - before he speaks. “Is that part of this, then?” Will rests a
hand on the inside of Hannibal’s knee and it’s enough to tickle Hannibal into a
squirm, that he fights as hard as he can, muscles flickering movement beneath
his skin.
“Masochism?”
“For you,” Hannibal amends. “To subject yourself to your own suffering through
force of will, even knowing that you are capable of using it to force me,
instead.”
Will considers the question, draws knuckles tickling up and down Hannibal’s
leg. He is not, in truth, prone to masochism often, he is not one to delight in
the pleasure of delay to that level, but here he finds it both a useful tool
for himself and Hannibal both.
“I suppose it is for you and I both, to see this happen. A proof to you, a
justification for myself,” he replies, drawing a hand through Hannibal’s hair
and very gently grasping it to tug before letting it go, getting another paper
instead. “I will not use force on you -”
“Unless I ask.”
“Unless you ask,” Will agrees, amusement crinkling his eyes as he sets his work
to Hannibal’s back again. “And my own reasons for wanting your company will not
come across as merely sexual.”
Hannibal, a student here just as much as in his classes, is quiet for a while
as he contemplates the width and breadth of Will’s words. It is still, dogs at
play and the wind through the screen door, Hannibal’s breath matched in time to
Will’s own, the scratch of pen across paper and paper against skin. He waits,
every time, for Will to finish before he makes minute adjustments, stable and
motionless when the professor is working.
It should be time for Hannibal to think of many things, with nothing more
required of him than this, but he finds that his own thoughts are hard to
track. A meditation, rather than study, clearing his thoughts gentle as a
breeze before he can snare them too tightly. His mind is, for the first time in
a very long time, entirely at ease.
And all he has to do is stay still.
When Will touches him again, it is with a palm against his belly, not to adjust
his back - though Hannibal does straighten it anyway - but simply to rub,
fingertips teasing through the tufts of hair there. There is a rhythm to this -
when Will is working, Hannibal is still and silent, and when he is not,
signaled by a touch, Hannibal may adjust or speak again.
A language beyond words, though Hannibal not ready yet to relinquish those
entirely.
“May I ask another question?”
“You may.”
“Do you enjoy telling,” Hannibal asks, “as much as I enjoy being told?”
Will watches Hannibal a long while before he looks away first, takes his hands
away from tempting skin again to settle in to work on another paper, just two
left after it before he can let Hannibal go to do whatever he wishes, again.
Having helped. Having been useful, and Will profoundly grateful for it.
“Very much,” Will admits, turning to a new chapter in the book to follow up on
a quote cited, impressed that it was used properly in context. “Perhaps that is
what makes one situation work over another. When the things asked can be
acquiesced to, when both the one telling and the one told get a satisfaction
from their respective roles.”
Will adjusts his glasses carefully, for a moment returns to silence as he
traces a comment over the margin, over Hannibal’s skin until the young man
shivers from it. Will licks his lips at the motion, the tiny thing that he can
feel more than he can see, and lets out a slow breath.
“I enjoy telling when I know that what I say will bring relief of some sort, to
the mind or body or both.”
Tilting his head, Hannibal watches Will over his shoulder, and a soft smile
suggests itself. “It does.”
There is a strange peace to the idea that give and take can exist in equality
rather than overburdened towards one or the other. It makes far more sense now
why the man struggles in finding companionship, and why other people would
prove unsatisfied or unsatisfying or both, to one who finds his fulfillment in
such a particular way. Hannibal’s cheeks warm again, full of a curious pride
that makes his arms hold strong and his back keep steady.
A fulfillment that is not taken by force, but asked, and given willingly.
A fulfillment that Hannibal alone has been chosen to provide.
He remains as unmoving as his limbs allow as Will finishes his work, and when
the man closes his book on Hannibal’s legs and removes it, he speaks before
Hannibal can ask.
“You may stretch.”
Oh, and he does. With a deep groan as if he’d just slept for days, body
sparking along stiff muscles now eased as Hannibal bows low over Will’s legs,
arms spread long in front of him like a cat, and legs splayed across the
sheets.
Will watches, takes his glasses off to set away with the other books as
Hannibal takes his time allowing his muscles to twist back to how they were, to
comfortably stretch and bend and hum with sensation. He watches Hannibal flex
his fingers, splay his toes, roll his ankles one way and another and all that
time so close, just there before him.
Will waits for him to return to the initial position, strokes fingers down
Hannibal’s neck, from the tip of his chin to his collarbones, to watch him arch
his neck that way as well, before curling his fingers beneath Hannibal’s chin
and turning him to they can see each other properly.
It is an awkward angle but Will leans in anyway, lips just barely brushing
Hannibal’s before pressing against his bottom lip in a lingering, soft little
thing. “Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes barely open, down beneath the lids to
watch Hannibal’s lips again before he leans in to kiss him properly.
With a shudder and a sigh, Hannibal lets his kisses be caught, responds rather
than leads, parts his lips for Will’s tongue and turns their mouths together
with a single, sweet sound. Though the memory of their last kiss presses
against Hannibal as fingers do against a bruise, it is one that is healing, and
only distantly felt. His mind is still clear, only a blissful white noise free
of worry for the moment, free of the stress that waits outside these doors.
There is only now. Only here.
Only him.
He turns slowly, half-hard still and deeply sore from the day spent holding
various strenuous postures, and does not let Will’s lips escape his own for
more than a breath as Hannibal slides to sit in Will’s lap, legs curled
alongside. He feels small, wonderfully so, when Will’s arms slip around his
bare shoulders, and with his arms tucked between them Hannibal extends his
fingers against the scruff of Will’s cheeks to keep him near.
It’s slow, deep enough to strike Will’s heart to beat quicker, after a day of
resisting today, others before, when he allows this for himself, for them both,
as a relief, a release. Will sighs, a long and heavy thing that spreads warm
against Hannibal’s face before he brings a hand up to cup his cheek, press
their foreheads together in a gentle nuzzle.
He can feel Hannibal’s heart hammer, so close to his own, in the pulse beneath
his fingers when he shifts them just so, he can feel the trembling that is from
tension and need both. He wants to be someone who knows what this boy needs,
how often to give it, when to restrain from it to allow a lesson to be learned
or because he needs something else. He wants to be that and can be, now, with
the unspoken permission between them. Will smiles, hums softly and draws a knee
up to let himself rest further back in bed, lying down, Hannibal up against
him.
“You were very good,” he sighs, reassurances, promises against Hannibal’s mouth
before he kisses him again, fingers sliding to Hannibal’s hair, cupping the
back of his head to hold him close as his other wraps warmly, loosely around
one of Hannibal’s wrists.
Though Hannibal allows his heart to flutter fast, the words steal his breath
for an instant, a blow struck tenderly that forces him to draw away just enough
for their eyes to meet. He has been called many things, in degradation and in
praise, but never that - never like this. It is expected that he would be good
at what he does, and no mind is given to how much it takes from him to do so.
He can’t swallow back the hum that catches between their mouths as he lays
heavy against his professor.
Though his pride does not allow him to make manifest the words, he wants
nothing more than for Will to praise him again. Nothing more than to hear that
Will takes just as much pride in Hannibal’s actions - whether as student or as
furniture - as Hannibal himself. Nothing more than to be very good, for someone
who deserves it.
Who has earned it.
So instead, swallowing down air as their lips draw apart, Hannibal nuzzles
adoring against Will’s cheek and sighs. “Thank you for allowing me to be.”
Will delights in the closeness, the softness of them both this way. Slow
lessons, slow understandings; a situation like this may play out in anger
another time, or not at all, if Hannibal does not obey, does not ask, does not
do. It doesn’t matter. Then he will adjust his instructions and teach something
else.
For now, he enjoys the soft breaths against him, the almost childish pressing
against him that is entirely non-sexual, just seeking a comfort from holding a
position for a long time, from doing it because he was told.
“Would you like to rest before dinner?” Will asks, drawing hands down
Hannibal’s back, nails soft in dragging back up. “Will you stay for dinner?”
He nearly purrs at the scrape over sore muscles, one hand against Will’s cheek,
and mouth tracing across the man’s jaw to his neck, where he tucks his nose
against him. “For dinner,” Hannibal agrees, and lifts his legs one at a time to
stretch long between Will’s own and lay curled against his chest. “I have class
tomorrow, so after -”
“You will return home,” Will murmurs, kissing his student’s sleek blonde
strands. “You will resist the urge to study, as you’ve assured me you have done
all that you need. And you will sleep.”
“Yes,” sighs Hannibal. “Will you lay with me now? Until dinner.”
Will just hums, a low pleased noise, and shifts further still until just his
head is against the pillow, Hannibal curled up against him, lips to his neck,
hands comfortable on his chest. Will reaches to gather the blanket untouched
from the other side of the bed and flip it to cover them, enough to be
comfortable, to remain warm as they start to doze.
“Whenever you ask,” he tells him quietly, wrapping his free arm around
Hannibal’s lower back to hold him close.
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Summary
     “He’s trying to put himself through medical school. Succeeding so
     far, but -”
     “At what cost,” Alana finishes. Her scrutiny of Will gentles, but
     doesn’t wane entirely, fingernails drumming against her glass. “How
     old is he, exactly, if you don’t mind my asking?”
     “Seventeen.”
     Bev whistles low, and sips her whiskey.
The bar is, as promised, not as boisterous as most.
Most offices in the District closed hours before, any happy hours long since
ended. Their work isn’t so steady, though, consistently inconsistent, and Will
settles when he sees that only his co-workers at the Bureau have populated the
little dive. He eases as he takes in dim interior, low lights reflecting off
worn wood, a combative game of darts between Zeller and Price underway in the
back, and their collective coats and bags deposited in a heap in one of the few
booths.
“I figured you’d take off again,” Beverly chimes, sliding in behind Will.
“You’re so quick to bail on us when we go out.”
"Must have taken a wrong turn," Will grins, ducking from the playful jab that
comes his way. He stretches his arms over his head and sighs, taking off his
glasses to rub his eyes. "Long day warranted a change in schedule."
"You live life by a schedule you'll never live it."
"Thanks, Plato."
Bev grins, arches back to see if anyone else is around worth tolerating or if
she's good where she sits, and turns dark eyes to Will again.
"You don’t look as dead as you normally do."
"How are you still single with comments like that?"
“It’s a real mystery,” she muses. “One of the great unsolved. Probably just
mark it as a cold case at this point.”
She approaches the bar first, leaning over her folded arms until she’s resting
on the tips of her toes. “Two whiskeys, straight - cheap shit is fine.”
“Make it three.”
Bev glances towards Alana, pulling the door shut behind her with a grin.
“Shit,” laughs Bev. “The whole crew’s here tonight.”
Alana sets her coat and bag aside where the others are piled, and runs hands
through her hair to shake off the work day. “Didn’t expect to see you here,”
she tells Will, who glances between her and Bev with the sudden sensation of an
antelope watching two lions prowl through tall grass.
“Am I that bad?”
“Not bad,” Alana shrugs, a devious smile narrowing her eyes. “Just mysterious.
Been busy?”
"Been occupied," Will replies, eyes narrowing in turn before he takes his drink
from Bev and sets it to the table without taking a sip. "I fear I am about to
be interrogated."
"Maybe gently prodded for information," Bev shrugs.
"Regarding?"
"Occupation."
"It's a hazard."
Alana snorts, joins them to sit and is the first to actually drink. Will
follows suit quickly enough to already warrant a second, but being held captive
with Bev on one side and Alana on the other he just sighs.
"Come on, it can't be that bad," Bev grins. "We're all adults here, we know how
porn works."
"You think so little of me."
"Merely using tactics to get you to talk. Cutting out initial possibilities
‘til you either agree with them or discredit ‘em."
"I called Bedelia," Will tells Alana, smile too wide, rims of his glasses
slicing his vision in half in his own tactical evasion.
“Dammit.” Beverly sighs, leaning back to free her wallet again. She tosses a
twenty across the table to Alana, who snaps it with a sunny smile before
tucking it away. Will’s eyes widen.
“You told her? I mean, anyone at all, but her?”
“I’m right here,” Bev reminds him, and Alana tilts her head, patting Will’s
arm.
“Just a friendly wager. But look, I’m the one who had faith that you would.”
She takes another sip, drawing her lips into her mouth to suck the sweet burn
of bourbon from them, and raises a brow. “So?”
“Is he hot?” Alana glances to Bev at the question, and folds her arms against
the table.
“He came highly recommended,” she adds. “Apparently just as good at providing
company as, you know. ‘Company’.”
Will just stares, knowing his cheeks are growing warmer at the scrutiny and
hating it. He needs another drink. Preferably more than one.
"He is an excellent conversationalist when he’s willing to swallow his pride a
little."
"That's it?"
"What's it?"
"Conversation? Really?"
Will glares, taps his fingers against his glass before sliding it over. "I say
nothing more without another one of those."
Bev cackles, drinking hers down in one before standing to order more as Will
folds his arms on the table and buries his face in them.
"She should just tell him to keep ‘em coming," Will mumbles, knowing Alana will
be smiling when he looks up. "I'll need several."
"Was it really that bad?" Alana's teasing softens, for just a moment, just
this, and Will sighs again, unfurling himself to look at them both when Bev
comes back, and taking the glass to drag it over.
"Define bad," Will suggests.
"Ate with his mouth open," Alana says.
"Dressed like a hobo fisherman."
"Funny."
Bev grins, shrugs. "Did he steal your shit?"
"No."
"Bite you when he sucked your cock?"
Will chokes, hand against his mouth and accepting the consoling pat against his
back from Alana.
"Bev, what the fuck."
"I'm listing worst case scenarios."
"It's not, it's -" Will groans, sighs, finishes his drink and sets it aside.
"He's younger than my students."
Bev and Alana meet each other’s eyes across the table, and it’s Alana who asks
first this time, as Bev’s brows lift beneath a sweep of glossy hair. “Which
students, exactly? You have a few levels -”
“All of them.”
“All of them,” Alana repeats. “As in -”
“Seniors, juniors, sophomores,” recites Will, voice echoing into his glass.
“And freshman.”
Bev laughs, startled by the revelation, but then lifts a hand. “Sorry. Not
funny. Entirely inappropriate. Actually kind of fucked up. The kid’s a pro
already?”
“Will,” Alana says, voice quieting. “I didn’t know. God, and that means Dr.
DuMaurier -”
"Could easily not know either." Will draws a hand through his hair. "He's very
good at redirecting."
"But not with you."
Will just tilts his head, as though the question need even be asked, and
Alana's lips press together in brief apology. And then they're quiet, all of
them, and Will drops his head back with a groan.
"No,” he says, exasperated, catches their eyes as he sits properly again. "I
told him no."
"He asked?"
Will’s expression and deliberate lack of explanation is enough of an answer.
Then it clears and he shrugs, an almost helpless gesture.
"He's paying for school, with this. He’s barely functional half the time, he's
exhausted."
"But you still -"
"I let him sleep and make him study."
Bev laughs again, brows up, and Will’s smile cocks briefly before he wipes it
and turns away. It comes back, unbidden.
“That’s it,” she confirms, half-questioning, grinning when Will nods. “You’re
paying him to spend time studying.”
“It’s what he needs,” answers Will. “He’s trying to put himself through medical
school. Succeeding so far, but -”
“At what cost,” Alana finishes. Her scrutiny of Will gentles, but doesn’t wane
entirely, fingernails drumming against her glass. “How old is he, exactly, if
you don’t mind my asking?”
“Seventeen.”
Bev whistles low, and sips her whiskey.
“As generous as this is,” Alana considers, choosing her words carefully, “and
it is, extremely, kind of you, we should tell someone. I’m assuming his parents
aren’t in the picture, but there are halfway houses for runaways, and those…
people that he’s seeing outside of you, who aren’t as kind to him, it’s beyond
illegal -”
Will parts his lips to reply and hums instead, gesturing towards the bar for
another round - Bev having kindly told the man, apparently, to keep ‘em coming,
as Will had wanted.
“You’ve worked with kids like this before, Alana,” he says, pausing as their
glasses are removed and new ones brought up. “You know how trust works for
them. They fall back to the most basic of instincts when it comes to that, if
they feel someone is off, at all, on their radar, they don’t go near them.
Building a trust with someone with that kind of history is like building it
with an abused animal. Once you give them one reason to doubt you, they will
not give you another chance to prove that you’re trustworthy.”
“Are you going to allow him to keep going?”
“I have no right to allow or disallow him anything,” Will says honestly, though
he seems as displeased by this notion as Alana is. “I could tell him not to do
this anymore, but then he will go to those who do not tell him that, and I can
guarantee you they don’t pay him to sleep in a big bed alone and untouched.”
“Does he trust you?” Bev asks, cradling her drink. Will considers, finds he
doesn’t know beyond the vague tugging hope that maybe.
Maybe.
“To a degree,” he says. “He trusts me to remain as I am, with him, and it’s as
much a comfort as an infuriation for him, I think.”
“Stability can be unsettling to someone who’s so accustomed to uncertainty,”
Alana suggests, but her expression has yet to ease. “You think it would do more
harm than good to let authorities - doctors, specialists - work with him?”
Will slips lower in the booth, head resting against the back of it and eyes
trained on the punched tin ceiling, reflecting his own face, distorted, back at
him. “I don’t think it would do more harm,” he answers, “because he’d never go.
He’s managed to get here, enroll himself in school, acquire an apartment,
scholarships, and work this way for - for who knows long - and all the under
radar of every authority figure he’s brushed up against.”
“He’d bail,” Beverly murmurs.
“In a heartbeat. He’s not stupid - he’s,” Will almost laughs, running a hand
down his face, “he’s unfairly intelligent for his age. As soon as he caught the
shifting wind, and he would, he’d disappear.”
Alana’s lips twist in thought. “And if Bedelia doesn’t know, then it
compromises her, too, though that’s hardly the graver concern here -”
“So what are you going to do with him? He sounds like one of your strays,” adds
Beverly, one arm folded over her stomach.
"He is certainly spoiled like one," Will replies, and catches the looks from
both women before looking away. "I'm going to let him sleep and study. Pay
ridiculous amounts of money for the privilege."
"You like him."
"I -"
"Will." Bev lifts an eyebrow. "Come on."
Will swallows, shakes his head, laughs. "I don't dislike him."
"How long have you been seeing him?"
"Several weeks."
"Weeks?" Bev grins. "Damn, boy."
“Nothing’s happened,” Will stresses again, and seeing Alana’s arched brow,
sighs. “Nothing will happen.”
“At all?”
Will presses his tongue between his lips before swallowing the remainder of his
whiskey.
“You’ve got it bad,” Beverly mutters, leaning forward over her folded hands. “I
didn’t think you went for the barely legal types, Graham.”
“I don’t,” he mutters, lips drawing around his teeth at the burn. “I told him
no, when he asked me. I’ve told him no every time he’s offered. Not until he’s
legal. And maybe not even then. He’s bitter. Resentful. Prideful, despite all
that.”
“Or because of it,” Alana considers. “Who can blame him? Just -” She trails off
and shakes her head, lifting a hand as Will turns his eyes to her, watching
with an arched brow over the rim of his glasses. “I won’t say anything else
about it after this. Just be careful, okay?”
“I am.”
“Not with him, although that too,” she clarifies. “With yourself. If he’s like
the ones I’ve worked with, that self-preservation can manifest in ways he may
not even expect.”
“Like sending naked selfies?” Beverly asks, brow arching. “Almost naked,
anyway.” Will’s phone is aglow in her hand, removed delicately from the table
as he conversed, and on it, Hannibal. Pale stretches of skin that rise and dip
like snowdrifts, a textbook spread across his lap, and a smile caught in the
corner of dark eyes as he averts them from the camera’s gaze, amusement
obscured beneath a sweep of golden hair.
“‘Will I see you tonight?’” Beverly reads. “Is it illegal if someone else sends
it you?”
Will snatches his phone back, scarlet, a quick glance to the photo he
immediately, reluctantly, has to delete. It must have arrived after he'd come
in, phone on silent, unheard.
"It definitely isn't legal to take my phone to go through it."
"He's cute," Bev smirks.
"I know he is."
"He's seventeen."
"I know he's seventeen, Alana." Will rubs his hands hard over his face and
sighs. "I know."
"Give the guy a break," Bev laughs, grinning at her friend. "He's suffering
like a freaking martyr not touching that boy. It's Will. He'd sooner hurt one
of his dogs than that boy."
Will directs his eyes away, brief and almost guilty, before fingering the empty
glass in front of him. He already feels too warm, pleasantly light from the
alcohol. He revisits the photo he had to delete in his mind, considers the soft
skin, the curves of his body...
"Do you buy him things?"
"Just his education."
Beverly makes a doubtful sound, and Will muffles a dire laugh behind his hand,
fingers running through his beard.
“And things he needs,” he admits. “A scarf, textbooks -”
“Sugar Daddy Graham has a nice ring to it.”
“Bev,” sighs Alana, shaking her head to hide a reluctant smile.
“What?”
“Don’t provoke.”
“He’s already provoked,” grins Bev. “Besides, so long as they’re not actually
doing anything together -”
“I’m right here. I’m literally right between you both,” Will complains.
“- then isn’t it better someone without bad intentions looks out for him? You
know what kind of creeps are out there - they wouldn’t think twice of making
him do all kinds of sick shit, especially to someone so susceptible. Only a
matter of time until he finds one - or one finds him, rather - who wants even
more than that.” Beverly shakes her head, and shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t see a
problem with it. And god knows we’ve seen enough cases where work like that
goes wrong.”
“Do you think he’ll stop?” Alana asks. “On his own. And where are his parents
in all of this?”
“Runaway,” suggests Bev.
“But he’s enrolled.”
“Johns Hopkins,” adds Will, and Alana’s eyes widen.
“Jesus,” she sighs. “The system is fucked.”
“No news there,” Bev agrees. “But he’s found someone safe, who’s good enough
not to act on his depraved, wanton impulses, overwrought with lust for the lost
little courtesan -”
"And you ask me why I usually bail on these things," Will mumbles. He has
bought things for Hannibal, always with the intention to one day give them to
him. Have him find them in his bag on the way home. Something tugs at him to
hold back, in case the gesture is seen as buying him off, again, in another
way.
But... to what end, in that case?
"You gonna give them to him?"
Will blinks.
"The books," Alana prompts. "The scarf..."
"I didn't buy them for myself," Will replies, a shrug, feigning casual,
indifferent. He knows both see through him, even when neither is a profiler. It
is one of the reasons he enjoys the company of them both. Easy. Fun. No excuses
to get away with his bullshit as he can with others.
"I'm not sure how to go about it."
"Same way as you do paying for his classes?"
"Banks don't offer secure scarf transfers, last I checked," Will laughs.
Beverly considers, lips quirked in thought, and leans across the table. “Can
you leave them somewhere for him? That way he’s just finding them, you’re not
giving them to him, so he doesn’t feel like he owes you anything. God, this is
all so Pretty Woman,” she laughs, as Alana groans. “What? It’s romantic.”
“If this is your idea of romance,” Alana remarks with a smirk, “it’s no wonder
you’re still single.”
“See?” Will glances to Beverly as she sighs, eyes rolling.
“Second time tonight. You’re both cursing me. And don’t act like you’re any
less solo than I am, Bloom.”
“I have,” Alana idles, “prospects.”
“Really?”
“No,” she snorts, smile widening. Her eyes dart to the phone as it alights,
averting her eyes with a sigh as Will grabs it before either of them can.
You must be busy. And me, all dressed down with nowhere to be. Shame.
Will makes a sound in his throat, almost helpless, and reluctantly sets his
phone down without replying.
"Hopeless," Bev sighs, smile devious as Alana just rests her cheek against her
hand.
"You do seem utterly enamored of the boy."
"You said you would say nothing more on the matter."
"I'm not." Alana shrugs, amused. "I'm just observing."
"You gonna reply to him?"
"You gonna help me with the gift situation?"
Bev nods, vigorously and Alana lightly kicks her under the table. "I still
don't see why you can't just leave it for him to find."
"Where, precisely, am I to leave it?"
"Get it delivered to his apartment."
"I don't know where he lives."
Alana blinks, for a moment surprised and somehow endeared. "Find out?"
"I won't be that guy."
"I mean ask him."
Will considers, licks his lip and wonders how that would go over. He could ask.
In the end, a no leaves him just where he is. A potential yes...
He turns his phone over, smile curving at the message again, and sends just one
word.
Study.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Summary
     It begins simply.
     There is a box next to his door.
     Just a box.
Send me your address.
No.
Not so I can come there. I wouldn’t do that to you.
Then why?
Trust me.
Too much risk.
From me?
...
No.
---
It begins simply.
There is a box next to his door.
Just a box.
Hannibal lifts dark-ringed eyes, half-asleep where he stands after three nights
in a row of dinners - two of which ended far after the dinner itself. A glance
one way down the hallway. A glance down the other, and hearing nothing, he
crouches.
Hannibal it reads. Just that.
His smile is sudden as he tucks it under his arm to carry into his apartment.
Setting his bag aside, the boy shifts the parcel from arm to arm as he works
out of his coat, and accompanies it into the bedroom just large enough to fit
his bed and a nightstand. He drops onto his back, and works the tape open with
a thumbnail, delighting in the loud zip as it pulls from the cardboard.
He tries to remember the last time he received anything in the mail beyond
notices of payments due - or past due, as it usually goes - and is unable.
Rolling to his belly, Hannibal purses his lips in hesitation before prying open
the package. He glances to his phone, but isn’t sure he can stand the thought
of having to display pleasure at something like this. Better to see what it is
first. The flaps slip against each other and beneath Hannibal’s hand, he feels
knit stitches, so soft as to feel nearly intangible.
The boy draws his legs up beside him as he slides the scarf out of the box,
smile widening. Delicate cashmere, nearly as long as Hannibal is tall, enough
to wrap it twice over and still have it drape to his hips. Red, crimson really
- like blood, like wine, or pomegranates. There is no receipt inside, no
indication of cost - always conveyed in bold and underline whenever Hannibal
has been given a gift like this - and no reason as to why.
With a narrowing of eyes, Hannibal loops the beautiful gift around his neck,
scoots the box aside, and sprawls across his back to grasp the phone. Lifting
it above his head, ensuring that his lips are turned just so against the fluffy
scarf and his hair drapes across his eyes, he snaps a picture, and hits send.
It is not a long wait for a response.
Beautiful.
Hannibal feels the word as though it had been spoken against his skin, warming
him as surely as the scarf does. He shifts to lie on his side, curled against
the soft fabric, fingers quick on his phone as he dials, lies back to listen.
“It will go with your darker suits,” Will tells him, voice warm, as it always
is, roughened by whiskey today, but not a cigarette, it has a silkiness beneath
the words where the cigarette draws something harsher. Hannibal closes his eyes
just to listen to him.
“Thank you.”
Will makes a sound, like a hum but softer, a sound that accompanies the tip of
his nose against Hannibal’s temple when they rest together beneath the covers
in the early mornings, or late afternoons once Hannibal has had his fill of
study, if neither want to do anything more than doze until the sun sets.
“You’re welcome,” Will says, shifts to set something away, a book perhaps. “Do
not study this evening.”
“And if I must?”
“Then you lied to me regarding your assignments being completed for the week.”
There is no accusation in the words, a soft amusement, a teacher’s amusement,
but no displeasure. Hannibal sighs, stretches his feet and relaxes them. “Do
not study,” Will repeats. “I would like you to indulge this evening. Take the
new scarf for a walk.”
Hannibal’s smile spreads wider still but he forces it away, to train an air of
mild concern to his voice instead. “I’m afraid I’ve only just taken my coat
off.”
There is silence, in response, and behind Hannibal’s closed eyes he can see the
expectation in Will’s own, one brow raised high as it always does before he
asks -
“Do I need to repeat myself?”
“No,” purrs Hannibal, twisting onto his side and bringing the soft ends of the
scarf to his nose to breathe it in. He will engineer a way for Will to wear it
next time they’re together, so that when Hannibal has it back again, it will
smell of whiskey warmth. “It’s getting rather late,” he adds. “Where should I
take it?”
“Have you eaten?”
“Earlier. Discussion runs long on Tuesdays, so I ate before.”
“Did you have dessert?”
Hannibal can’t resist a laugh at this, curling a little tighter in pleasure. “I
did not.”
“Then you’ll take your scarf for ice cream. At least two scoops, one you’ve
never tried before, and one your favorite. What is it?”
“My favorite?”
“Yes.”
“Vanilla,” Hannibal replies, amused by the snort of laughter he can hear in
response to this. “If it’s made with real vanilla bean, rather than extract.
The extract tastes of formaldehyde.”
“It should worry me how entirely unsurprised I am that you know the flavor of
the latter,” Will says, and Hannibal hears him take his glasses off, the
familiar click of them as he sets them aside, sighs in that distinctive way
that suggests he’s rubbing his eyes, soon for bed. It’s strange to Hannibal
that he can tell so much about him simply by sound, after several weeks of
doing little more than studying and talking and sleeping next to each other.
“Go to seek it,” Will says at length. “Two scoops. You may have nuts but not
syrup.”
Hannibal bites his lip. “Cream?”
“No cream.”
He shivers, just a little and nods, knowing his silence is acquiescence enough
before he speaks the same.
“Yes.”
“Good night, Hannibal.” Hannibal can almost feel his breath against his ear
before the line cuts, and sets his phone to the bed before him to just stare at
before he finally, not entirely reluctant, he pushes himself from bed to follow
his instructions.
---
It becomes more complex.
There are several boxes.
Several boxes by his door.
Hannibal doesn’t hesitate to scoop them inside, surprised that no one on the
floor had taken them, more surprised that the postal worker bothered to bring
them up at all. He is careful not to drop them but nearly does despite himself,
when he tries to check the time as well. It is just past seven, the sun
cresting the horizon, and Hannibal’s day has just ended. Or begun.
It’s all the same after a while.
Will texted earlier in the week that he had been called away, and would not be
able to host Hannibal that weekend, and the apartment feels strangely alien
now, the light somehow different than it used to be. Hannibal was able to book
a dinner - he hopes only a dinner - for the night but for now, he leaves the
books on the small coffee table that serves as dining table, study desk, and
storage shelving and goes to shower.
He won’t open anything from Will when his skin still crawls with the touch of
another, and he lingers in the shower until the sensation grows numb first from
heat, and then from cold as the hot water dies out.
Towel looped around his waist, he starts coffee before returning to the couch
and blessed silence but for patter of drip-brew against the bottom of the pot.
The first box is worked open, and in it, to Hannibal’s great amusement, the
textbook for his biology course, beginning next semester.
And to his shock, he realizes it’s new, no rounded corners and marked margins,
no loose spine or missing pages. Reverent, he removes it from the box, and
spreads his fingers across the glossy cover.
It has always been an unreasonable and unnecessary expense to buy new, despite
the wear of used books, and with widening eyes, he scans the rest of the boxes,
and stands to call Will, biology text held to his bare chest.
“You are exempt from reading ahead,” Will tells him when he picks up, tone
displeased but strangely directed enough for Hannibal to know he had not
interrupted, had not done wrong by calling. Perhaps just a bad moment. Will was
away on a conference, playing social with people he rarely did more than look
at.
“Will, this is excessive…”
“Up to date books are never excessive,” Will responds, turning away from the
soft murmuring in the background to somewhere quieter, Hannibal hears him
exhale, swallow. “Anything I can help cover for your costs, I want to do it.”
It would be worrisome, that Will knows which classes he takes, if the first
three years of any medical course were not so generic. Despite that, perhaps
because of it, the cost of books alone usually set Hannibal to working every
day of his breaks to earn them, and even then, never new.
“Would you like me to return them?” Will asks at length, as Hannibal continues
to pace, holding the book close against his chest.
He returns to the others, shaking his head as he asks, “You asked me to accept.
Whatever care you wish to provide. Our agreement.” Will hums assent, eyes
closing in relief. “Then I will do,” Hannibal laughs, overwhelmed, “as you ask.
All of them, Will?”
“And their supplements.”
“Are you sure?” Hannibal sighs, so accustomed to being tightly strained by this
that the sensation of being without a stress is dizzying. “That you can - that
you want to - pay so much.”
“An investment,” Will murmurs after a moment, as he listens to the sweetly
sundered boy on the line with him, “in a promising future doctor.”
“You know you needn’t,” says Hannibal, suddenly, and though his voice is serene
now there is a tug to it.
To yield.
To submit.
“I see you because I wish to see you,” he tells his professor. “And for no
other reason than that.”
Will sighs, and Hannibal can hear the smile in it, imagines Will ducking his
head to hide it from no one in particular before licking his lips to return his
expression to calm neutrality. “And I buy these things because I wish to buy
them,” Will replies, tone just the same, “and for no other reason than that.”
They are quiet for a moment, before Will breathes quick against the phone, just
once, and quickly excuses himself, setting the phone to his chest as he answers
the person who had caught his attention at the conference. Hannibal just
listens, to the way his words turn, the way he explains something, pronouncing
every word properly as one would if they acted in theatre. When he returns to
the phone, he sounds tense again, displeased.
“I very much look forward to your company, when I manage to escape this place,
Hannibal,” he tells him, wishes him a good morning and lingers just long enough
to hear Hannibal breathe into the phone, wish him the same, before hanging up.
Hannibal holds the phone close against his ear for minutes more, to steady his
breath, to turn his cheek against it and sigh as he might if he were pressed to
the man himself. When he lowers it, finally, it’s to cancel his appointment for
that night, and he finds himself unable to suppress a smile as he pours himself
coffee to spend the rest of his day pouring over his books, and wishing it were
Will instead of pages beneath his fingers.
---
He nearly misses the call, cursing beneath his breath as he lunges for it,
fingers caught in his tie and the other just snatching the phone from his
nightstand before the call drops.
“Hello, Will,” he manages, glancing to the clock before he swallows down the
tension from his voice, and returns to the mirror.
There is a quiet, the softness of Will’s breathing as he just listens to
Hannibal’s, slightly stuttered as he fumbles with the tie, adjusts his hair,
swallows and takes a breath.
“You’re nervous,” Will points out gently.
“I’m rushed,” admits Hannibal. “I stayed too long speaking with the professor,
and -”
“You have an appointment.”
The statement is flat enough that it gives Hannibal pause, before he settles
his tie and smooths it flat. “Yes.”
Will swallows, just a shallow thing, and for a moment says nothing more, allows
Hannibal his time to dress, to prepare. “Do you want to go to it?” Will asks
finally, and there is something in his tone that isn’t needling, that isn’t
pulling for information or his own reassurance. It resonates. “Do you have to?”
The soft sigh that Hannibal releases says everything. It is nervous. Tense.
There is an apprehension there deeper than just the admission that Hannibal is
seeing another tonight. “Yes,” he responds. “I have to. It’s -”
He stops himself, but already he’s yielded more than he intended. Or perhaps
just enough, in asking without asking.
“When this appointment is made,” Hannibal adds, softly, “it is best not
missed.”
Will imagines the bruises again, the sharp motions and cruel hands that bring
them forth, the anger behind them, and worse still the sick desire to keep
giving them, to see that violence wrought on a living thing just to see it in
pain. And there is a pull, so strong it’s choking in its own violence, that has
Will’s breathing hitch, just once.
“Ask,” he says quietly, teeth gritted on the word.
It’s enough to force Hannibal to take a breath, enough to stop his preparations
cold and enough that he has to press his hand against his stomach to steady his
pulse, his nerves, his voice. He lets his eyes slip closed and thinks not of
the man whose breath he can hear against his ear, but the other that awaits
him, to make him earn his keep with brutal hands and manic laughter as Hannibal
takes, and takes, and takes -
“Will,” sighs Hannibal, opening his eyes again to lift them towards the
ceiling. He has never canceled on this client, he has never once thought of
doing so, and dread sinks cold and heavy as an anchor in his chest. “He won’t
allow it.”
“Ask, Hannibal. Ask me for what you really want.”
And that, in itself, is easy enough to discern.
“I want to be there,” Hannibal breathes. “With you.”
Will’s breath echoes Hannibal’s for a moment, a beat, sharing that together
before his throat clicks on a swallow. “I will phone for a taxi,” he says
quietly. “Bring whatever you need, and come here to me.”
There is a turn to his tone, just enough to be a warning, not to Hannibal but
to that ‘other’ who wishes to claim him in bruises and blood. Hannibal has
never heard it boil behind Will’s words before, never in a way that sent
shivers over his skin, and this does. It is a protection, not a possession, but
it is also more than that. It is more than just that.
“It isn’t wise -”
Will forces the words because he must, to break the cycle of Hannibal’s
justifications that somehow, he owes this to his client. That he owes it to
himself, in having somehow earned such savage punishment. “Do I need to repeat
myself?”
The question is gentle enough that it rips a shudder through Hannibal, and the
relief in his voice is tangible as he responds softly, “No.”
The call cuts and Hannibal watches Will’s name fade from the screen before he
raises his eyes to the mirror again. Where moments before he wondered what
mottled marks his face would wear when he saw it again - a split lip this time
perhaps, a bloody nose - he now thinks of where Will’s lips will press instead.
Hannibal leaves his tie behind, and wraps the red scarf around his neck
instead.
The ride he spends watching through the window. It’s growing colder but the
weather is remarkably clear, he can see the stars and can smell the coming of
rain when he opens the door to get out. He pays, knowing he will find that
money and several dollars more in his account by morning to cover the expense,
and takes his bag with him to make his way to the porch. The dogs bark but the
sound is somehow muted, they’re not by the door. And when Hannibal knocks, the
finds the door pulled open and familiar hands snaring in his scarf to pull him
close.
“Scratch his name from your ledger,” Will whispers, pressing Hannibal against
the door, forehead against his and eyes dark. “Never let him hurt you again, or
I will do something necessary and regrettable.”
Before Hannibal can speak, Will’s lips are on his and he’s kissing him like he
can pull his arguments from him forever, like he can validate every single
moment of invalidation, like he can take away the appointments before this one,
kiss those better, make it so that Hannibal never went.
Hannibal tries to soothe him, running his hands across the man’s hair, framing
his cheeks, returning every kiss that weakens his knees and still keeps him
pinned to the door. His protests are smothered into aching little sounds, and
his skin raises goosebumps rather than the scratches that might have been there
instead.
When Will gives him room enough to breathe Hannibal only turns his head enough
to do so, pressing his forehead together with his professor, nuzzling alongside
his nose so that their flushed lips brush breathless.
“I only go when I have to,” Hannibal whispers, a rush of words in hopes that it
will ease the curl in Will’s lips, baring gritted teeth against his neck. He
works his fingers through Will’s hair again, down to curl against the soft
little twists at the base of his neck, and he slips both arms over the man’s
shoulders, sighing roughly when he finds himself lifted by the thighs. “I’m
here,” Hannibal reminds him, rubbing their mouths softly together.
“I know,” Will breathes, lips seeking still, teeth restrained but sharp against
Hannibal’s skin, hands cling to remind, to hold and reassure, not to harm,
though the strength within him is enough that he would damage, had he sought
to.
Will gets them to the bed, allowing Hannibal to fall to it before pressing him
to it with another kiss, with a rough rocking of his hips against Hannibal’s
own. Quick hands gentle to remove the scarf and let it settle on the floor, to
kiss Hannibal’s throat but still refrain from leaving marks. Will nuzzles to
him and presses close, settles only once Hannibal’s hands find his hair again,
and even then just enough for his voice, surprisingly weak, to be heard against
their breathing.
“Stay,” he says. “Please, let me convince you to stay.”
“Stay?” Hannibal echoes, head tilted aside where Will’s mouth closes rough
kisses against his skin. His brow furrows, gaze resting on the scarf where it
lay, and it feels so insignificant now despite the comfort it had afforded
Hannibal in the months since he received it. Every class, everything but his
appointments.
Never around his clients.
They don’t deserve to touch it, but it is Will’s to give and Will’s to cast to
the floor, his to pull and his to loop gently.
His.
Hannibal swallows hard and moans when Will rocks against him again, legs
spreading for his professor, squeezing tight around sharp hips to keep him
near, and his back bends to bring their bodies flush.
“I’m here,” Hannibal whispers again, searching Will’s eyes when their mouths
crash together and break apart, rough against each other’s shores.
The roughness eases, if only for a moment, softens so Will can see Hannibal
properly, so he can be as they are, not as others are, so he does not become
the appointment Hannibal had missed at his behest. Because he had told him to.
Will holds Hannibal’s face gently, elbows to the bed and thumbs stroking just
beneath Hannibal’s eyes in gentle brushes as he kisses him, soft and slow, rubs
their hips together in slow pushes as Hannibal arches up to meet each one.
He knows Hannibal’s answer is his choice, he is here because he wants to be,
not just because Will made him come. He is here because he seeks the same
comfort from Will as Will does from him, mirrors of each other, here, of
protector and protected, asking and asked, needed and needing.
“You are,” he sighs, soft kisses to Hannibal’s lips, turning his head into the
hands that seek to touch him. Will ducks enough to kiss Hannibal’s wrist, to
taste his pulse there, strong and alive and aroused.
Will’s eyes close, his lips split to a smile, and he cants his head to the
side, tongues against the corner of his mouth. “Ask,” he breathes, eyes opening
to look at Hannibal beneath him, to smile at him, let his eyes narrow in his
pleasure. “For things you know I can give you.”
The look, blue eyes made dark with pleasure, is enough to cut short the
synaptic circuits snapping furious in Hannibal’s thoughts. Enough to let him
forget - for now - what was just asked of him. Enough to let him savor the
choice he made.
Of course he would rather be here than on another appointment.
Of course he would rather be here than anywhere else at all.
“Touch me,” Hannibal sighs, leaning in to kiss the corner of Will’s lips where
his tongue traced. Another sucks the older man’s lower lip softly. Another
traces the tip of his tongue against Will’s teeth before the kiss deepens.
He doesn’t wait for an answer - sees it clearly enough in the way Will’s jaw
works wanting and primal - and Hannibal runs slender fingers down the back of
his professor’s arm, following the taut muscles, the bend of his elbow, until
he reaches Will’s wrist and holds their hands together. The boy shifts to make
enough space between them that Hannibal can glide Will’s hand across his soft
belly, lower, past the waistband of his suit pants, trapping his professor’s
palm between his trousers and his underpants, to make him feel what Will does
to him.
“Will you,” Hannibal moans soft, “please -”
Will does, curling his palm to stroke, to enjoy Hannibal shuddering so
pleasantly from it. This request he knows is without burden of memory, without
immediate association with another. This request Will fulfills for that alone.
He rubs until Hannibal bites his lip and tenses, and Will removes his hand so
he can undo Hannibal's pants, slip them a little further down his hips.
He convinces himself that he is keeping his own word. No sex, no penetrative
sex, until the boy is eighteen. But even in the months they have grown
accustomed to each other, developed a routine of study and dinner and sleeping
pressed close and warm, hands have wandered, kisses deepened, desires coiled
enough to drive both to want more, to want to try around the hard rule.
There is a strange duality here, Hannibal knowing the sensations from other
hands, from his own, yet never once associating such warmth with it. It is a
teaching and unteaching all at once. A new lesson in the pleasure they can
share, together, as a partnership here, and a lesson in how different this is
from the others. No cold indifference like Frederick, nor fumbling enthusiasm
like Franklyn. Nor is this the cool caresses of Bedelia or the sharp strikes of
-
Hannibal makes a sound, as Will works his fingers beneath the waistband of his
underwear, grasps him properly to stroke. Will does not touch to tease then
seek his own pleasure from Hannibal's body, he does not call for him simply to
penetrate and toss away. Months, and his promise holds, of relenting for kisses
and necking, touches and intimacy without sex involved at all. A slow training,
a promise Will has not broken to him, not once.
Not now.
"Let me give you pleasure," Will sighs against him, eyes hooded and lips
closing on the sharp corner of Hannibal's jaw. "Tell me to, if you wish it."
If you wish.
Always if.
A quiet sense of power untwists inside the boy, wonderment at having it but
knowing, exactly, what he has done to earn it. He has listened. Learned.
Followed instruction. Come when Will has called. This is his to claim, and
though he spreads a hand across his eyes with a laugh, Hannibal arches to grind
his cock against Will's palm.
"Give me pleasure," Hannibal sighs, the demand sweet and unfamiliar.
Moreso is the groan that Will presses into Hannibal's throat at the words.
Moreso is the way Hannibal feels to watch Will bend to him, a yielding
subservience to one who has served gladly for months. Hannibal wets his lips
with the tip of his tongue and his eyes drift closed when Will slips his cock
from his briefs. His age, rather than his experience, makes Hannibal squirm
when rough fingertips rub beneath the silky head, and work back his foreskin in
little tugs.
A student, rather than a teacher, who wants nothing more than to learn
everything Will would show him.
"Like before," asks Hannibal, pressing his hands flat against the shifting
planes of Will's shoulders. He shivers at the strength of him, feels still
Will's mouth pressed snarling against his skin and his back against the door.
"Like before, when you wished to have me, alone. Convince me -"
To trust.
To stay.
That I'm yours.
The words pull a shiver from Will, commands so sweetly demanded and issued,
from someone Will has always been happy to accommodate. He continues just
touching, just a moment more, before ducking his head to take Hannibal between
his lips, sucking just the head before taking him deep.
The sensation is novel only in that Hannibal has not had this given him often.
Occasionally as a reward, but rarely with enthusiasm, occasionally for torture,
to edge the boy to his limit and leave him later untouched. It hardly matters
now, any of it, as Will kneels between his legs and relishes the response to
his mouth, in the little sounds and hitched breathing, the twitches of
Hannibal’s thighs beneath Will’s hand where he holds him spread.
Will moans, a low thing, as needy as the boy he's touching, and opens his eyes
just to look up the length of him, to see Hannibal's lips part and tense,
pulled between teeth and allowed freedom again. He pulls off just enough to
hook his fingers beneath the waistband of Hannibal's pants and pull them down,
taking a moment to work the laces on Hannibal's shoes and let those be pulled
off to the floor as well, socks following, until he is entirely bare but for
the shirt still clinging to his skin.
"Yes," he sighs, shifting enough to spread Hannibal's thighs further, lift his
hips and press himself between the soft cheeks of his ass to suck kisses
against the sensitive skin there, holding tighter when Hannibal squirms in his
delight and surprise.
Hannibal’s thoughts go white, the same blissful empty hum as when he has held
himself over Will’s desk despite his screaming muscles, as when he kneels to
allow Will use of his back for grading, an utter void of any stress or reason
or anything but raw sensation.
He laughs, just a sigh, and lets his eyes fall closed and his hips rise to meet
Will’s mouth.
It is a far sweeter discovery than when Hannibal first felt the pull of his own
sexuality. Later than most boys, stirred in him by unwelcome hands and made
clear by rough demands for what it should be used. A part of himself with an
ugly power over others, and he unwilling to use it for anything else - unaware
that it could be, in truth, until now.
Until Will.
“More,” he pleads, fingers trembling as hard as his voice when he sinks them
through his professor’s dark curls to hold him there. A shiver erupts and curls
his spine from the bed when Will’s tongue slips inside of him, surrounded by
damp lips and heat that pull open-mouthed kisses against his opening. He has
never felt this before. He has never wanted this before.
And with a crooked grin, Hannibal tilts his head aside to watch and consider
that this is his, now, entirely - whenever he asks for it.
He lowers a hand to circle his cock, lazy long strokes that let it fall hard
back against his belly, dripping clear over his fingers when he rides the skin
up high and squeezes before slipping it back again with a shudder.
Will continues, unrelenting. Devouring his boy as Hannibal's body works to
understand this pleasure given it, and why. He savors every shiver and every
twist beneath his hands, does not hold to restrain but rather to allow Hannibal
the ability to shudder and squirm to push himself where he wants to be touched
the most.
He thinks of how long he has waited to do this, until Hannibal was ready to
accept it given, not until he had earned it; that, he had done long ago, with
his patient obedience, his soft teasing and gentle questions.
Will thinks how proud he is that Hannibal asks, for even the smallest things,
how happy he is to allow most of them. Thinks of how gratifying it is to issue
a command and hear that little shiver in Hannibal's voice just before he
accepts it and obeys. He thinks of how much he enjoys buying things for him,
watching and hearing Hannibal enjoy them, gauging from responses which had been
more welcome than others.
He hums, just to give Hannibal that sensation, and grins against him, pulling
back enough to nuzzle Hannibal's thighs, give him a little reprieve to gather
himself. Will turns his head to kiss and suck every finger stroked against him
from Hannibal's shaking hand, entirely contented, sighing soft over wet skin
before spreading Hannibal further with his thumbs and leaning in to tease again
with flicking strokes of quick tongue.
Hannibal’s laughter nearly becomes a sob, feet digging into the blankets,
caught beneath his curling toes as he bends as if to escape that blessed
torment, only to push closer again and groan when Will’s tongue spreads flat
across him instead. He tightens his hand around himself, not to stroke, but to
stop himself from finishing already. He hasn’t asked for that, he will when he
can no longer stand it, but to withhold himself from it bends the tightness in
his belly so deep it nearly stops his breath, but for a hitched gasp as
Hannibal holds.
“Will -”
A hum tickles against his skin in response and Hannibal’s grin spreads unsteady
and bright.
“Your - your fingers, will you, please -”
Will reaches to spread a hand across Hannibal’s stomach, holding him in place
with only a gentle touch, thumb skimming through the precum that has dripped
damp there. He leans back a little, just enough to murmur, “No.”
“Oh,” aches Hannibal, the word sending sparks snapping hot through his pulse.
“God, please - again -”
“No, Hannibal.”
The boy has to set his fingers between his teeth, trapping the pitched moan
that catches on his breath, to stop himself from reaching his orgasm by that
word alone.
He is so beautiful.
This way, any other, and Will is almost tempted to allow it, to press fingers
in alongside his tongue and feel Hannibal stretch and clench around him. But he
doesn't, not yet. Keeping promises so Hannibal knows he always will, especially
to him.
Will shifts to stroke over Hannibal's hand wrapped tight around his cock, to
get him to release himself, shudder when Will starts to stroke instead. Mouth
and hand working in tandem to bring Hannibal to a state where he is sobbing his
pleasure, begging with soft incoherent little words. More and more, an
unrelenting gentleness until Will feels Hannibal’s body quake beneath his
hands, and he pulls back.
"What do you want, Hannibal?" He whispers, warm against his boy’s belly, eyes
up, pupil-dark and wide, just watching.
“You,” his student responds, lips parted panting, arm across his eyes because
the sight of Will, doing this, doing this to him - for him - is too much with
his release so close. Will remains silent, waiting, Hannibal can hear the echo
of his teacher asking do I need to repeat myself? and rocks his hips harder to
thrust into Will’s fist around him. “You - inside me -”
“No, Hannibal,” Will murmurs, his tone teasing and soft and Hannibal moans,
tongue pressing between his lips.
“May I,” the boy gasps, “may I finish?”
"Any time you wish," Will assures him, a soft kiss to Hannibal's thigh and Will
returns to tormenting him with his mouth, tongue quick and deep as he can push,
humming soft to feel Hannibal come undone entirely from gentleness and patience
dedicated to his pleasure.
With a high, soft sigh, Hannibal gives himself over to this, as this was given
over to him. Not ripped from him, forced from him for another’s satisfaction,
but he spills hot white streaks across his belly, body rigid with pleasure, for
himself. Because he wants to. Because he asked.
Will does not yet stop, but slows, lapping long warm lines between Hannibal’s
cheeks, each rippling across Hannibal’s skin in twitches of pleasure, each
blooming in dusky rose across his face, reddening his lips. They part with a
little plea, his teacher’s name, sighing gratitude as his heart begins to still
and his release begins to cool where it sticks his shirt to him.
Fluttering fingers find their way to Will’s hair again, coiling through the
loops and tugging them straight, watching as they snap softly back into place.
Hannibal can think of no one else, not in the depths of his imagination, to
whom he would want to give so much of himself. He can think of no one else he’s
ever known who has worked for it, with patience, with kindness and sternness
each in turn.
If he never saw another client again, he would not spare them a thought, so
long as he could keep this.
Hooking his fingers beneath Will’s chin, across his cheek, Hannibal brings Will
up the length of his body to meet his mouth with parted lips and twisting
tongue. A languid, lazy kiss that pulls a smile between them when Hannibal
tastes himself there, mingled perfectly with the taste of Will’s own mouth. His
eyes open slowly, remaining heavy-lidded and serene, and he coils up against
the heavy body over his own with a gentle little noise.
“Tell me,” Hannibal asks softly. “Tell me what to do for you.”
Will ducks his head to nuzzle against him, breathing heavy and eyes barely
open, his own body singing with the need for release, relief, but he bites back
the words he is certain Hannibal hears every day. He will not make this about
anything but the boy beneath him. So, kissing Hannibal’s brow softly, he says
only, “Lie back, legs spread. Try to stay awake.”
And with another soft kiss against him, Will pushes himself to stand, to move
to the bathroom and gather a clean cloth to wet in barely warm water.
It would be easy to return to bed and make Hannibal open his mouth to take him.
It would be easy to have his hands, to even just rut against him until Will
finds his own release, but it would undo everything Will has been building with
Hannibal’s understanding of himself. That he is more than a tool, that he is
more than a thing, that there is more to him than giving to someone else and
being left wanting, himself.
He presses a palm against himself where he stands, as the water in the sink
runs quick and white with the pressure, and closes his eyes, head back,
thinking how Hannibal’s lips had parted, how his eyes had blinked quickly,
closed again, as the flush flooded his cheeks and made his hands tremble. He
thinks of the minute little tremors that had run through Hannibal’s body, the
way he had tensed and squirmed, begged for release and accepted it so openly
when it was given.
He thinks of how he tasted, licks his lips. And with a groan feels his knees
almost give in as he cums, into his hand, in his pants, like a teenager on his
first date, and laughs quietly as his own inability to control, to maintain
something so stoic when that boy is involved.
Will cleans himself before returning to Hannibal, finding him breathing slowly,
dozing, arms spread and legs spread in bed, flush still just dusting his cheeks
and smile on his face. He looks beautiful, young, entirely contented, and Will
leans in to kiss him, to feel him wake up to it, before starting to wipe him
gently clean.
“I tried,” Hannibal murmurs, voice thick with sleep, contentment as resonant in
him as a cat’s purr. He watches Will’s hand carry the cloth across his skin,
body shifting lazily beneath it to stretch, to feel the kind of care that he
has never allowed, in those few times that it’s been offered. He is not a thing
to be worshipped, not by them in their false praise and poisoned promises, but
here, he feels important. Special.
Worthy.
He works free the buttons on his shirt, rumpled and skewed around his chest,
shrugging out to drape it across the edge of the bed. Entirely bare now, he
arches and sighs as Will touches so softly, and Hannibal’s fingers skim against
his own thighs to spread his legs wider, wanting, still, and delighting that he
cannot yet have.
“Eighteen?” He asks, lips curving into a coy smile.
Will makes a sound, eyes up to watch Hannibal as he ducks his head and presses
hot lips in a kiss against the inside of his thigh before the cool cloth swipes
the feeling away.
“Eighteen,” he agrees, squeezing Hannibal’s calf gently before returning to the
bathroom to leave the cloth to soak - he’ll take care of it in the morning. By
the time he returns, Hannibal is more awake, having pushed himself to the head
of the bed and just beneath the covers, but still entirely tempting. Will takes
up his shirt, his pants from the floor, and carefully folds them to set away.
His own undressing is not showy, a quick tug to get his shirt over his head,
loose jeans unbuttoned and slipped off. Will stands by the bed folding his
clothes and can feel Hannibal watching him with keen dark eyes. Will allows his
own to slip to him with a smile and he raises an eyebrow.
“You could have let me take care of it,” Hannibal suggests, amused.
Will blinks, a mild surprise that Hannibal could know, but he simply hums. “I
could have,” he agrees. “And I chose not to.”
“I’m very good.”
“I have no doubt,” Will answers, peeling back the sheets to slip beneath as
Hannibal makes room, knees drawn up beneath the blankets. He waits until Will
has stretched himself long, listens for the little grunt of contentment as he
settles, and then eases himself over to sit astride his professor’s hips.
Slowly, Hannibal sprawls himself flat, heels hooked around Will’s legs, and
lays heavy atop him with his head against Will’s chest. “Aren’t you going to
ask me when my birthday is?”
Will’s lips quirk and he swallows before opening his eyes to regard the boy
pressed so warm and heavy against him. He draws a hand beneath the blankets up
Hannibal’s back, to his neck where he squeezes gently, before working back
down.
“Must I ask?” Will purrs, pleased when Hannibal’s smile warms. “I had assumed
you would tell me on your own but if you insist.”
“I like hearing you ask.”
Will makes another low sound, tilts his head, and this time when his hand
returns up Hannibal’s back he tugs his hair lightly. “Demanding boy,” he
praises, taking a deep breath to settle better in bed before asking, obedient
all on his own. “When is your birthday, Hannibal?”
“One month and three weeks,” Hannibal sighs, skin prickling from the fingers in
his hair, so wholly different than how it might have felt had his plans stayed
the same, tonight, as first intended. “And two days,” he adds, tilting a grin
against Will’s chest.
“You’re counting,” observes Will, eyes narrowing.
“As you will be now,” he answers. Curling his fingers against Will’s chest, he
leaves pale pink lines in the wake of his nails, and soothes them away again
with his palm, over and over. A breath catches with the jog of his heart, and
Hannibal lifts his eyes upward. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for tonight. For
insisting.”
Hannibal’s lips purse in thought, tasting his words against the back of his
teeth, and speaking carefully. “I avoid it - him - as much as I can, until I
cannot. Rent is exorbitant so close to school, and if other expenses arise, it
requires someone who is willing to pay more than an ordinary client,” he
explains, as best he can, though the words are dry as ash against his tongue.
“He demands that he have his money’s worth.”
Will listens, swallows his genuine distaste at the idea of someone paying a boy
to be beaten by them, for their sick enjoyment. He wonders if the man has
poisoned Hannibal’s mind into believing that what he does is submission, that
what he does is what he is meant for, what he is good for, that he deserves it.
He says nothing, just caresses Hannibal against him until the other lies down,
tense still from the thought of his client and the appointment missed, perhaps
tense for the fact that Will now knows, that something like this is allowed to
happen so Hannibal can live on his own and study on his own and do what he
wants, and needs, on his own without help.
Will wonders if perhaps even a little, he has taught the boy that help is not a
sign of weakness, that someone caring for you is not a sign that you cannot.
He wants to tell Hannibal that he should not go to him again, that he is not
to. But he had promised to allow him his freedom and independence, to allow him
his clients and lifestyle, and help only when Hannibal lets him. Will wants to
tell him that he will pay for anything, do anything, to have Hannibal grow to
the man he wants to be, but he knows how smothering that will feel for the
young man, he knows how it will breed resentment unless Hannibal comes and asks
on his own.
And he will not, until his pride is taught that asking is not begging, and
receiving is not charity.
“You are worth more than the money paid to hurt you,” Will tells him instead.
“Worth more than any money paid you. And you alone know your own mind on the
matter of both.” He ducks his head, kisses Hannibal’s hair warmly, sighs
against it, lies back.
The question hangs between them, as Hannibal looks onto the scarf folded neatly
beside the bed, and remains unasked. He cannot, will not, ask for more than
Will has already given, above and beyond what Hannibal would have imagined
someone willing to do for him, for no other reason than that he is. Just that.
He stretches, grasping the end of delicate crimson cashmere, and draws it near.
Tucking himself beneath Will’s arm, Hannibal loops the scarf around his own
neck, bare but for that and the blankets that cover them, and he nuzzles deep,
lips parted where Will’s heart beats steady.
The question hangs between them, and Will says only, “Ask.”
“Please,” breathes Hannibal, curling a little tighter against him. “Just for
this month.”
Will says nothing else. But his arms wrap more securely around Hannibal and he
lets one of his knees rest slack against the bed so Hannibal can press more
comfortably against him. He buries his nose in the warm straight strands of
blond hair and promises, with touch and kisses and gentleness, that he will.
For this month and the next. And any other that Hannibal asks for.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Summary
     Though he is not watched, he is noticed. Various keepers of the house
     are quick to leave to other quarters when they see Hannibal enter,
     shoved to stumble in ahead. Eyes turn away as if to shun him,
     something not to be looked upon should their fate become the same as
     his.
     A monstrosity.
     “Go.”
     He does.
Chapter Notes
     SERIOUS WARNINGS FOR THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER: this chapter contains
     rape, non-con, graphic violence, graphic sexual violence, no
     adherence to the safe-sane-consensual program of BDSM, no aftercare,
     and general medium-level cruelty. Please, PLEASE be careful reading
     this chapter. It involves physical beatings with fists and
     implements, non-consensual penetration, rough gagging and breath
     play, and a fall deep into subdrop.
     If ANY of these things trigger you, or you think they might at all,
     we suggest perhaps skipping the chapter.
     We personally feel that it is instrumental in developing the plot,
     but would like our readers to be safe. Please be sure to read the
     above again before giving this chapter a go. Mason Verger is a
     terrifying character and it is because of him that most of the
     warnings on this story even exist.
It catches Hannibal when he is between classes, just a feeling, but it
paralyzes him where he stands in the corridor. He knows, immediately, who it
is, and he can feel his throat tighten with the thought alone, so he walks,
faster, to get to the sunlit quad where he can at least pretend that he can
breathe easier.
People mill around, back and forth, between classes or skipping them, waiting
for friends or enjoying the weather while it’s clear, though cold. Hannibal
sets his hands into his pockets, feels his phone there, at least that security
intact. He could walk, and keep walking, make his way to the main offices of
the campus and pretend like he has an appointment there, a meeting with someone
who would respond, at least, to one student stalking another.
He could.
And then he would never see campus again, never attend his classes, never get
his degree. Would have spent so long bending and allowing for nothing at all.
The thought makes him sick to his stomach, cold to his bones, so he stands, a
moment longer, before pulling his phone from his pocket to dial, to at least
hear his voice.
“You know, I am so glad that it works, Hannibal?” The voice beside him alone is
enough for Hannibal to tense, and then his elbow is snared by a gloved hand and
he doesn’t move at all. Does not unlock his phone. Does nothing. “I had
worried, when you didn’t answer my calls, when you didn’t come to appointments.
So unlike you to be so rude, you’re always so polite with me.”
Hannibal’s jaw works, to steady his voice, and turns to face him. “My
apologies,” he responds, meeting watery blue eyes above wire-framed glasses.
“My car would not start, and so I was unable to -”
“To call? Must be quite a lot of car difficulty for that,” Mason purrs, taking
a step closer. Too close, now, nearly pressed against Hannibal, who stalwartly
does not move back even as Mason’s eyes drift to the phone still clenched in
Hannibal’s hand. “I would have sent my driver, you know, he’s very reliable.”
Demuring his eyes, affecting a smallness despite being taller than the older
boy, Hannibal offers no excuse for not calling - there is none, truly, other
than that he did not wish to. Does not, in fact, ever wish to. “I did not need
-” The words cut short as Mason erupts in wild laughter, enough to draw looks
from other students in passing.
“You didn’t need,” sighs Mason. “Hannibal. Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal, are
you very sure you didn’t? Because I am very sure you do.” He reaches up, to
skim a finger beneath the scarf wrapped around Hannibal’s neck, and with a
broad grin steps back. “Come along then. We’ll have our meeting now. You don’t
have any more classes today.”
“Mason -”
“I know you don’t have any more classes today.”
The threat is clear and Hannibal glances aside, to the administration building
that is at once so near and so very far away. With as much money as Mason’s
father puts towards the school - to ensure his son will, eventually, graduate
when he decides he’s finished with attending scant classes each semester, and
fewer still actual attendances - they would hardly take Hannibal’s words for
it. And too many truths, known only to the two of them and the administrator
who via the clever workings of Hannibal’s mouth falsified his paperwork, would
come to light.
He looks to the phone in his hand and considers calling still.
No option presented makes him feel any less sick.
“Yes,” Hannibal breathes.
“Exactly what I thought I heard,” Mason replies, moving to lead, knowing
Hannibal will follow. If not today then another day. If not then, then whenever
Mason feels like pulling strings on certain documents and certain people
responsible for them. It will come to light soon enough.
Hannibal follows through the throng of people, wishing he could attach himself
to a group of them and follow to another class on campus, entirely unrelated to
his own. To economics, perhaps, humanities. Back to his art classes that Mason
never bothers to ask about, perhaps has forgotten. It hardly matters, he
doesn’t go. He climbs into the shiny black car where it waits, in the no
parking zone just by the one-way street through the college.
It is silent in the car when it starts to move, and Hannibal keeps his eyes
away, fingers still caressing the comforting weight of his phone.
“I have missed you, Hannibal, can you believe it?” Mason reclines in his seat,
no care for a seatbelt, any lawsuit would be bulldozed should he be injured in
a crash for his own lack of safety precautions. “I don’t often miss things. But
there is something about that way you look at me, just when we start, and just
when I get bored…” He clicks his tongue, adjusts his gloves with quick,
flourishing gestures. “It will be good to play again. Maybe you’ve even
forgotten some rules.”
Hannibal leans, just a little, against the belt over his shoulder. The glass is
cold against his brow and he closes his eyes, focused on the count of his
breath. “I always remember your rules, Mason.”
“Do you? It’s been so long, I can’t even remember - can you believe that?” His
voice pitches higher, wild with delight or anger or both. They appear much the
same, in truth. “What if there are new rules, Hannibal, rules I haven’t been
able to teach you because you’ve been gone so long. You won’t be able to follow
those at all.”
Thumbing across the smooth glass of his phone, Hannibal rests it against his
thigh, out of sight, and unlocks it. Will’s name is like a beacon and for a
fleeting moment Hannibal considers calling him anyway. He’ll tell him where he
is, Will would come for him, wouldn’t he?
I will do something necessary and regrettable.
He sends a text instead.
I miss you.
Without waiting for a response, he turns his phone off entirely, and slips it
back into his pocket. “I’ll have to charge you,” Hannibal murmurs, eyes closed
as Mason’s voice splinters sharp as glass.
“You think I don’t know that? Hannibal? Do you? Do you think I care? It’s a
pittance, Hannibal, truly. And why does it matter to me when it lets me keep
you so close.”
Hannibal tilts his head against the window, and thinks of warmer things.
A sharp kick to his shins is all the warning he has before Hannibal’s scarf is
grasped in unyielding hands and twisted enough to start to choke him. He grabs
for it, uselessly, and just watches as Mason sits closer, pulls him closer in
the process. One elbow settles on his knee, his chin atop, the other hand
twists the end of the scarf once more around his wrist.
“This is very nice. Very nice. It’s almost as though you’ve started to gain
some taste, in your tastelessness, Hannibal, I’m impressed.” A careless tug to
bring Hannibal’s seatbelt biting against his shoulder, his neck as it reaches
its extension and Mason continues to deliberately pull until Hannibal unlocks
the thing and sprawls on his knees in front of him.
“Good boy. Sit there until I find something for you to do.”
The implication is clear enough that being proactive will earn praise and anger
both, clearer when Mason wraps another length of the scarf over his palm and
Hannibal panics, briefly, over how he will linger on it, how the fabric will
bunch and bend and no longer smell like Will the last time Hannibal had curled
against him, steady heartbeat against his cheek.
He swallows, sits closer if just to release some of the tension against his
throat, scarf twice wrapped there and both ends in Mason’s hands.
“Eager. Always so eager! You know, you can try forever to convince people
you’re not made for this and no one will believe you. No one, Hannibal, when
you look so damn hungry for it.”
Hannibal wets his lips and leaves them parted, hopes it’s enough to pull
Mason’s attention elsewhere, and knows it won’t be. He is reeled closer across
the limo floor, until he is between Mason’s legs, near enough now that at least
- he hopes - he won’t be kicked again.
“Why else would you do it?” Mason muses, cruel whimsy in his voice. “It’s your
calling, Hannibal, and it disappoints me that you would resist it so much.” The
older boy leans over him, forcing his forehead against Hannibal’s own to tilt
him back, and grins savagely. “A doctor,” he sighs. “Do you really think you’ve
got that in you? Considering all the other things you’ve had in you already.”
Without breaking Mason’s gaze, he searches his eyes for something, any sign of
what Mason wants from him besides this, and finds only ice, unyielding.
“Answer me,” snarls Mason. “You’re so focused all the time, so dedicated. Do
you honestly believe anyone would want your hands on them for anything but
this? Do you truly think that a patient would listen to what comes out of your
mouth if they knew what’s been dumped inside of it?”
Hannibal tries to swallow but the scarf pulls tight enough that he can’t, and
he finally closes his eyes as he hears the fabric begin to tear and he
breathes, “No.”
“No,” Mason coos back, turns his hand once again and watches as Hannibal brings
his own up to try and pry the thing away from his throat so he can breathe.
“But you still insist on the farce of trying. You still insist on going to
classes and reading your books and sitting your tests. But always, always back
to your knees after, always back to this.”
Hannibal chokes, nails digging into the fabric to tear into it, so thin and
strong all at once. Mason just watches.
“It’s not nice to lie, Hannibal, not to the nice people who know what you are,
and pay you such good money to do what you’re good at, that you pretend you are
not this.” Further and further the fabric rips, Hannibal’s nails clawing
against it until it splits to pieces, slipping from his neck and tossed aside
by Mason’s uncaring hands once they’re no longer useful tethers. “Do you hear
me?” The slap comes sharp, catching Hannibal unprepared so he stretches his
hands to the side to catch himself against the carpeted floor “It’s not, nice,
to lie, Hannibal.”
A flat hand becomes a fist after the second word and Hannibal hopes the blood
he tastes doesn’t bring loose teeth with it, as Mason sits back with a deep
sigh, hand to his own lips to rub there, eyes out the window as the city
becomes ritzy neighbourhoods. Almost home. Almost worse. Hannibal doesn’t make
the mistake of spitting his blood to the floor, and swallows it with a soft
sound instead, eyes on Will’s torn scarf, discarded on the floor. He reaches
for it, pulls it back to press into his pocket, even one half of it, just to
keep there.
He starts to reach for the second but Mason moves his foot over it when he sees
the gesture, and holds it beneath his toes. “Nice things should go to nice
people, Hannibal.” Mason runs a hand through his hair, blonde strands sticking
straight, and slumps forward with his elbows on his knees. “Are you a nice
person, Hannibal?”
A beat, a breath, enough, and through the swelling of his mouth he answers,
“No.”
“No,” Mason sighs, reaching low to twine his fingers through Hannibal’s
unsettled hair. “You’re hardly even a person at all. You’re like a dog, one
with an especially good trick.”
His foot twists, and Hannibal watches the remains of the scarf grind against
the carpet. The half in his pocket is a blessed weight, something, something to
keep of the beautiful gift Will gave him, expecting nothing, asking nothing but
that he enjoy it. He tries not to think of how Will told him he was beautiful,
every time he wore it. He tries not to think of ducking his nose behind it in
class, to breathe in Will still clinging to the soft strands. He tries not to
think of draping it across his bare body and sending images to Will, and the
rough-voiced calls that would come after.
He thinks of everything.
He wishes he could think of nothing at all.
“Pick it up.”
Hannibal lifts his eyes, past black-gloved hands fisted tight.
“With your mouth. Like a good dog, since you’re hardly a good person.”
The driver does nothing, even with the window down between his seat and the
back, the driver says nothing, simply pulls in to park and waits, idling,
waits, listening, and Hannibal hates him as much as Mason, who twists his fist
into Hannibal’s hair and shoves him to the floor.
The fabric is as gentle against his lips as it has always been, and rather than
think of nothing, Hannibal simply wishes he could become nothing, instead.
He doesn’t get far before rough fingers force it further into his mouth and
Hannibal chokes, mouth going dry, throat more so, the fibres tickling and
unpleasant. Mason reaches to tug the longer end of it around behind Hannibal’s
head and back to the front, tucking it in roughly to hold him gagged by his own
gift.
“It’s a good color on you, Hannibal. You suit red,” Mason comments, allows a
moment more of contemplation before opening the door and getting out, leaving
it open enough in implication. Hannibal considers how he could just curl up,
face the man’s wrath and be dragged from the car, along the elaborate gravel
pathways and up the hard hewn marble stairs, through the unforgiving house.
He would be beaten by the time the door was even closed behind him to the
bedroom.
Hannibal wonders if he will be allowed to lose consciousness or if he will wake
in the cold shower stall like he has been forced to before.
He climbs from the car on his own, reaching back for his bag, a strange
unnecessity, but a comfort. He thinks of the message he sent Will. He wonders
if he replied. He can feel his mouth working to swallow, the gag dry and sticky
against his face, and he doesn’t reach to remove it. It’s perhaps the only
blessing he will get today, the only reprieve for his mouth.
Though he is not watched, he is noticed. Various keepers of the house are quick
to leave to other quarters when they see Hannibal enter, shoved to stumble in
ahead of Mason. Eyes turn away as if to shun him, something not to be looked
upon should their fate become the same as his.
A monstrosity.
“Go.”
He does.
The room is decadent and barren, a juxtaposition of priceless antiques but only
the furnishings necessary for living. A bed, a desk, a dresser, and little more
than that. Hannibal turns dark eyes to the tile that he knows, hates as much as
the boy behind him and as much as the servants who pretend not to see and as
much as the driver and as much as himself, for still feeling anything at all.
He lowers himself, and waits.
“I really need to train you out of lying again, Hannibal. To others. To
yourself. Kneeling for me like you’re good when you missed our appointment and
had the audacity to not. Return. A call!”
Fists first, then feet when it’s too much of an effort to reach. Chest,
stomach, arms when Hannibal curls in on himself to stop it, back to make him
uncurl again with a cry. He can barely breathe, the scarf oppressive and
gagging him until he scrambles to yank it from his mouth, draw in a breath,
press it to his face as Mason aims a sharp kick to it and catches his fingers
instead.
“Did I tell you you could take that out? Did I give you permission to do
anything at all? Put it back before something else takes its place, Hannibal,
now.” Another kick, another, and Hannibal wonders if his fingers will move when
this is over, if anything will. He bites against the scarf again, just holds it
there until his hair is yanked and he scrabbles against the floor for traction
to get away.
He isn’t sure if it’s a fist or a foot that winds him, but it hardly matters
when he’s retching and trying to breathe, soft sounds of pain against the floor
as the hand in his hair turns brutally, forces his eyes open and up.
“If you’re sick on this floor, Hannibal, you will eat it,” Mason tells him,
voice deliberate, like explaining something to a child. “Now put it back and
thank me for reminding you why it’s there.”
Hannibal’s eyes flash, a curl of his lip that hardly hurts where it’s broken
open, when his whole body vibrates pain and his breath catches short where his
body will not allow air. “I cannot thank you if it’s in my -”
A backhand, fist clenched, knocks the words from his mouth and nearly his teeth
along with it. Only Mason’s hand stops him from falling to the floor, and
Hannibal works his jaw only to feel that it isn’t broken.
With thoughts of Will’s fingers spreading the scarf across his nose, over his
lips to keep him warm before he goes, Hannibal lifts it to his mouth and
shaking places it against his tongue once more. He mumbles the words, lifting
his arm fast enough to catch the blow that comes from not speaking clearly
enough, and he enunciates, again and again and again, until finally Mason
stops, and tossing Hannibal to the floor, steps past him.
Obedience.
Submission.
They see the same thing in him, and the thought turns Hannibal cold where he
lays.
Perhaps he will break his teeth in this time. Perhaps he will shatter his
orbital socket, and blind him. Perhaps he will crush his ribs until they tear
through his chest, and his lungs fill with blood. Hannibal imagines the
splitting of Mason’s flesh beneath his knuckles, under sharp fingernails,
between his teeth, and only in this finds consolation. It does not last long,
as the sound of a belt buckle clicking loose rings loud as a gunshot behind
him.
Hannibal knows he makes a sound only because his throat is not yet numb enough
to be without sensation. He hates that he does, hates that Mason pulled that
from him, even despite the desolation of another’s promise between his teeth,
soaking in the blood that barely darkens the fabric as it spills from
Hannibal’s nose, from his split lip, bitten tongue.
He imagines that every thrust is a strike to Mason's face with something harsh.
Poker.
Plank.
Pipe.
Hammer.
Axe.
Skillet.
Brick.
Over and over and harsh enough that Hannibal can feel himself crying from it,
biting his pain into the scarf, clinging to it when his fingers slip over the
tile on the floor, slick with blood and smeared with tears and spit. He knows
Mason is speaking, knows he’s hissing something or grunting it or yelling it,
it hardly matters. Another sob and his head is driven into the ground in sharp
rebuke and Hannibal hears little else.
He can feel his breath rattle in his lungs - still intact, for now - as he
slides limp to the floor and tries to focus his vision on something that isn’t
moving, but everything in the room seems to be.
“You’ve gone so quiet,” Mason tells him, voice rough from his release, from his
personal pleasure in watching the boy shake uncontrollably at his feet. Still
conscious, somehow, still here. “You know I hate it when you go quiet, I like
when you talk to me - you always have such things to say.”
Mason crouches, pants still undone, belt loose in the loops as he reaches to
pry Hannibal’s bruised fingers from the sodden rag between his teeth and toss
that aside with a wince of disgust. He wipes his hands against Hannibal’s
shoulder, lifts his chin with rough fingers.
“Come on, Hannibal, I buy you for the company, not just for fun.”
He has felt blood before, hot across his fingers. A very long time ago, in a
place vastly different from this. A desolate building full of children large
and small, and he alone amongst them. No one knew his name, because he wouldn’t
speak it. Couldn’t speak it, no matter how much they beat him for his
insolence. It painted him a target, pale and small and utterly silent, for
bigger boys to touch and have their fun with. It painted him a victim, until he
turned one night after so many just like it, and plunged his thumbs into the
eyes of a boy who would never be able to look on Hannibal as a target, ever
again.
Shoved a broken broomstick under the ribcage of another, when he was cornered
during his chores.
Gushing hot across his face when between his teeth he held another’s throat in
tatters.
He has felt blood before, but as he feels the numb pressure of Mason again
rather than the stabbing agony, it is his own, trickling down pale skin.
And all the while, silence.
Mute.
“Not even a whimper?” Mason sighs, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.
Hannibal brings his arms beneath him.
“It isn’t going to stop,” threatens the older boy. “It isn’t going to stop if
you don’t speak.”
It doesn’t matter if the man offered him his own neck to snap, if Hannibal said
one word for it.
If he only asked.
He can’t. He can’t.
He lies, eyes wide and breathing like an animal in pain, filling his chest so
much he feels fit to burst from it. Everything hurts, all he can hear is the
hum of his blood in his ears, all he can see is everything in stark relief. And
he’s there, he’s there again, with the filthy walls and cold floors and too
many bodies pressed together. He’s there again when he would open his mouth and
nothing would come, and he can’t make it.
And for the first time in Mason’s care, he would be screaming, he would be
howling, if only his lips would part and he could, if only his body would
listen to him.
Mason says nothing as he pulls the belt from his pants and folds it, resting
his wrist against his knee and letting it dangle before Hannibal’s eyes and he
just watches, unblinking, tears pooling on the ground beneath him and he can’t
stop those just as he can’t give voice for it to end. He can’t move. Not when
Mason stands, not when he leaves his line of sight, not when he feels a line of
fire down his entire body, not even then.
Nothing.
Empty.
Silent.
Still.
He is struck again, and there is no blood on his hands now.
He is struck again, and he is very small, and afraid.
He is struck again, and he tries to call for her to run back to him, but there
is nothing.
He is finally nothing, scourged to empty darkness by the boy over him who howls
like the winter wind. Beaten until his skin splits, Mason doesn’t stop until
Hannibal’s motions still entirely, the wideness of his eyes and shaking little
breaths the only sign that he’s still alive at all. And still she calls for
him, and still he cannot answer back.
“I am getting bored, Hannibal!” Mason yells, voice filling the room as it
always does, and not carrying any further through the house. Hollow. Not
echoing. A dead voice with no others to answer back. “You know I’m not very
nice when I get bored.”
The belt is tossed to the floor, coiling to stillness, and Mason moves to
crouch before Hannibal again, the boy entirely still, silent, eyes wide and
pupils blown and entirely unresponsive. The blond tilts his head, a slow,
reptilian motion, and wonders with a frown if he’s finally killed him. Then
Hannibal blinks, just once, and Mason pushes himself to stand with a groan.
“You never used to be so boring, Hannibal, you used to cry for me, I like when
you cry for me. Was it something I said? Are you shy?” He watches Hannibal’s
back rise and fall with trembling breaths, frighteningly shallow, and rolls his
eyes, rubbing a hand over his face with a frustrated sound.
“You’re not even worth the measly fee you charge me. Hopeless.” Mason pads
towards the door, yanks it open to scream down the stairs that he needs his
driver. “Useless!” This for Hannibal as he walks back past him, aims another
kick at his prone silent form just to see him jerk with a response.
Several moments, and Hannibal is collected, roughly clothed back to a semblance
of cover, pulled back out of the room with his bag, and down the stairs to the
car again. Mason doesn’t follow. Mason doesn’t care. Mason’s already shouting
for someone to get in here and clean up the blood for God’s sake this isn’t a
brothel.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Summary
     A gasp tears as desperate as a scream, trapped between the
     splintering bones of Hannibal’s ribs, pushing outward and distorting
     what once was something he could call his own and now has lost, this
     too stripped from him. And spattered with bruises, clothes sticking
     to him and filth drying on his thighs, Hannibal knows, suddenly why
     his voice has gone.
     Nice things should go to nice people.
     And all Hannibal has done is pretend to be something other than he
     is.
Placid as if Hannibal were a businessman rather than a boy with blood catching
his shirt against skin, the driver asks him where he’s going.
Hannibal does not hear him.
The driver asks again, reaching back to snap for Hannibal’s attention, and
Hannibal’s hands curl into fists. Were he able to move - sit, lay, anything but
turn against his hip and breathe - he would break his wrist, but instead he
closes his eyes.
His lips part, tongue dry against the split that leaks pale pink heat into his
mouth, and he breathes.
He breathes faster.
The driver demands, now. He’s going to go get Mason to tell him. Hannibal lifts
a hand and hears his breath, short, frenzied, tries to make it move the right
way through his throat, and when his bloodied mouth opens again, all Hannibal
can hear is her scream.
He’s going. He doesn’t have all day for this, and Hannibal does not pretend to
imagine that he is distressed that a child sits hurt and trembling in the back
of his car, Hannibal is sure he is only one of many, but he is frantic. If
Mason has to come back out - if Mason has to see him again -
Hannibal rips open the zipper to his bag and snatches out paper, shaking so
hard he can hardly form letters, words that are as void as the voice that dies
in his throat, and he writes down the address of a complex one block over, to
pass it forward.
It’s enough, at least, to keep the man seated, while he tries to decipher the
shaking letters. He says the place aloud and Hannibal nods, swallows, takes the
paper back and settles as deep as he can into the seat as the car starts to
move.
It’s amazing how he now feels every tiny jolt over a manhole, every shiver as
the car turns, his body howling in its agony and Hannibal silent in it. At
least with fresh air he can work himself to a semblance of functional. He
shakes his head when the driver asks, grudging, if he needs to carry him into
his house as well. He waits against the wall of the building until the car
drives off, then he waits more before moving, stumbling, somehow walking back
to where he lives.
He gets looks, some surprised, concerned, others fearful and indifferent. Some
don’t even look up at all, and it’s the strangest feeling of disassociation
Hannibal has ever had with the world around him. He wonders if he’s even in it,
if he’s even conscious, if he’s even -
He’s glad college is still running, most of his neighbours there, instead of
watching him painfully crawl his way up the last flight of stairs and leave
messy handprints on the filthy linoleum. He makes it to his door. He makes it
inside. And with the lock secure behind himself he allows a choked breath,
allows the burn of tears against his eyes again as he fumbles for his phone and
takes several attempts to turn it on.
The screen lights, and slowly, silently, all his missed messages come through.
Six missed calls. Texts unnumbered, all from Will. Hannibal swallows, and
scrolls just to the last, concentrating as hard as his body allows, to type out
just one word, just one.
Please.
The response is instant, a call, and Hannibal would whimper for it if he could.
He hangs up, shakes his head. Tries again.
Please come over.
This time it’s just a word in return, no call, no seeking of information.
Okay.
He makes it to the bathroom before he is sick.
Over and over, on bruised knees, every heave tearing wounds open across his
back, his mouth where he spits blood into the bowl, inside of himself where he
bleeds from injuries that will heal and those that never will. Hannibal retches
until there is nothing but bile, and his lips part on a silent cry as he sits
back onto the floor, and slowly sinks to the cool tile to press his bruised
cheek, his blackened eye against it for what little cold relief it provides.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed, slipping in and out of awareness as
if a lighthouse turned its light on him and then faded away again and again.
Only the sound of a knock on the door, quiet at first, is enough to pull him
upward on shaking arms.
Another knock, louder than the first, jerks him to his knees.
A voice that only calls his name but in doing so insists he stand is enough to
make him do so.
Hannibal fumbles with the lock, the use of his hands all but lost to him, and
turns away as the door opens.
It hardly matters, Will can see the damage wrought on him. Without a word he
closes the door, locks it again, and follows Hannibal into the apartment as he
sets his own bag aside by the door, his shoes as well.
“Hannibal.” A touch to his shoulder and the boy flinches like he’s been struck,
turns quickly to try and push Will away from doing it again and Will holds his
hands up to show Hannibal, no threat, not from him. “I was worried.” It falls
flat, something to fill the space as his eyes take in everything they can of
the boy before him, bruised and bleeding, shaking, unsteady. Will wants to
gather him close, hold him, take him to a hospital and make sure he’s seen,
looked over properly, held for rest, for recovery.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” he offers, sees the immediate terror - the anger -
behind Hannibal’s gaze and swallows, directing his eyes down and back up as his
tongue parts his lips in resignation. No hospital. Fine.
“Tell me what happened, Hannibal,” he says, watches the boy look at him
helpless, shake his head, step back when Will tries to touch him again, though
he keeps his advance slow, entirely in Hannibal’s sight. “You told me to come,
I am here, Hannibal. Tell me who did this. Tell me how to help you.”
Hannibal swallows hard.
A shunned thing.
A monstrosity.
Watched with wide eyes and apprehension now as before, when he was noticed at
all. A monster, formed of pain and weak flesh, a useless creature with only
parts to be used. Nothing more than that.
Nothing at all.
Hannibal swallows down the taste of sick from his mouth and pushes his tongue
against the cut cloying and sticky inside his lip. He shakes his head again -
there is no help for this - but doesn’t step back when Will moves closer once
more.
Patience, as with any startled animal. Will holds his hand out, palm up, waits
as Hannibal remains where he is, trembling, eyelids drooping when he blinks,
exhausted from even holding himself up as he is. Will wonders if he can even
sit, lie down, without pain, wonders why he won’t speak to him.
A moment more they just stand, before Hannibal sets his fingers against Will’s
palm, just to brush there, before taking them away. Will takes a breath, very
slowly raises his hand so Hannibal can see it and pushes aside the hair fallen
to his face, some matted with drying blood, some just stuck to it where it’s
smeared over his cheek.
“One question at a time, then,” he sighs, carefully, eyes down to Hannibal’s
until the younger man meets them. “Tell me what happened. How did this happen?”
The touch is enough to cascade a shudder through Hannibal. He nearly draws away
again but holds, trembling.
Stay still.
Eyes closing, so at least he can pretend Will isn’t watching him with such
gentleness in his own, Hannibal tilts his cheek - swollen sickeningly soft and
hot skinned - into Will’s palm. The boy, who behind his eyes sees stacked beds
and stained walls and violence, was never touched this way, not there, and not
after. The boy, scarcely standing now, draws a breath as if to speak, and
silence falls.
Hannibal shakes his head once more, wetting purpled lips, air sucked deeper,
and with force he says nothing.
He wonders if he ever will again.
Will’s brows furrow, just enough, the muscles under his eyes tensing as he
narrows them. Beneath his hand, Hannibal rests with his eyes closed, in a place
Will cannot reach him, in a place so far away it holds him entirely captive
there.
“Hannibal,” he says quietly, watches as Hannibal just swallows in response.
“Eyes on me, please.” This is obeyed slowly, a blink, another, and a slow
raising of dark eyes to his own again Will turns his hand to stroke cool
knuckles over Hannibal’s less swollen cheek.
“I’m here because you asked me to come, do you remember?” He waits for Hannibal
to nod, a gentle thing, seek out with a hand for balance, that Will takes into
his own, lets it rest against his palm so he doesn’t bruise it further. He
swallows, does not take the damage in now, not yet, not until he can establish
this.
“I am not here to hurt you, I want to help, do you believe me?” Another nod,
brows furrowing, desperate, soft. And Will swallows, presses his bottom lip
between his teeth before releasing it. “Tell me you understand, Hannibal, I
want you to use your words.”
The words rip raw, so wholly different from the demands that were made of
Hannibal only hours before - those he had to obey, and still was punished for
it. These he wishes to obey, and cannot. All Will has ever asked of him - to
speak, to ask, to accept - and in this, Hannibal had hoped, he could excel. In
listening and learning and doing, he thought he could, and now nothing.
Silent.
Still.
A gasp tears as desperate as a scream, trapped between the splintering bones of
Hannibal’s ribs, pushing outward and distorting what once was something he
could call his own and now has lost, this too stripped from him. And spattered
with bruises, clothes sticking to him and filth drying on his thighs, Hannibal
knows, suddenly why his voice has gone.
Nice things should go to nice people.
And all Hannibal has done is pretend to be something other than he is.
Will watches, careful eyes over the way Hannibal’s lips part and nothing comes
free, not even a whimper, no sound at all. It is a muteness from trauma, not by
choice, so far ingrained in Hannibal’s psyche that he can’t control it, now
that he’s in it again. He feels Hannibal start to shake, just against his hand,
and gently brings his fingers to his lips to close them.
“Breathe for me,” he sighs, waits for Hannibal to do that, shuddering hitched
little things but he’s breathing. “Good boy.”
And it is so different, so different to the snarled words of before, and Will
waits to see if Hannibal will try again to speak, or will simply obey this
command for now, just to breathe. He licks his lips, panic coiling behind his
heart where he doesn’t let it spread, and leans in to very gently set his
forehead to Hannibal’s.
“I don’t want you to talk, I will talk today. But I want you to tell,” he turns
his hand beneath Hannibal’s own, splays his fingers beneath his so they mirror
each other, gentle, just the same. “With your hands, when you can. I want you
to take as long as you need, for anything I ask, and I will be patient the
entire time. Do you believe me?”
Watching their hands together, Hannibal nods. Long minutes spent simply to
breathe, as he was told, to breathe, as Will asked, the least that could be
asked of someone but even now is a slow agony when Hannibal’s body feels too
small to hold air and his throat is rigid.
When Hannibal’s fingers slip away it is deliberate, each step, deliberate, each
breath, deliberate - down to the beat of his heart that Hannibal imagines he
keeps time with by force of will alone. He hardly grimaces, no particular
movement worse than any other, each and every gesture a sundering pain. With
his head ducked, Hannibal slips his coat from his shoulders, and sighs as Will
slips it from his back, where spots of blood blossom brown against his shirt.
A quick hand, though, stops Will from taking the coat away, and with the whites
of his eyes flashing wild, Hannibal removes the tattered scarf from his pocket,
eyes dark with apology.
Will says nothing, hangs the coat over the back of the chair and draws a hand
over the scarf as he considers the bruises over Hannibal’s neck that are just
starting to darken. He sets Hannibal’s hands against the soft material and
leans in to softly kiss his forehead, an unnecessary - in his eyes -
forgiveness, but one he can feel radiates to Hannibal’s bones.
“Will it be easier if I tell you what to do?” Will asks him quietly, watches
for a nod, a headshake, to continue whatever line Hannibal chooses.
His knees are nearly weakened from beneath him at the question. The searching
spotlight that passed by as Hannibal was swept to darkened seas finds him now,
an illumination for the lost. He leans into Will, mindless of the bruises and
the cuts, the blood and the bile, mindless of anything but the heat that
presses into his skin when he rests his forehead to Will’s shoulder and nods,
an aching little movement.
Please. Please come over.
Will sighs, a long thing, slow, and nods as well, for himself. He does not let
himself wonder at the tightness in his chest at the immediate acceptance, it
hardly matters now, what matters is the bruised boy in front of him who cannot
speak, who needs to be washed clean, touched and treated and given rest and
comfort.
“I need to see where you’re hurt,” Will explains to him gently. “I want you to
undress. You don’t have to fold the clothes, just let them fall for now.” He
leans back just enough to see Hannibal, to smile at him and watch his eyes hone
in on the expression, gentle and genuine.
“Undress, Hannibal, set your clothes to the floor.”
Guilt pulls Hannibal’s brows in, embarrassment darkens his cheeks, but Will’s
words drive Hannibal to take a step back, to find his shirt buttons with
shaking fingers. He shakes his head when Will reaches to help, insistent that
he will do this.
Because Will asked, Hannibal pales as his back twists to shrug his shirt to the
floor, peeling it from the tacky cuts that the belt stripped long across his
pale skin. Because Will asked, Hannibal forces his hands to his trousers, the
fragment of scarf still twisted around his hand as if it were a talisman.
Because Will asked, he lets his pants slip to the ground, and careful not to
bend further than necessary, his briefs are pushed to his thighs, and slide to
the floor. Because Will asked, Hannibal steps back from the clothes, eyes
lowered to his socks, and with trembling grace, the boy crouches aching slow to
remove these in turn.
Because Will asked, Hannibal stands bare, but for the cashmere clutched in his
fist, and the scarlet shame that burns beneath his lowered eyes.
Will makes no sound when he sees the damage presented to him, and that only
physical, the silence another, the memories of this another still. How often,
he wants to ask, why do you let him? But he knows, or he knew, partially, why.
And the guilt here, the pain here, it is not of one blatantly disobeying to see
someone who hurts them this way. Perhaps the man had come upon him when
Hannibal had been at school, perhaps by other means, but this was not
Hannibal’s doing. This was not earned, it was forced and enjoyed on him.
Will steps to the side, just enough, and takes Hannibal’s hand again, just
gently, soft. “Flex your fingers for me.” He watches for damage, not a doctor
himself but knowing enough at least of abuse to be able to gauge what to do. He
praises Hannibal after every small task. Bend your knee. Turn your head. Smile
for me. Stay still, let me see. Good boy. Good boy. Good boy.
A lot of soft tissue damage, a lot of bruises that will take weeks to heal, but
it seems Hannibal escaped broken bones. For that, at least, Will is profoundly
grateful. He is careful not to pass behind Hannibal, always in front of him,
careful to touch him in reassurance, where his skin is not mottled with
bruises.
“We need to clean your skin,” Will tells him. “Wash your hair. You know more
than I do the danger of an infection.” He smiles, is pleased even when he just
gets eye contact for the gentle joke. “I would like to help, but I will let you
decide if I do. Do you want me to wait outside the door?”
Hannibal swallows, shakes his head.
“In the bathroom with you?”
Another careful shake of his head, eyes up, cheeks dark and eyes bright. Will
takes a small breath.
“Would you like me to stand in the stall with you, and help you wash?”
Hannibal reaches for the word, a little breath, but it isn’t there yet and he
presses his lips together and nods. Held between fear and acceptance, not
wanting to be touched but wanting to be touched by Will, not wanting to be seen
but finding his only sanctuary now in how Will looks at him. There is no
disgust or disdain, no question that Will wants to be here.
That he wants to help.
That he thinks, even still, that Hannibal is worth that.
“Cold?” Will asks, and Hannibal shakes his head. “Hot?” A pause, and a gentler
shake. “Warm,” Will confirms, instead, offering another encouraging smile as
Hannibal nods. He accepts with a sigh the kiss that Will touches slowly to his
brow, and watches as Will goes to start the shower.
Terror gives way slowly to frustration, no less suffocating, when all Hannibal
wants is to thank him and to whisper how he thought of him, for as long as he
could, that he needs in him in ways he doesn’t yet understand. That he wants,
as Will once said to him, to stay.
With him.
Only him.
But voiceless still, Hannibal shuffles closer and with hesitation sets the
scrap of scarf aside. Will waits before touching his own clothing, asks
Hannibal if he should remove them, and does so only when Hannibal nods, eyes
averted but still lingering in the doorway, watching out of his peripheral.
Will pays little care to how his clothes are folded, though, to Hannibal’s mild
amusement, he notes that he always makes Hannibal fold his own. The more he
reveals, the more Hannibal realizes that he has never seen Will fully bared
before; in bed he sleeps in a loose shirt and shorts, if Hannibal wishes for
some they are provided him, otherwise he sleeps warm and naked against Will.
Now, the older man stands naked before leaning to check the temperature of the
water. Muscle there, beneath smooth skin and some dark hair. He is well-built,
strong, and entirely familiar, even with this being the first time he is fully
seen. Will turns, tilts his head and beckons Hannibal into the shower first,
careful with the curtain as he closes it behind them both.
He does not talk Hannibal through this, he is hurt, not stupid, and instead
takes to the tasks the boy cannot do on his own; bending to wash his legs, with
Hannibal’s permission, between them. Leans in to press his lips to bruises and
cuts, gentle enough to be felt but not to do harm. He is careful to wash
Hannibal’s back, to wash away the blood and not irritate the cuts there. They
are cruelly dealt but shallow, they will heal quickly with care.
Will reaches for the shampoo only after Hannibal sets the sponge aside, working
it through his fingers before he works it through Hannibal’s hair, careful to
keep it from his eyes and setting his feet wider when Hannibal leans back
against him and closes his eyes.
A trust, entirely and earnest, and Will bends to kiss against Hannibal’s cheek
before he straightens him to rinse the suds from his hair.
Bruises still smudge him, but the cascade of lather rinses white to clear away
the grime, the filth, from at least the surface of his skin. What lies deeper
is not so easily removed, but every time Will’s hand rubs against his arm, it
helps. Every time Will’s mouth closes unhurried, unwanting, against Hannibal’s
shoulder, it helps.
Hannibal turns towards the spray to let it fill his mouth, to rinse the blood
and stale tastes away. He rests an arm against the wall to spit, fills and
swishes, spits again, careful not to reopen his lip then or when he turns to
Will and touches his mouth to Will’s cheek. Grasping Will’s hands in his own,
Hannibal slides them to his back and leans. His professor, his Will, holds his
weight and lets Hannibal sink against him.
There is no stirring, driving need between them, and Hannibal’s chest fills
with heat. Will is here because Hannibal asked him to be. Will is here because
he wants to be. Will is here - right here, steady heart and strong hands -
because Hannibal needs him.
Because he asked for help, and was willing to accept it.
“The apartment,” Hannibal whispers against his shoulder, voice cracking. “A
mess.” Goosebumps gather along his skin from the crawl in his throat, and press
him closer still. “Seems appropriate, now.”
Will breathes a laugh against his hair and brings one hand up to cradle the
back of Hannibal’s head, turn his own against him. He does not praise Hannibal
for his voice, he is proud of him that he found it but it is not a command he
issued. Hannibal returned himself to himself, with incredible strength. Will
leans further back against the wall and just holds Hannibal against him.
“It reminds me of my apartment,” Will tells him at length, as the water starts
to cool, still pleasant, against them, and he reaches up to turn the water off.
“When I first moved out. It had two rooms, a screen dividing the bath and
toilet from the main room, the other was the bedroom, barely big enough for my
bed and all my books.”
He speaks quietly, reaches to gather Hannibal’s towel from the rail to drape it
over his shoulders, allowing Hannibal his own space and choice as to how to dry
his injured back.
“When I moved to Wolf Trap I felt so free,” he sighs, finding another towel
carefully folded beneath the sink. “I had space, I had freedom. I adopted my
first dog and it’s been downhill since.”
He watches Hannibal smile, work his limbs dry, and bends to help him with his
legs, to save him bending and hurting his back further. When Will stands he
rests a hand against Hannibal’s face, feels the boy bring his own fingers up to
peel Will’s away before he leans in to kiss him, and Will lets him.
“When I visit Wolf Trap,” Hannibal responds, “I feel much the same.” He nuzzles
into another kiss, gentle little things with closed lips that trap warmth
between them both, fleeting and soft and his to claim, again and again.
Hannibal moves from Will only reluctantly, his lips stiff enough that he seems
far beyond his meager seventeen years, ancient in his body and the aches that
tighten them.
Will steps back, to gather his shorts and slip them back over his hips,
watching from a distance as Hannibal finally turns to the mirror to overlook
the destruction that was wrought on him. And despite the swollen lip, livid
purple, he survives. Despite the tenderness in his nose, prodded with careful
fingers, he survives. Despite the black eye that will swell by tomorrow and the
ballooning of his cheek and the pain inside of him from brutal thrusts that
tore tender skin, despite it all, he survives.
A destruction, but far from absolute.
“This is my first apartment,” says the boy, opening his cabinet to retrieve
rubbing alcohol, and tip it against the end of his towel. “It is not my first
time away from home. Most of my life I have been far from it.” He presses the
corner of the towel to his lip and hisses between his teeth, holding it even as
his eyes glisten from the sting. “It is irretrievable to me, and so this is the
nearest thing I have now.”
Will watches, does not help unless asked. He folds the towel he used to hang on
the rail, regards Hannibal through the mirror as he continues the careful
dabbing. He stands tall despite the marks against him, and Will wonders again
how often this has happened, how often Hannibal has come home in this state,
and how often he has had to deal with all of this alone.
He runs a hand through his hair to slick it back, though curls still stand up
at odd angles, as always. There is a fierce independence in the boy before him,
but it was something that was thrown on him, almost forced on him, it was not
taken.
"You have built a very good one," Will tells him, meets Hannibal’s dry look in
the mirror and smiles. "You have a home," he lists, stepping closer, but not
touching him. “You have things in it that are yours, that you do not owe to
anyone else. You are studying, working towards an admirable goal, and you
refuse, stubbornly, for help. Determined to earn your way without charity."
He turns his head against Hannibal’s hair and presses warm lips to it, soft and
intimate, but his hands he keeps at his side. With a sigh, a breathing in of
the tension traveling through Hannibal as the pain is, Will licks his lips,
lifts his eyes to the mirror again.
"How old were you?" He asks.
Hannibal leans back, and finds that Will moves to meet him, supporting the
slump of shoulders into his chest. He turns his nose against the older man’s
cheek in a delicate nuzzle, not enough to cause himself pain, and lifts a hand
as if he might rub away the feeling of petrification in his throat. His secrets
have always been his own, but all that Will has seen already he has accepted
with grace and understanding, an empathy that Hannibal has never seen to have
limits.
He leans forward again, and offers the towel and rubbing alcohol back to Will,
for the scrapes across his back that he can’t reach himself.
“Six,” Hannibal murmurs, hands pressed to the counter and head bowed to bare
his back. Swallowing past the feeling of fingers around his throat that
threaten to cut short his words again, he speaks in little more than a whisper.
“We lived well. An old family with old comforts. I did not know what it meant
to want for something. Neither did my sister.”
The first press of cold rubbing alcohol seems to sear his skin and Hannibal’s
muscles jerk beneath his skin but he does not twist away, eyes closed. “There
was unrest and we were forced to leave, just for a time, but with unrest comes
opportunity for those who are not ashamed to seek it.” The words snap brittle
between Hannibal’s teeth, and another press of damp towel clears his head and
curls his fingers against the counter. “Men came. They took our parents first.
I saw my mother, she tried shield him from them, though he had already been -
and then she, in turn - ”
His voice cracks like ice, too long frozen and suddenly exposed to glaring
sunlight. It would be a familiar discomfort at least to let it remain frozen,
to allow his voice to fade again, and the silence reclaim him.
“They kept us for ransom, but had already killed the two people who might have
come for us.”
Will is careful with tending the cuts, soothing Hannibal's trembling with soft
sounds, a kiss to his shoulder. He wonders if Hannibal has ever spoken of this
before, if he had been given appropriate care, ever, for the trauma he had
suffered. He sets the bottle aside, turns the damp corner of Hannibal's towel
to hold it on his waist and sets his hands carefully there to ground him.
It is clear, now, why Will sees the darkness that shadows Hannibal like a
cloud. Where it comes from, what it means. The potential for cruelty within the
boy is astounding and he has resisted it, reined it in and smothered it. But it
festers beneath his skin and in his mind and with beatings like this and
cruelty from outside factors, it starts to gnaw, and struggle, and remind the
boy it's there.
"But they did not kill you," Will says, thumbs stroking soft over the curve of
muscle against Hannibal’s hips.
Hannibal doesn’t move, hardly seems to respond to the touches at all, but a
soft huff of breath escapes when he hears Will’s words. “No,” the boy answers.
“They took my sister instead.” He doesn’t say her name, he won’t, not for Will
or anyone, and though the chokehold against his throat seems to clench tighter,
he whispers, lips curled over his bared teeth. “They took her and they
butchered her as if - as if she were a spring lamb, and they ate her. She
called for me,” he whispers. “She has never stopped.”
He turns to leave but Will is there, and though he steps back Hannibal only
leans back against the counter to steady himself, fingers pressed against his
eyes. It sparks shots of pain, bright as crackling flame, behind his bruised
eyes and he holds them until he grows dizzy from it, and runs his hands along
his face.
“I was left to starve,” he murmurs, matter-of-fact and distant. “I was found. I
could not explain what I saw and so I did not speak. Not then, and not at the
orphanage, and not to any of those who saw my silence as opportunity. It was
years before I learned how again.”
“But you learned,” Will reminds him, soft, watches as Hannibal’s lips quirk
without any humor behind it. Will does not tell him he is sorry, sorry will not
bring back a dead family or reverse the horrors this boy has seen. He tells
Hannibal, in truth, very little. He shows him. Will slides his arms further
around Hannibal’s middle and holds him gently, careful not to lean too hard
against the cuts on his back. “And you lived.”
He watches the mirror until Hannibal looks up again and then Will watches him.
Dark eyes that are too wise for seventeen, yet still show vulnerability, still
show caring and emotion and need. Still live, not just exist.
“Would you like me to stay?” Will asks him quietly.
His words are spent now, not by force but by exhaustion. Hannibal draws a
breath as if to steel himself, to insist that he’s fine - he doesn’t need
anyone, or anyone’s help. He never has. He doesn’t want it.
But the sigh escapes, tremulous and fragile, and Hannibal leans to rest his
cheek against Will’s shoulder. He nods, allowing himself the childishness of
the gesture, the helplessness of accepting help. Too tired now to do more than
accept the fingers that stroke tenderly in his hair, too drained to resist the
slow steps that carry him towards bed, Hannibal moves as Will does, a passing
glance spared to the scarf he set aside, before he drags himself onto the bed
on hands and knees, and with too much pain to lie any other way, he sprawls
across his stomach.
Will follows, checks the lock again, perhaps from habit, before returning to
the bathroom to open a window there, another in the main room to air the house
as much as it can be before evening. He’s certain Hannibal will not sleep much
without medical help.
The bed is small, enough for them both to lie in it but not sprawl, and with a
bit of shifting, Hannibal finds himself pressing to Will’s chest, as he so
often does at Wolf Trap. Will says nothing more, and nor does Hannibal. The
words have been spent and absorbed, little things but important.
Will breathes soft against Hannibal’s hair but he does not sleep as the young
man does. He watches the shadows play over the ceiling as the day grows later
and cooler, walls warming orange as the sun begins to set. He doesn’t think of
how he had left the academy, telling Jack tersely that he had an important
matter to see to. That no, it could not wait. That yes, he would make up the
time.
He doesn’t think of how sick he had felt with the silence after Hannibal’s
message, how it had felt like a farewell without an explanation. He doesn’t
think of how he just wants this, just this, the slow restful breathing against
his neck, a heavy body sprawled on top of him, too tired to even shift in his
sleep. He wants this, he wants him, and even still he will not ask, he will
wait.
He will wait until Hannibal comes on his own, and asks on his own, and accepts
what this is, now, and what it could be, soon. Not a taking of freedom, but an
offer to take burdens, an offer to carry any weight, and to allow another sort
of freedom in the surrender given him.
Will sleeps only when the room grows dark and Hannibal does not wake, and they
both sleep through till early morning. Hannibal does not argue when Will tells
him to pack his things, his books, and takes him back to Wolf Trap. He does not
complain when ice is pressed to his face and he is told to stay in bed and
study there as he wishes. He does not complain when he overhears Will call in
to the FBI to let Jack know that for the rest of the week he will not be in.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Summary
     Will tugs his hair, just enough to lift Hannibal’s eyes to him,
     pulling him back to see properly. He skims fingers down Hannibal’s
     jaw and sets them beneath his chin. “And what would my boy like for
     his birthday?”
     Hannibal leaves his chin raised just as Will lifts it, held perfectly
     still but for the gentle writhing of his hips that he can’t - won't -
     control. His smile widens as his eyes narrow. “Everything.”
Hannibal makes certain to keep the night clear.
In truth, with nearly every weekend and many weeknights spent in Wolf Trap,
Hannibal has almost exclusively whittled his availability down to his regulars.
His rent paid for, in advance and without question, affords Hannibal room
enough to breathe, to set money aside and cover what he can of his tuition, to
pay for his daily expenses and keep him in gas enough to get back out to the
woods, to the little house that lights the darkness like a ship at sea, to the
dogs who know him now.
To Will.
Dinner tonight in Wolf Trap?
Hannibal sees Will’s answer when he leaves his last lecture for the day.
Yes.
They talk to each other daily, if only just in texts when Will is away on a
case or Hannibal takes an appointment. Both are careful to keep things thinly
veiled in innuendo, but just as often, Hannibal is simply happy to hear his
professor’s grumbling about neglectful students and how the roof needs to be
fixed before it snows, and he is happy to be heard - truly listened to - in
kind. But what little definition has been outlined between them now stands to
fade, as Hannibal watches the miles peel away and the city shrink behind him.
What was understood will be unclear once more.
Hannibal grips the wheel tighter and forces himself to ease.
Will hears the car pull into the driveway, crunching gravel and setting the
dogs to barking. Shouldering into his coat, he steps out to the porch, arms
folded, and watches the tall blonde make his way across the grass. Faster,
enough that he seems harried, his shoulders hunched perhaps in stress, perhaps
against the stiff wind that pushes him, and his eyes are unseen as Hannibal
ducks his head.
Will resists the urge to curse, grateful at least that even with devils at his
heels, Hannibal does not appear - this time - to be injured. But he moves quick
enough that Will glances over his shoulder, notes no headlights on the road
beyond the highway lights glinting gold onto the pavement, and steps back into
the house as Hannibal approaches.
He turns with a furrowed brow when the boy drops his bag, and opens his mouth
to ask when Hannibal’s lips collide with his instead. Up, crashing into him,
Hannibal’s feet clear the floor and snare agile around Will’s waist, arms
around his neck.
Will catches him, used to the weight of his boy now, and steps back enough to
lean his weight - their weight - against the counter, one hand beneath
Hannibal’s ass, the other up between his shoulders and in his hair, holding him
close, smiling despite his glasses being entirely askew as Hannibal kisses him
again, hungry and tugging at his shirt as he clings.
Will pulls back with a hum, eyes hooded and down to watch Hannibal’s lips as
the boy leans up to take Will’s glasses off his nose and set them aside. Will
adjusts his grip, setting his feet so he can hold the boy against him, lean in
to press their foreheads together and draw back in increments to make Hannibal
lean in to kiss him.
“Another day of idiocy to wipe away?” He asks, amused when Hannibal shakes his
head. “I envy you, I would quite like to wipe the idiocy from mine.”
“No,” Hannibal tells him, arching his back and pressing closer as Will just
wraps his arms around him instead, comfortable, familiar.
“Are you going to make me make you say it?” Will asks, brow up, lips tilted.
“Yes,” grins Hannibal, squeezing his legs tighter and leaning his whole weight
against the older man, enough to force Will to spread his feet a bit more, lest
they both topple to the floor.
“Tell me.”
Hannibal now arches a brow, chin raised imperiously, and Will laughs.
“Tell me what you need,” he clarifies, and Hannibal plunges their lips together
once more, pressing harder, higher, against his professor.
“You,” the boy purrs.
“Tell me why.”
The words are said just firmly enough that goosebumps scatter over Hannibal’s
skin, up and down his spine like fingernails, and he rocks his hips, a languid
undulation that twists the length of his body. Rubbing his cheek against the
scruffy beard that Will wears, Hannibal sighs sweetly, his breath tickling soft
over Will’s ear. “You haven’t been counting,” he murmurs, before a grin parts
his lips. “Today is my birthday.”
Will pauses, feeling the warm body against him, humming with excitement, tense
with it before Hannibal presses a kiss just behind Will’s ear. He hasn’t been
counting. Since Hannibal had told him he had written it down, several times,
had kept the page with him, had kept the note pinned at work, but had never
looked at it again. Then cases upon cases, midterms for his students,
Hannibal’s injuries…
“Is it?” He breathes, curious, warm, one hand up to stroke through Hannibal’s
hair again, just to feel him curl, feline, against him at the sensation. Will
turns his head and kisses Hannibal’s hair, warm, intimate, and entirely
pleased. “Happy birthday.”
Eighteen. At least one aspect of their relationship now has become easier, more
manageable. Perhaps he will no longer have to delete the pictures Hannibal
sends him, in danger of them being found and him being arrested. There is a
strange comfort in knowing they’ve reached this point together, months of
sporadic meetings when either was available, a slow crawl to trust and
understanding between them, Hannibal allowing himself to be cared for, preening
with it and enjoying it for what it is - a care, a worship - not a disregard
for his own work and his own independence.
Will tugs his hair, just enough to lift Hannibal’s eyes to him, pull him back
to see properly before Will skims fingers down Hannibal’s jaw and sets them
beneath his chin. “And what would my boy like for his birthday?”
He leaves his chin raised just as Will lifts it, held perfectly still but for
the gentle writhing of his hips that he can’t control, and his smile widens as
his eyes narrow. “Everything.”
Hannibal begins to lean close again but Will shifts back, holds Hannibal in
place still, and beneath his fingertips can feel the rough swallow before
Hannibal’s lips part, eyes dark as they search between the bright blue gaze of
his professor. He can think of nothing but Will now - not the others he sees
sporadically, more of duty than of need with so many needs met, not the others
who have forced their demands on him with violence and cruelty. There is no
obedience there, Hannibal has learned. Obedience can not be taken.
Obedience must be given.
“Teach me,” he asks, letting his heart beat faster, allowing his pulse to hum
tripping until it buzzes in his ears and darkens his cheeks. “Teach me
properly,” whispers Hannibal, “how to submit.”
For a moment, Will’s expression slackens in surprise, the pleasure there
evident but the disbelief just as palpable, just as wonderful. He considers the
request, considers the implication, wonders if Hannibal understands what this
could mean. Will strokes his thumb over Hannibal’s bottom lip, presses it out
of shape and parts his own in sympathy for the motion. Carefully he sets
Hannibal to the floor again.
He leans in to kiss him, deep, long, deliberate, and sets a hand against
Hannibal’s chest so he cannot step closer when Will leans back.
“Before I do, I want to know what you think it means,” he tells him, brow up, a
professor standing at the front of his classroom, waiting for someone to
impress him. But there is something warmer there, something entirely fond.
“Tell me what you think submission means,” Will repeats. “I want you to earn
being bare, and being touched, with your answer.”
There is a flicker of disappointment, brows knitting, but it is not a denial.
It is, in fact, exactly what Hannibal has asked for, and now a student in front
of his teacher, Hannibal ducks his head in thought, and folds his hands behind
his back. He is quiet for several minutes, and Will waits patiently as Hannibal
considers his answer, and what he has learned already. His past experiences,
and the ones that Will has shown him. His desires, and his needs.
Hannibal draws a breath. “It has been, for me,” he says carefully, “a matter of
learning when to swallow my pride, and admit -” He pauses, the words difficult
even now to say out loud, and sighs, “Admit when I need something. It has meant
relinquishing enough of who I have been to learn that not all carry ill-
intentions.” Pressing his tongue between his lips, Hannibal raises his eyes but
not his head, quietly searching Will’s expression. “I have had to learn how to
trust someone other than myself.”
Will smiles, proud, warm, and licks his lips before lifting his chin in
consideration. “Jacket and shirt,” he allows, tilting his head. “Submission is
an admission of need, it is also an allowance of trust.”
He watches Hannibal remove his jacket, work fingers carefully over the buttons
of his shirt until that too is peeled away and set aside, and only then does
Will move to him, draw a hand over his shoulder and bend to kiss it, tilt
Hannibal’s head up with his own and lick over his pulse.
“Submission is power,” Will tells him quietly, knows that Hannibal listens,
hears him and remembers. “Submission is allowing someone to take for you the
things you fear facing yourself. Pride.” Will brings his hands down to
Hannibal’s belt and works it free. “Personal fears.” It falls to the floor and
Will’s fingers start on the button and fly, forehead pressed to Hannibal’s as
he rocks them gently back and forth, eyes together, smile unwavering.
“Submission is permission. Submission is strength, and courage.” Will’s fingers
slip Hannibal’s pants from his hips and he pulls back just enough to sink to
his knees before his boy, careful to remove his pants without toppling him,
folding them in his hands. “Submission is a promise, not from you, but from me,
that I will care and not stifle, dote on and not control, protect and not
defile.”
He leans in, eyes up, and presses his lips gently to Hannibal’s cock through
his briefs, a lingering thing, a warm and worshipful thing.
“Submission makes me a willing slave to you, if you will let me.”
Though Hannibal’s breath draws sharp as Will’s mouth curves against him, only a
thin barrier of cotton between them, he keeps his hands folded at the small of
his back, fingers tightening together. He keeps his chin raised where Will had
lifted it, denying himself the impulse to look in favor of standing as Will
wished him to stand, guided him even without words. It tightens in his belly,
spreading heat down between his legs where he hardens, twitching in time with
his pulse, and every time that Will breathes against him.
“You make it sound so easy,” Hannibal sighs, a lilt of laughter curling up the
end of his words.
“It can be,” agrees Will, and Hannibal hums in quiet consideration.
“It isn’t,” he finally says, words plucked carefully from his thoughts. “To
trust. It is far easier to assume that a person has only their own well-being
in mind. Easier still to imagine that no one might understand - might know -
what one needs better than even they do.” A pause, and a faint smile appears.
“That you might see my own interests more clearly than I myself.” He exhales.
“Pride.”
Will hums, settles back and draws a hand up Hannibal’s thigh gently. “You may
move as you like, Hannibal, I won’t stop you.” It’s permission, formed as an
offer. It’s soft, and Hannibal does unwind his hands to reach forward to touch
Will’s hair, feel the man turn into the touch like a cat.
“Pride is good, pride is another sort of power, but as all power it is
blinding,” Will tells him, voice lower, warmer as he looks up. He will not
subject Hannibal to lessons, not today, but he wants him to understand, he
needs him to. “I do not presume to know what is better for you, but with your
permission I can understand what is important, and help guide you there when
you, yourself, are unable.”
He sits up higher, kisses Hannibal’s stomach. “In anger or upset, hurt,
exhaustion, whatever hinders you in making a choice, I would like to help.” He
kisses lower, for once entirely submissive to Hannibal, here, not Hannibal to
him, and yet entirely as they always are, all at once. Will holds Hannibal
entirely in thrall, just as the boy holds him. Give and take. Equals in this,
in most.
“When I tell you what to do, it is with thought of your benefit, occasionally
mine,” Will points out, and with a smile ducks his head to bite the band that
runs the length of Hannibal’s briefs, sitting back on his heels to pull it
looser, to start to pull it down.
Hannibal exhales roughly as his cock springs free, shivering at the cold air
against hot skin, and curling his fingers tighter in Will’s hair.
“Then I will trust you with that,” Hannibal responds, head tilted to watch Will
on his knees before him, this extraordinary man who for all of his brilliance,
all of his distance from the sturm und drang of humanity, has chosen Hannibal
to know so intimately. “For better or worse, you will hear it from me,” he adds
with a slight smile, past the strain it takes for him to offer what Will asks
of him, to agree to such openness as Hannibal has resisted for the whole of his
life.
The first brush of lips against his bare length earns a moan, a fragile little
sound that breaks beautifully from the boy. He rocks his hips forward, finds
that Will does not immediately kiss there again, and the moan becomes a weak
laugh.
“I do enjoy it, though,” Hannibal says, “when you ask me to act for your
benefit.” His cheeks color a warm, dusky rose, spreading along the long bridge
of his nose, across high cheekbones, and spilling downwards. “I trust you, in
that as well. There is a difference in asking, and demanding.” He slips a curl
of Will’s hair behind his ear, thumb stroking down the side of his face. “And
when you ask, I want nothing more than to please.”
"You always do," Will assures him, smiling, eyes up, before he leans in to kiss
Hannibal’s hip and slide his briefs all the way down. "When I stand, you will
undress me, you will tell me what you want us to do, and I will give you
everything."
In truth, Hannibal could not ask for more than this. He feels, in a word, safe.
The thought of such protection - from his own admitted missteps made in haste
and anger, from his misjudgments born from old wounds - is almost overwhelming.
There has, for as long as he can clearly remember, never been a place for him
that he has felt he can go when he is weak or wanting. There has never been a
place for him where he can be cared for.
And as the older man slowly stands, Hannibal knows with certainty that place is
with Will.
Though youthful fervency would make his movements hurried, an eager rush to
feel himself made full by his own choice, for his own satisfaction, Hannibal
keeps his hands steady as he works each button free on the soft flannel shirt
that his teacher wears. Warm palms spread it from his shoulders, and peel the
white undershirt to bare him. Each article is folded and set aside, and
Hannibal lowers to his knees to unlace Will’s boots and remove them, waiting
until each foot is lifted to slide his socks off and set them inside his shoes,
and it is by sheer force of will that Hannibal removes Will’s pants in the same
unhurried fashion.
Both bare now, to the other, Hannibal leans in just near enough to sigh heat
against Will’s cock, to breathe him in as he has not been allowed to before. He
wraps his hands around Will’s thighs and turns his eyes upward, and when their
gazes meet, his willpower breaks.
“I want you to take me,” he whispers. “Hard.”
Will’s smile is barely there, but it is clear what the words do to him. A
moment, two, and he blinks, tilts his head, swallows.
“Up,” he says, waits for Hannibal to obey, leaning in to sigh against his lips
and not yet kiss him, smiling when Hannibal’s breathing shivers against his
own. “I will take you,” he promises, “hard enough that your legs will grow
weak, that your breathing hitches and you forget your own name.” Will grins,
turns just enough to still be just out of reach, catching Hannibal’s chin with
his knuckle again. “But you will certainly remember mine.”
He watches Hannibal respond, smiles a little more, as he blinks, slow, watching
Hannibal mirror. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want it,” Hannibal sighs, trembling and close. Will rewards him with a
gentle bite to his lower lip, drawing it out before releasing it for Hannibal
to fold into his mouth instead.
“On the bed,” he tells him. “I will have you on your knees and spread for me.”
“Is that how you’ve been thinking about it this whole time?” Hannibal asks,
eyes narrowing in coy pleasure.
Will returns the look, and says simply, “Go.”
Hannibal does.
With lanky strides and shifting hips he paces from the kitchen to the living
room, listening as Will clicks to send the dogs outside, shivering as the door
snaps shut, and nearly stumbling as he hears the door close behind. The snap of
the lock pulls an achingly sweet sound from him, and he spreads his hands
across the familiar bed, sliding his knees up slowly, to find the center of the
bed and stretch himself forward.
He folds his arms beneath his head and turns his cheek against them, watching
Will and all the strength he tries so hard to hide beneath unflattering clothes
a size too large, thick powerful thighs and broad shoulders, hair spilling into
eyes made dark with want. Hannibal’s knees skim outward, bunching the blankets
beneath them, and he pushes his belly towards the bed to turn his hips higher,
utterly wanton in presenting himself, entirely shameless.
And without a hint of the resentment that once gathered the corners of his
eyes, replaced instead with a want that hardens him to aching between his
spread thighs.
Will tilts his head to take the boy in, the way he bends and arches, the way he
stays still though his eyes gather at the corners as he grins into the sheets
beneath him. He is beautiful and strong, young and entirely his own storm. And
he is calm, obedient, because Will asked him to be. Wants him to be. Wants him.
For a while all he does is look, until Hannibal shivers a little with the
scrutiny and Will moves closer. One step, another, and he’s behind the boy,
now, out of his sight but close enough that it curls his toes in anticipation,
draws a soft noise when Will rubs a warm palm down Hannibal’s back and back up
again.
“Don’t hold your voice,” Will tells him. “I want to hear everything, I want you
to ask for anything you want, and I will give it to you.”
He leans in to kiss against the sensitive skin at the top of Hannibal’s thigh
and parts his lips wider over it, sucking lightly, drawing teeth in a gentle
line there. “Don’t hold your pleasure, either,” Will tells him, breathing warm
against Hannibal’s hole, ducking his head to mouth against his balls, careful
and gentle and enough to pitch Hannibal forward with a groan. “If you want to
cum, cum. If I make you do it again, you will do it again.”
Will smiles at the response, relishes the shiver and curls his hands gently to
squeeze against Hannibal’s thighs before taking his cock in hand with a gentle
stroke and guiding it back to suck into his mouth. He hums, pleased, and
spreads Hannibal with one hand, allowing him movement, and twisting and
demanding of his need, moving to stroke fingers gently over his hole as he
sucks.
Hannibal couldn’t restrain his voice if he tried. A low groan turned against
the mattress, nuzzling beside fingers that clench tight into the rumpled
sheets, he twists to try and watch, catching only the movement of dark hair and
strong shoulders, and with a grin Hannibal buries his face again.
“Harder,” he purrs, spine coiling and unfurling in rhythmic waves. He tries to
push his hips back, a wholly new sensation to thrust backwards, and finally he
yields, reaching back instead to tighten his fingers in Will’s hair. “Deeper.”
His breath cuts short when Will slips his cock further over his tongue, the
heat of his lips squeezed damp around it, and that same gasp exhales shaking
when Will sucks him deep enough that his nose brushes the boy’s balls. Will
holds him there, swallowing around him, and the pulsing pressure pitches
Hannibal’s little sounds higher.
He could finish like this, readily, youthful impatience plucking dissonant
notes through the roiling tension of his body, but he does not want to - not
yet - and so obeys Will’s instructions. He will cum when it pleases him, and
there is so much more that he wants.
“I want you inside of me,” Hannibal breathes against his curled fist, hair
spilling into his eyes as he looks behind himself again. “Your cock, Will,
please -”
Will hums as he pulls off, drawing his nose up against the warm cleft of
Hannibal’s ass before licking a long line against him and sitting back. He’s
hard, just from this, from touching the boy and wanting him, and knowing that
he can have him now, for age, for pleasure, because Hannibal wants it for
himself, and no obligation behind it. Will bends over him, biting softly
against his shoulder with a grin, reaching for the second drawer of his bedside
table. From within he pulls a bottle, a condom, doesn’t bother to shut it as he
sits back.
Hands keep moving, over Hannibal’s skin and into his hair and breaths come
short as he bends to properly kiss against him again, long deep things, leaving
pink sucked bruises against him that Hannibal will see later, feel when he
touches.
“Beautiful, tempting boy,” Will praises him, kissing further back as he drips
slick on his fingers and warms it. “Do you know how much I’ve wanted you since
the moment you thought me so rude at dinner?” He laughs, soft, leans in to
tongue against Hannibal’s ass enough for the boy to shudder, moan for him,
before replacing his tongue with his fingers and slowly pressing in. One
finger, slowly two before Will twists them, curls them up, seeking.
“You are incredible,” he sighs, the belief confirmed when Hannibal squirms from
the feeling, stretches forward with a moan and laughs into the sheets as Will
continues to torment him. “Clever, beautiful boy, I adore you.” Will waits for
the hitch in Hannibal’s body, trembling from how good it feels, how entirely
overwhelming it is, before adding a third finger, shifting around to lick
against Hannibal’s cock again, catch the drips that slide slick down its
length.
The words make Hannibal squirm just as much as the hot press of Will’s tongue,
as the stretch when he spreads his fingers wide to open him. Praise that raises
warmth over his skin, pinks his knees, his elbows, his cheeks, and curls his
toes helplessly. Praise that Hannibal has worked so hard to earn, not given out
meaninglessly or with motive. Praise that Hannibal has sought for in all he
does, for all of his life.
Will’s fingers twist and Hannibal all but spreads flat against the mattress,
arching feline and fierce before pushing himself back to feel them just a
little deeper. Moaning rough where he bites against the side of his hand,
Hannibal buries his cheek against the sheets and reaches back with his other
hand to hold his cock, and squeeze.
“Do I need to repeat myself?” Will teases and Hannibal can’t help but rock
against his own grip, nodding weakly. He rubs a palm over Hannibal’s back to
soothe him, and following it with his lips murmurs, “I adore you.”
Despite the snare of his fingers, Hannibal’s body jerks and he cums pulsing
hard over his hand, dripping to the sheets below, an explosive moan in another
language as his eyes squeeze closed to watch stars shatter behind his lids.
Will watches, smile wide, just enjoying watching Hannibal enjoy this so much.
He leans in fingers slipping free to slide down Hannibal’s thigh as he kisses
the back of his neck, his cheek, nuzzles against him.
“Good boy,” he sighs. When he sits back it’s to take the condom up, work the
package open before slipping it over himself, slicking more lube over his cock
before lining up against Hannibal, delighting as he wriggles back, sets his
knees beneath himself again, arches his back for Will. He pushes in slow,
enough for Hannibal to shudder, sensitive and aroused, enough to groan,
himself, at the pressure of it.
Hannibal pants beneath him, no sounds of pain and all of them needy, greedy
little things so Will doesn’t stop, not until he has pushed fully in, his knees
spreading Hannibal’s legs where they’re stretched, drapes over his boy and
brings one hand down to slip his fingers tight with Hannibal’s, squeezing and
smiling at him when Hannibal turns to look.
“You feel exquisite,” he sighs, soft kisses to Hannibal’s cheek, to just behind
his ear, tender, soft things, before Will nuzzles between his shoulders and
pulls back to thrust back in.
And then it’s brutal.
A claiming, fast and deep and hard, growls and pleased words murmured against
Hannibal’s skin as it grows sticky from the sweat between them. Will holds
Hannibal’s hand beneath his own, feels the way Hannibal starts to return to
himself, to hardness, hungry again as Will does exactly as his boy had asked of
him. Taking him, teaching him that this is theirs.
Hannibal can do no more than keen, long and loud and low, as the bed shudders
beneath him, as Will fills him again and again, as words scatter soft as kisses
over him - growled or whispered, it doesn’t matter, they are his and he has
earned them. This. Will. All of it his own.
His unsteady moans jerk staccato with every drive of Will’s hips against him,
hand shaking until Will presses it tighter against Hannibal’s own belly to hold
him firm. Hannibal tries to get his knees beneath him again but a sharp thrust
splays them flat and Hannibal writhes beneath Will’s weight, leaning heavy atop
the boy laid beneath him. Every thrust strums vibrant, resonating up his spine
to curl sweetly from his lips. Every praise that Will pays him embeds itself
beneath his skin, shivering uncontrollably.
Will wants it as much as Hannibal, the boy knows, he has smelled his musky
release in the morning and at night when Hannibal is there, willing himself not
to touch, to keep to the same rules that he laid for Hannibal. He has seen Will
grow so hard when Hannibal spreads himself ‘studying’ over the desk that the
man can hardly walk. He has caught sharp blue eyes lingering over him, followed
by hands, followed by lips. A wild desire he might have satisfied at any time,
but did not.
He waited for Hannibal to be ready.
He waited for Hannibal to ask.
The boy ruts shameless against the sheets, grinding his exhausted cock half-
hard pinned between his body and the bed. He will ache from this, and stretch
as many ways as he can to feel its memory echo through his body.
Will leans over him, head ducked and breathing unsteady, so close, now,
himself, and drawing it out just a little more to feel Hannibal come undone
again, to feel him shudder in that beautiful, involuntary way, make those
sounds again. He slows, to small shallow things that pull Hannibal’s voice
high, his body tense, fingers clawing at the sheets and around Will’s hand.
Surrender is trust.
Surrender is worship.
Surrender is power.
Will kisses against Hannibal’s skin like he has never, ever been with anyone
more beautiful, and if he were to cast his mind back far enough, it would still
be true. Beneath him is someone unpredictable and smart, wonderful and
affectionate. Someone Will has not thought himself capable of being with,
finding, being allowed to have, in this way.
“Up,” Will whispers, breathless, pulling back enough to allow Hannibal to
shakily scrabble back to being on all fours. “Stay like that for me.” He kisses
Hannibal’s neck, tugs gently at his earlobe before starting a slow, deep rhythm
against him, angled enough to pull cries from Hannibal with every push, enough
that Will himself starts losing himself to this, quickly, so quickly, as he
breathes praises to Hannibal’s hair and tenses, allowing his release to wash
over him with a groan.
Though his body trembles beyond his control, Hannibal forces himself to remain
upright, forces his eyes to stay open, forces himself to turn and watch the way
Will’s face goes slack, eyelashes falling long against his cheeks. He is
beautiful, flushed and gentled and younger, as his release eases over him in
diminishing waves.
Hannibal has hardly moved to lower himself when Will spreads a hand over his
chest, and raises him upright again. Still softening inside his student, he
reaches with his other hand and grasps Hannibal’s cock.
“Again,” Will tells him, leaning forward to rest his sweat-slick brow against
Hannibal’s back, lips curving to taste the salt from his skin.
“Will, I -”
“You will.”
“I can’t,” pleads Hannibal, scarcely able to stop himself from sinking into the
bed as it is.
“You will,” his teacher tells him again, and Hannibal can only laugh, shaking.
He is allowed enough movement to rest his brow against his arm, bowed across
the bed, and he closes his eyes as Will’s skilled fingers work his soft cock
back to a painful hardness. It is so sensitive that the scarcest grip firmer
pulls a gasp from the boy, and all the while he shakes his head, and all the
while he hears the words you will.
You will.
Hannibal does.
Will rests against him long enough to catch his breath, before slowly,
carefully, pulling free with a groan, kissing his way down Hannibal’s body,
whispering how good he is, how entirely, unbelievably good he is. Then Will
stands, shaky legs and messy hair, and makes his way to the bathroom to toss
the condom, clean himself up. He returns to find Hannibal grinning, pawing at
the sheets like a sleepy cat, and kisses him, deep and long and adoring, before
nuzzling him enough to turn onto his back so Will can clean him.
He will wash the sheets the next morning, make the bed up with new ones for
now, but only when Hannibal moves on his own, exhausted and filthy and
beautiful. Flushed skin and shaking limbs and soft little noises as Will
carefully works the cloth over his skin.
He wishes, for a moment, that he lived closer to the city, that he could call
for some awful Chinese take out and relax with Hannibal pressed warm and sleepy
against him. As it stands, he will wrangle some of the food he’d started
preparing when Hannibal had called, cold now, but easily warmed. He will feed
the boy from his hand just to see him take his time to enjoy it, to allow him
to relax fully from the day.
Will kisses Hannibal’s stomach and up his chest to his lips, one hand up to
stroke over his brow until Hannibal blinks at him, sleepy and sated.
“Happy birthday,” he tells him.
Hannibal’s smile breaks wide, parts into a grin before he presses his nose up
against Will’s palm and Will lets his fingers rest cool over Hannibal’s eyes.
“Everything hurts,” the boy laughs. Never has he ached so much in such an
entirely pleasurable way, and he digs his heels into the bed to push himself up
and nuzzle against Will’s hand again, grasping it to drag over his mouth. He
kisses Will’s palm, slender fingers curled around his wrist, and opens his
eyes, drowsy, just enough to watch Will watching him.
He is messy, he is youthful, he is raw and he is lovely. The aloofness that
Hannibal affected for so many months now seems as though it belonged to another
person entirely, and perhaps, in some ways, it did. “I am certain,” Hannibal
adds, voice muffled under Will’s hand, “that I have never had a better gift
than you.”
“I will be sure to leave you as thoroughly exhausted next time,” Will promises,
leaning in to kiss him softly, against the back of his hand, before moving to
sit up on the bed, allow Hannibal to come back to himself at his own pace.
“I could warm up dinner,” he suggests, curling one leg beneath himself. “Would
you like dinner?” He glances to Hannibal, eyes warmed with the pleasure of
seeing him so entirely, pleasurably debauched. “What would you like to do?”
Hannibal preens beneath the praise, tilting a sleepy smile into the mattress
before easing to his side, and stretching his long legs until his toes point.
He relaxes and coils around where Will sits, and Will is almost surprised when
Hannibal doesn’t begin to lick himself clean like a cat, tail twitching in
consummate pleasure.
“I would like dinner,” he smiles, ravenous now despite the blissful exhaustion
that weighs down his body. “And -” Hannibal pauses just long enough for Will to
arch a brow, expectant. “Might we watch a movie? Anything,” he adds, watching
Will’s expression sidelong from where he lays. “I can’t recall the last time I
did so, without purpose.”
Will bends to press a kiss to Hannibal’s lips, chaste and soft. “I am offended
that you would not attempt to seduce me during the film, Hannibal.” Another
kiss and he stands, bending to take up his shorts to slip into before he goes
to the kitchen, making a stop at the door to unlock it and whistle for his dogs
to come back inside, most of which immediately clamber to the bed to greet
Hannibal.
Will sets the chicken to reheat, rice set aside already, vegetables and sticky
sauce in another flat pan beside. When Hannibal finally pushes himself to stand
- to Will’s great pleasure, barely balancing before he half limps to the
bathroom - Will returns to the bed to pull the sheets away, tossing them in a
pile by the laundry basket before pulling a clean sheet from the closet,
standing on his toes to reach. He makes it and tosses the blanket back, returns
to the kitchen to catch the food as it begins to bubble again.
It’s a simple meal, spicy and hot, two bowls set to the counter before Will
bends to gather the bowls from the floor to wash and fill those with their
dinner as well. Everyone taken care of, everyone comfortable and warm, Will
takes their meal to the living room before swinging by the bed again to loop
his arms around Hannibal and half carry him to the couch, the other laughing
and struggling playfully in the hold.
He flops to the couch, reveling in gracelessness, and tucks his feet up beside
him. Will sets on a movie - an old noir crime drama that Hannibal confirms he
hasn’t seen before - and no sooner seats himself on the couch than Hannibal
tucks up close beside him with a few little shuffles across the cushions. They
eat, and watch, and kiss, all in equal parts, affection that does not need
words, strongly felt enough without.
Hannibal’s body is lax, a relief that settles all the way to his bones,
exhausted and sore and spent and already thinking of the next morning - or
perhaps again that night - when they will press each other into the mattress
once more.
But it’s Hannibal who stands first, with a soft groan and a long stretch so
hard that he shakes in pleasure with it, before taking up the dishes to return
them to the kitchen. He washes them and sets them aside to dry, and in
returning lingers for a moment in the doorway to watch Will, his sleepy gaze
focused on the film. His brows are not furrowed, jaw not clenched in troubled
thought, and the lines of his face have softened.
Pride, newfound and thrilling, fills Hannibal’s chest and steals his breath
when he knows that the ease settling over the man is because of him.
Will moves aside to allow Hannibal room as he pads back towards the couch, but
instead, Hannibal sinks slowly to the floor. Sitting contented, utterly and
profoundly contented, at his teacher’s feet, Hannibal rests his cheek against
Will’s thigh and wraps an arm around his leg, fingers curled across his ankle.
Will just watches, does not make Hannibal move, and drops a hand into his hair
to work the smooth strands through his fingers.
The film ends, Will’s eyes barely open, stomach full and body entirely,
blissfully relaxed. He rubs his eyes with a groan, shifts to stand and finds
himself pinned still by the heavy, sleeping form against him, arms still around
his legs, face pressed between the couch cushion and his thigh. It is so
endearing, so utterly, sweetly endearing, that Will is at a loss, for the
moment, as to what to do.
Carefully, he extricates himself from the lax grip, steps back and bends to
pick Hannibal up from the floor, smiling when he immediately turns to nuzzle
against him, not awake still but conscious enough to seek.
Will shoos the dogs from the bed, at least long enough for him to set Hannibal
comfortably down, before he climbs in himself, turned to watch him, youthful
and small, relaxed and contented in sleep. Will leans to kiss Hannibal’s brow,
and buries his face against the soft skin joining Hannibal’s shoulder to his
neck, to breathe his boy in as he sleeps.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Summary
     The little movements - breath slow against his neck, lips touching
     just enough to brush ticklish skin - stir Hannibal to slow awakening,
     and he presses his limbs into a feline stretch, toes and fingers
     spread, and then coiling tightly again. A smile quirks the corner of
     his mouth as panic dissipates, that he slept somewhere he shouldn’t
     have, with someone he shouldn’t have - that he has made himself
     vulnerable.
     The latter, at least, is true.
     And in this case, entirely welcome.
Morning crawls with steady warmth across the floor, closer to the bed and
higher up against it, and tickles the bare skin it finds there. The dogs notice
first, usually the first awake if not up, and there are six of the seven in bed
with the two bodies lying close and almost tangled in the middle of it.
First one dog, then another, quiet padding to the floor and to the main room
where it’s lighter, warmer and more enticing, though three do stay in bed, too
comfortable to move, too loyal to the men on it to leave them, though the two
hardly care. But it is Will who wakes first, just enough, with a quiet groan
and a soft sigh, before he feels Hannibal against him and smiles, burying his
nose in the loose straight hair at the back of the boy’s neck.
It is still too early to be up, to be awake, to do anything at all beyond what
they are, and so Will doesn’t move, doesn’t shift enough to wake Hannibal in
front of him, even resists the urge to touch him, just to watch his shoulders
rise and fall in soft slow breaths of rest.
He is beautiful.
And, Will remembers with a smile he buries into his pillow, his. By choice, by
his sweet and earnest asking, he is entirely Will’s.
The little movements - breath slow against his neck, lips touching just enough
to brush ticklish skin - stir Hannibal to slow awakening, and he presses his
limbs into a feline stretch, toes and fingers spread, and then coiling tightly
again. A smile quirks the corner of his mouth as panic dissipates, that he
slept somewhere he shouldn’t have, with someone he shouldn’t have - that he has
made himself vulnerable.
The latter, at least, is true.
And in this case, entirely welcome.
With Will at his back and a dog at his front, he is wedged between enough
warmth to keep the morning chill at bay. A pleased sound creaks from his throat
when Will finally spreads a hand over his ribs, down to a sharp hip, and
Hannibal takes the older man’s wrist in his fingers and slips Will’s hand
between his legs.
Youth and morning both hold Hannibal already semi-hard, and Will nuzzles a
laugh against the soft hair at the nape of his neck, lets himself be guided. An
asking without asking. Will slips his other arm up beneath Hannibal’s head and
curls his hand back to play with his boy’s hair as his other hand curls around
Hannibal’s cock to stroke him slowly.
"It's still early," Will tells him, voice sleep-rough and pulling a shiver
through Hannibal, all the way up his spine. "Still so early." And it is a
tease, now, a gentle plucking of strings with words alone to feel Hannibal push
back against him with a sleepy noise.
Will presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Hannibal’s shoulder, the hand between
his legs still moving, still teasing.
Hannibal’s smile widens, parts over his teeth as he tilts his head up to chase
Will’s palm, pulling a kiss there when he catches it. “And a weekend,” he
agrees, voice furrowed with sleep, his accent dense. “Nowhere to be but here.”
He ducks his head and hoists the blanket higher, to watch Will’s hand curl
around him, brushing thick curls of hair and gliding in languid pulls over
velvety skin, growing taut with each touch. Bringing a hand down, Hannibal
rests his fingers over Will’s own, to feel him touch there, simply because
Hannibal wishes him to, and a mischievous thought occurs to him that perhaps,
in his allowances for Will’s control, it is actually Hannibal himself who holds
court here.
Releasing Will’s hand to stroke freely, hips rocking to push his cock into the
loose grip of the older man’s fist, Hannibal slips his own back behind him,
fingertips tracing the outline of Will’s cock, a stiffening ridge wrapped in a
well-worn cotton.
“Nothing more to do than this,” the boy adds, almost idly, but he does not
resist the urge to grin. “All day.”
"Perhaps not for you," Will groans, but it is far from dismissive, far from
prohibitive. They have both waited long enough, and Will wants nothing more
than to feel his boy squirm again, to taste him, take him deep and spread him
wide, tease with fingertips until Hannibal smiled, just so, pressed his hand
soft against his face to hide the blush there.
A kiss, another, pressed hot and more demanding to Hannibal's back before, with
a groan of displeasure, Will lets Hannibal go, and stills his wrist against
him.
"Stay," he breathes, kisses Hannibal’s cheek, and climbs out of bed, calling
for the dogs to come to the door. He will feed them later, they can wait in the
meantime, far from starved, any of them, and Will far from patient at this very
moment to attend them.
He flicks the catch on the screen door to avoid any interruptions and brings
his hands to his eyes to rub them as he yawns, turning to look at Hannibal as
he sprawls in bed to stretch properly, shifting under the blankets enough to
have Will’s eyes seeking, throat working in a swallow before he starts to walk
slowly back to bed.
Hannibal is careful that in his shifting - arms reaching above his head, knees
falling open - the blanket remains draped over his hips. His cock tents beneath
it, concealed but visible, and twitching harder as Will nears him and Hannibal
takes in the man from toes to eyes.
When Will’s fingers find his hair, Hannibal turns to his side and hooks a
finger in the waistband of Will’s briefs. He tugs him closer, pleased when Will
does not resist, and props himself up on his elbow to lean and sigh,
smoldering, across the bulge that shifts in response to the nearness of the
boy’s mouth.
He does not bare the man yet, but instead contents himself in mouth across the
threadbare fabric, darkening where he dampens it with his tongue, his lips,
sucking open-mouthed as if in a kiss across Will’s cock.
“How would you like me?” Hannibal asks, eyes uplifting. There is no resentment,
no resignation to this, now, no more sullen looks or abiding body while his
mind wandered elsewhere. He is consumed. He wants to consume. And there is no
one he has met before with whom he has wanted it more.
Will makes a sound, deep and warm in his throat and rocks gently against the
seeking lips. He wants Hannibal to touch him, kiss and suck him down, he wants
it. He wants to splay his boy’s thighs and push into him slow enough to arch
his back, to have him grasping with weak hands for any support he can find.
He wants him. Just him.
"Oh.” A sigh, long, and Will’s fingers find Hannibal's hair as he sets one knee
to the bed to hold himself balanced. "I want you every way you can bend, and
any way you let me," Will tells him, strokes down Hannibal’s cheek to cup
beneath his chin, smiling. "Beautiful boy, will you put your mouth on me
properly?"
"Are you telling or asking?" Hannibal asks, eyes crinkling in his pleasure.
"I am asking," Will smiles, lifts Hannibal's chin just a little higher and
bends to meet him, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth before sighing the
word against Hannibal’s mouth. "Please."
Asking means that Hannibal could say no. No, he isn’t in the mood for that. No,
he’d rather do something else. No, just no, if he wished it. His cheeks grow
rosy at the thought of it, that he could walk away, expect disappointment
perhaps, but no violence or manipulation to make it happen. He is under no
obligation here, and might do as he pleases, which in this case, happens to
coincide with what pleases Will.
Hannibal sits up slowly, a glimpse of his cock dark-skinned and heavy-hard
between his thighs as he turns to his knees and lets them spread wide across
the blankets. He works Will’s briefs down, letting them slide to the floor when
Will shifts his knee before setting it back to the mattress, and Hannibal’s
eyes drift nearly closed as Will’s cock stands hard before him.
For him.
Only for him.
He tightens his fingers around the base, careful not to catch the coarse, dark
hairs in his grip, and with a sigh he flattens his tongue slowly across the
thick vein that pulses in time with his own, over the ridge of his head,
enveloped in silky skin. He circles it, a show, knowing Will watches the boy
not at work, now, but at play, relishing the acrid sweat and salty skin,
wonderfully smooth as he presses just the tip past his lips, and lets it pop
free again with a little moan.
Will shivers, back tensing in pleasure as he just watches, feels Hannibal hold
him, lick him, just feel him. It feels so good,and he's done little more than
tease the skin and breathe against it. It is beautiful to watch him so at ease,
so entirely at ease just for himself, exploring Will with little licks and
gentle lips before he taking him into his mouth deeper.
One hand finds its way to Hannibal's hair, but he does not force the boy closer
against him, does not hold him still to ravish his mouth and take his own
pleasure. No. His pleasure is entirely in the hands, the lips, the body of the
boy before him, and Will surrenders entirely to him, for that. Willingly at his
mercy.
He sighs out a curse as Hannibal takes him deeper and lets his head drop back
before gentle fingers curl over his thigh and bring his eyes down again, to
meet Hannibal’s, dark and wide and pleased.
"Beautiful," Will tells him, strokes the hair from Hannibal’s forehead and
hisses in pleasure as Hannibal hums against him. Will forces himself to just
take this, to enjoy it enough to bring his mind to numb whiteness but not
further. No. He has more plans for the morning than quick relief by talented
lips and tongue. Will’s lips part gently in sympathy as Hannibal takes him
deeper still, and his throat clicks on a swallow.
Hannibal doesn’t doubt his skill in this, a necessary ability to relieve those
who he would never take inside of him, but he has rarely ever enjoyed doing it.
The smell of sweat is often dizzying, the taste too cloying, but every sound
Will makes is a thrill, a reward, and Hannibal wants nothing more than to hear
those little noises again and again. He tilts his head, to feel Will’s cock
press against every part of his mouth, dripping slick against his tongue. Lips
puffed from sucking, from the pressure of Will’s cock throbbing hard against
them, shining damp, he closes his eyes and nuzzles deeply, nose tickled by hair
as Hannibal holds Will as deep as he can, tongue rocking in waves as he
swallows.
It is a pleasure, to give rather than to simply be used, to be allowed to taste
and explore and please instead of simply becoming a warm wet hole to release
into. He is, with Will at least, more than that, and it makes him want to give
so much more in return.
He releases Will’s cock, though keeps it sucked stiff with hollowed cheeks, and
runs his hand back over his own ass instead. Fingertips tease across the soft
bud of his opening, holding himself open as he sucks, less for his own pleasure
than for the display of it - his own wanting, presenting himself for the
taking. And Hannibal knows, when he raises his eyes, just the effect it has,
and his own narrow in pleasure.
Will makes another low noise of pleasure, swallows, parts his lips, closes
them. Eyes barely open but watching, every shift of Hannibal’s hands, every
bend and pull of muscle, every deliberately narrowed look. He is a temptation.
Though, now, Will’s patience need only extend to pressing the boy to bed, not
weeks and weeks of waiting.
"Stop," Will sighs, smiling at Hannibal as he blinks up at him. “Back," he
grins, watching Hannibal pull off with a moan, knees shifting wider and his own
fingers circling, stroking, to bring that sensation, those shivers, all over
his skin. Will watches, hand down to stroke himself now as Hannibal watches him
like a cat, bent and poised and playful.
Will tilts his head, almost a stretch of his neck before he does the same on
the other side and watches Hannibal’s eyes hone in on the motion. He reaches
with his free hand to stroke down Hannibal’s back, then up again, over and over
until he curls his spine and makes a little noise of pleasure. Then Will folds
his fingers through Hannibal’s own and gently spreads him wider, two fingers
holding trembling skin, one rubbing against his hole until he makes that noise
again, higher this time, and Will can’t resist their usual play.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, eyes narrowed.
Hannibal doesn’t tease, no reason to be coy now, with everything he wants so
close to him that he can feel the heat of it against his skin, like summer
sunshine after a too-long winter. He rocks back against Will’s fingers, his own
still holding himself open for Will to touch over silk-soft wrinkles, so gently
that it tickles and Hannibal’s cheeks glow the color of cabernet. He lets his
eyes drift to where Will strokes, studies the way the older man enjoys touching
himself, a turn of wrist across the head, less pull downwards, a tightened tug
up.
Hannibal extends his tongue again and his eyes crinkle in pleasure as Will has
to fight feeding him his cock again.
“You,” Hannibal purrs, lips slack as he rocks insistent back against Will’s
fingers, despite that they do not push deeper. “Heavy, atop me. Between my
legs, so I can wrap them around your hips and kiss you.”
Will makes a sound, little, and despite his boy’s displeasure, stops touching
him. Neither go far, Hannibal sitting up to catch Will again, the older man
setting both knees to the bed and drawing a hand through Hannibal’s hair before
pressing their lips together, for the first time that morning, to taste
himself, to taste Hannibal and the little sounds he feeds him. In truth, had
Will only permission for this, today, it would be enough.
Carefully they shift, Hannibal unfurling to sit more comfortably and Will
settling on his knees between spread thighs, before, with a grin, Will grasps
Hannibal by his thighs and yanks him down the bed, bending to swallow the
little yelp of surprise he makes.
It is dizzying, warm and soft, here, together, Hannibal shifting in the
pillows, Will sliding his legs to lie flat on the bed so he can press closer to
Hannibal, caress his legs with warm flat palms, up to the knee and down again,
grasping Hannibal's ankles to spread him just a little further as Will rocks
their hips together and groans at the friction.
Hannibal laughs, just a little gasp of sound, as they rub their bodies
together. The soft fluff of his own chest against Will’s, strong and smooth.
The meeting of their cocks, brush tender skin against tender skin, or against
the other’s yielding lower belly. Mouths touching, if not kissing, lips
scarcely touching but enough that it is warm.
It is wonderful.
It is entirely Will, who can give this to Hannibal.
Though the number of times Hannibal has shared a bed with someone would pale
him to resolve, it’s never truly sharing. He is hardly even a guest, unless he
is particularly lucky. He is a workman, no different than an electrician, who
has come to repair the frayed wiring of another, in whatever way needs to be
done. There is nothing in it for him but pay at the end, and to let himself be
touched and moved however his client wishes.
Their fingers do not hold so carefully to the curve where his thighs meet his
backside.
Their mouths do not move him to arching, bending into a moan that spills forth
from his lips.
Their eyes do not send uncontrollable goosebumps scattering soft as a sudden
spring rain across his body.
He does not love them. But he is certain that he loves Will Graham.
Soft kisses beneath Hannibal’s eyes makes him close them, and then more are
brushed against his eyelids before Will kisses him properly again. Both need
this, want this, contented to have lazy early morning sex just for the sake of
having it. Because the other is there to share it with them.
Will pushes up, just a little, reaching for the lube again, a condom that he
sets on the bed beside them. He ducks his head to breathe soft against
Hannibal’s neck, reaching for the little bottle even as he draws his nose,
tickling, against the taut muscle of the boy’s neck, up just behind his ear,
tickling, warm, and he relishes the little twist, the breathless laugh he pulls
from him that draws one from him as well.
"Squirmy," Will tells him, laughing quietly as Hannibal does it again,
distracting himself as Will slicks his fingers, lines them up to slowly press
in. He pulls back to watch the expressions write themselves over Hannibal’s
face, and kisses his cheek as he adds a second finger, curls both, seeks, eyes
barely open to watch Hannibal respond.
A stuttering gasp, so soft it might have been missed entirely, ladders up his
spine until he curves from the bed, and exhales Will’s name as flowers bloom
white behind his eyes. Will rubs, teasing the firm nub beneath his fingertips,
and Hannibal in a cascade of shivers smears his laugh with a hand across his
mouth. His cock leaks, jumping from his belly with every touch, joined to that
tender skin on which Will slept by a thin, clear trail from where it pools.
The stretch is easy enough that Hannibal relinquishes his thoughts of others
for now - the comparing, the bitterness, the grief that burns as a molten thing
in his core for having spent his youth being everything but himself, using
himself for everything but his own enjoyment. It slips away, a shudder across
his skin, and he loops his arms around Will’s neck to hold himself against the
older man.
“You,” Hannibal asks, eyes open just enough to memorize the perfect pinking
across Will’s cheeks, little spots of color spread into a field of rich rose.
“Let me feel you.”
Will hums, pressing his lips to blush-warmed skin before reaching to open the
little packet with his teeth, shift to continue his deliberate teasing, to
start working the condom down before small hands take over and Will laughs, a
soft breath, and ducks his head.
It is easy, comfortable, allowed to be silly without the pressure to be
perfect. Hannibal is perfect to him already. Will finally releases Hannibal
from his toying torment and strokes himself instead, watching Hannibal draw his
knees up, curl his toes, nervous in the most sweet way, despite this being
perhaps the most normal experience in Hannibal’s working life.
"I am going to hear your voice break," Will promises him gently, smiling as
Hannibal tries to kiss him, pulling just far enough away. “Going to see you
coil and arch and fall exhausted back to bed."
"Yes."
Will grins, nuzzles against him as he lines up. "Then coffee," he promises,
"breakfast... and then I think I will have you again. Just to hear you sigh my
name and lie that you want me to stop."
The breach is easy, slow, and Will rests his forehead to Hannibal’s to share
the closeness, the air between them.
Hannibal’s moan splinters into rock candy whimpers, sweet and jagged, melting
beneath the body of his professor above him. It is something so simple, so
wonderfully uncomplicated, that the thought of anything but this - every
morning, every night - seems as far away as so many other past lives he has
lead in so few years.
He doesn’t turn his eyes aside as Will pushes inside of him, a blissful stretch
that tightens when Hannibal slips his legs over the older man’s hips to squeeze
him nearer. Hannibal is all touch, skin against skin wherever he might meet it,
lips against Will’s cheek, tongue across his shoulder, hands tucked against the
plateaus of Will’s shoulders and toes tucked bent against thick thighs. There
is no part of them, had Hannibal his way, that would not be touching, no part
that should be separate from the rest.
Fingernails draw marks only a drop deeper than the pink spilling over Will’s
skin already, down his chest, across a nipple, lower, reaching until he feels
the ridge of latex where Will joins him, his opening hot to the touch, his cock
issuing another thick drop of precum from where his foreskin gathers. Eyes
flashing, dark as moonlit seas, Hannibal presses his lips together in a curve
of pleasure and takes himself in hand, to revel all the more in being so
breathlessly full from the only man - regardless of length or girth - who can
make him feel that way.
Will rocks slowly, relishing the nails against his back, the way Hannibal
presses them closer with every thrust, the way he allows himself to enjoy it.
With a groan, Will slides his hands over Hannibal’s thighs again, not to uncoil
him but just to see, to feel the way his muscles tense and move as Will turns
his hips, adjust the angle and shallows his movements.
He catches Hannibal's moan against his own lips with a grin, holds him still
and does it again.
It is the simplest thing, to give pleasure this way, to know when to move and
how, to draw someone breathless, grasping, needing more. Will whispers only
what he must, more? slower? deeper? ask... and gets his answers in soft sounds
and gentle breaths, splaying fingers and tightening thighs.
Will catches Hannibal's fingers against his lips with a laugh when the boy
reaches for him, kisses each one and his palm before nuzzling into it,
contented and warm, growing closer and closer to orgasm with the way Hannibal
squirms for him, tenses, genuinely enjoys this.
Loosening his hand from himself, to let his cock rest stiff between their
bellies, Hannibal slips his hands back through Will’s hair, clearing it from
his eyes, loose loops of curl soft between long fingers. They tighten just
enough to bring Will down and settle their mouths together once more, parted
only by the soft little sighs that Will pushes out of him, eyes open with a
quiet wonder, body aflame with cinders under his skin. Hannibal feels alive,
thriving and young and beautiful, as if for the first time, truly, his body and
mind exist in the same place at the same time, rather than one discarded in
preference to the other. As if, truly, there is more than what he has known,
and that he is deserving of affection, and Will - his professor is as gentle
and as confident as if Hannibal had never before done this at all.
Hannibal allows himself to imagine that he has not, and in many ways, it’s
true.
His body tugs tight around Will’s cock when he tries to rock back, as if to
hold him deep enough that it stretches all the way up to his spine, a delicious
pressure building. But Will hushes him, brings a hand against one sharp hip,
and holds him still, to curl his back in shallow little thrusts, the slick head
of his cock rubbing a quick pace against Hannibal’s prostate.
And the boy laughs, a quaking and tremulous sound, but rather than cover his
face to hide his genuine joy, he simply buries his nose against Will’s neck,
and pleads for him to keep going, please, god - yes, please don’t stop, don’t
stop, don’t stop -
Will cums first, the words, the voice, too much and too beautiful, and he
presses his own laugh to Hannibal’s skin as he shakes from his own release,
guides Hannibal with relentless motion to his own, hand down between them to
stroke him, thumb against the slit, kissing praise over Hannibal’s cheek.
Will holds him closer when Hannibal cums, a soft choked noise as his body is
overcome, and then he falls back breathless to bed, legs slipping to rest
against it in languid pleasure and he hums, draws fingers through Will’s hair
and brings him close to kiss. For a while they simply mouth against each other,
trying to catch their breaths, to soothe their hearts from the racing each has
brought the other to.
They are beautiful, both, and Will adores him.
“Look what you do to me,” he whispers, kissing Hannibal’s cheek, nuzzling it
and kissing it again. “This is all you.”
The boy tilts preening into the praise, the kisses that carry it, eyes closed
and body warmed by the press of his professor’s over him. A soft smile, felt
more than seen, turns his own lips to seek Will’s scruffy cheek, the strong
curve of his jaw, his lips that shape promises that all, entirely, have been
kept. Though still unconvinced that he deserves this, that his past and his
choices in the present have not slung him to a low enough rung that tenderness
is wasted on him, he accepts it. All, every word and every touch, cherished in
the knowledge that Will, at least, believes that Hannibal is worthy.
He arches with a fussy noise as Will slips free of him, clings to him with lean
arms to keep him near even as Will gently grasps his wrists and brings
Hannibal’s palms to his mouth to kiss. Against them he promises that he’ll
return, in only a moment, and Hannibal lets him go and trusts that he will.
The sound of water running in the bathroom is familiar, now, a comfort as much
as all the others that the unexpected sanctuary of Wolf Trap has given him, and
he listens, chewing his lip, and breaks into a grin when the water shuts off
and bare feet click to return his teacher, his Will, to him with a warm damp
cloth to wipe up the pleasant mess across his belly.
“May I make coffee?” Hannibal asks, stretching his legs long down the bed to
feel the pull of muscle between them, the drowsiness now as enjoyable as the
act that has lead to it. Will’s smile quirks, and Hannibal draws the back of
his hand across his eyes, peeking sleepily from beneath it. “I am asking,
because I wish to. For you.” A pause, and a sigh that carries on it a laugh.
“The least I can do, after all I’ve already done to you,” he adds, teasing.
Will snorts, pleased, and inclines his head, allowing.
“Bare,” he amends, as Hannibal stands from bed, smiles when the young man makes
a sound at the movement, purses his lips in pleasure knowing he had done that
to him. “All day.”
He watches Hannibal blush, warm his body with the flush of blood to it, before
he straightens his shoulders to obey, proud and naked, padding to the kitchen
to start on coffee. Will lets him go, settles back in bed for a moment, and
imagines the look on Hannibal’s face when he will get him to call the dogs
inside.
Bare.
As requested.
And how he knows the boy will do it anyway.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Summary
     “This isn’t going to work,” Hannibal whispers, amazed he can manage
     words at all with his ribs caged so tight that every breath pushes
     his lungs purple between those slatted bones.
Whatever the mood of the day, Hannibal carries it in with him.
There are times where he hits the ground running, climbing Will like a tree and
wrapping so tightly around him that Will can hardly pry himself free enough to
touch him. Other times he’s sedate, sleepy from school, content to set his
clothes aside and go about his chores - mostly self-determined - before bending
over the desk to take up his studies.
And then, once in a while, is a day like this. Resistance, sand grinding in
gears that otherwise run smooth, from the texts they shared until now.
I’m not coming over.
Oh?
No.
Is everything alright?
Fine.
Hannibal goes anyway.
Objectively, he knows that there are unresolved traumas that affect him, all
sorts of sundry psychiatric terms for what’s wrong with him, and plenty of
prescriptions on offer if only he would see someone and swallow their pills.
But it feels like more than that, on days like this, like his skin is too tight
for his body, pulling every time he moves, like he doesn’t belong in his own
body, and is here only by some unfortunate twist of fate, when he knows he
shouldn’t be.
And beyond that, he knows he shouldn’t be going to Wolf Trap.
He drops his bag with a thud on the porch, unwilling to lower his chin from the
confrontational angle at which he holds it. He ignores the calm turn of smoke
over Will’s tongue. Ignores the dogs who gather around him and stick wet noses
into his bookbag. Ignores the way the light draws spiderweb shadows in the
greening grasses and how unseasonably warm it is even for spring.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Hannibal finally says, and Will arches a brow.
“I didn’t ask you to come. You chose to come.”
“You didn’t need to ask, I know it’s what you wanted.”
“There are many things I want, Hannibal, will you endeavor to read my mind from
now on?”
Hannibal’s brows furrow and he takes a deep breath through his nose before
releasing it. Will watches, outwardly impassive, inwardly reading every single
sign Hannibal is shouting at him with his silence and closed off expression. He
reads the shaking of his mind, the tightness of his skin, the need to scream
and tear and destroy.
Himself.
Nothing and no one else, but himself.
“You came,” he says instead, watching as Hannibal swallows, parts his lips to
run his tongue roughly against his molars and close his mouth again.
“Yes.”
“So ask.”
“I don’t want to fucking ask.”
“Now, that’s a lie,” Will tells him, pointing with his cigarette before he
returns it to his lips and takes a long drag, exhaling through his nose though
he opens his mouth briefly, enough to see the smoke coil there in a ball,
untouchable and fragile before it’s gone. “You certainly want to.”
“Do I.”
“Or else you would not be here,” Will reasons, infuriatingly correct, before
squeezing the end of his cigarette between his fingers to put it out, and
tossing it carefully into the ashtray. He lets the screen door slap shut behind
himself when he returns to the house, knowing that, at his own pace, Hannibal
will follow him.
But he waits, silent and sullen on the porch, and settles into the chair where
Will sat before. Hannibal drops a hand, working it through the fur of the
shaggy mottled dog who always comes to him first, and now sets a heavy head on
his leg. He hates that Will is right. He hates that Will always knows, even
when Hannibal tries to hide himself. He hates that Will doesn’t tell him what
he wants despite being more of aware of what he needs than Hannibal himself.
He is still tense, unsettled as if his bones are vibrating too hard for weak
sheathes of muscle and thin skin to contain, when he comes into the house, and
his eyes narrow on Will as the older man starts coffee in the kitchen. Tongue
pressed against the back of his teeth, Hannibal says nothing for the time it
takes for the coffee to brew, for two cups to be poured, remaining just where
he came into the house.
“If you know what I need, why don’t you just tell me?”
Will arches a brow, but doesn’t look towards the boy yet. “That isn’t how it
works. You know that.”
Hannibal shoves his tongue against his teeth harder, jaw working in angry
silence. He folds his arms, loosens them, puts his hands in his pockets, takes
them out again. Nothing fits. Nothing feels right. He considers leaving, with a
snapped apology, and calling Mason.
The thought feels like jagged ice, broken floes inside his veins.
“I want,” Hannibal begins, but the words falter. “I want to -”
Listening, Will stands in the doorway to the kitchen, coffee in his hand.
“Sometimes,” the boy tries again, pressing a palm against his eye and then
dropping it, and lifting his gaze stubbornly to the ceiling. “Sometimes I don’t
feel like I deserve this.”
“Deserve what? Use your words.”
“Life,” Hannibal seethes softly. “It would have been better for me to go with
them.”
Will’s jaw works gently but he says nothing. After a moment he leans back into
the kitchen to gather the mug intended for Hannibal and passes it to him as he
steps closer. He waits for Hannibal to take it, before taking a sip of his own.
He is so vulnerable, angry that he is vulnerable, livid that Will sees him this
way, that he continues to wheedle and prod and pry.
Will can sense it in him, the internalized hatred, the helplessness.
And more than anything he can feel the way the words choke Hannibal and stifle
him, twist his lungs until he makes a sound, little, and Will takes another
slow drink of his coffee.
"But you live,” he tells him, answers at length, watches Hannibal's lips work
in disgust as his brows work in gentle almost childish pain.
"All the worse for me."
"And you keep striving to live," Will amends, and Hannibal takes a drink of
coffee and hisses at the burn, licking his lips. Will wants nothing more than
to gather the boy to him, to feel him shiver at the touch as he always does, to
bring him to bed and allow them to sink warm together as before.
"Why do you seek to punish yourself when, life, to you, is a constant
punishment?" Will asks, stands straight to watch Hannibal keeps his eyes on the
boy until he looks up.
Their eyes meet, Hannibal’s own dark as fresh blood, welling hot over pale
skin, and he averts them to his coffee, thick and black as his breath feels
inside him. “It helps me to forget,” he answers, after long consideration. “If
my body hurts, with bruises, with cuts, then it’s something to focus on without
having to go deeper than that.” He parts his lips with his tongue, considers
moving to the chair or the desk but simply stands, shoulders stiff.
“And,” Hannibal murmurs, “I wonder if I don’t owe it. To them. To myself. All
things considered, I still have life. I still have shelter. I have comforts
that are ill-won and undeserved.” He draws a breath but it cuts short, pain
twisting his lips and brows drawing in. “They would be ashamed of me, if they
could know. More than that. Disgusted. I have not done service to my family.
They would not be proud. And there is atonement, paying in this way for what
I’ve done - what I do.”
Will considers the words, the heaviness of them and the utterly genuine belief
that Hannibal truly deserves this, deserves to suffer for being alive and
relatively well, and working so hard he rarely sees his bed for more than an
hour, two, and sees others' for nothing but his clients' pleasures.
"Do you want me to give that to you?" He asks quietly, though his tone does not
slick with pity or grow patronizing. "The ability to forget, to numb your mind
to yourself for a few hours?"
He waits, long enough for Hannibal to nod, grudgingly, and he does not make
Hannibal tell him verbally.
"Do you trust me," Will asks carefully, "to determine what I feel you deserve,
and mete out the appropriate pain for it?"
A shiver snaps through Hannibal before he can resist it, white noise quickening
like the wind against his ears. He shifts, an uncomfortable shrug of his
shoulders that does nothing to relieve the tightness of his body, and swallows
roughly.
Humiliation blooms rosy across his nose, his cheeks, at being forced to put
these sensations into words, admitting them to the only person in the world who
truly matters at all to him. The urge to leave is sudden, scalding like acid
through the taut muscles of his body, but his feet are planted, he could not
move them if he tried. Everything feels wrong, everything but the things Will
offers him now, and Hannibal turns his eyes away from the older man and tries
not to think of Mason.
The memory alone makes him hurt, like a blade twisting deep inside his body,
and Hannibal wonders if this man will prove similarly unhinged when offered a
beautiful boy who wants nothing more than to hurt until he’s blind to the
world.
Hannibal wonders if he truly cares. Better to know, perhaps, the true make of
Will’s character, so he is not surprised by it later.
“Yes,” Hannibal lies. “I trust you.”
Will shakes his head, sets his mug aside on the counter and sets still-hot
fingers beneath Hannibal's chin to lift it, to force their eyes to meet despite
the tension, the trembling that whispers through Hannibal’s body.
"You know lies get you nowhere with me," Will reminds him, still gentle, still
the man Hannibal knows, in sleep and in waking, in the throes of passion and in
the early mornings, rubbing his eyes with his wrist first, then his fingers.
Offered this and still just staying his hand, patient, inevitably,
infuriatingly patient. "You do not trust me with this, but I don’t know if it
is because you fear agony or leniency from me."
Hannibal blinks, surprised, but says nothing, does not allow himself to turn
into the hand that slips gentle to his cheek now, then up into his hair. Will
does not want to hurt him, never has, that much is clear, but there is that
tug, that pull of a promise that Will would do anything, everything, for this
boy, should he only ask.
"I want you to hurt me," Hannibal says softly. Asking. Watches Will’s eyes
darken just a little at the words, as tethered to Hannibal's requests as
Hannibal is to Will’s chillingly soft refusals.
"Why."
Lips part and silence hisses past, and Hannibal stays waiting, as Will does,
before the older man decides to allow reasons to slide, for now, just this
once, to teach Hannibal not of his pain and apparent deserving of it, but to
teach him what asking this of Will means.
"I will," he acquiesces, tone low, fingers tightening just enough in Hannibal’s
hair when he relaxes at the words. "On two conditions. They are not negotiable.
Do you understand?"
A slow nod, and Will licks his lips open. "You will choose a word that you will
use when it gets too much, and you will use it." The request is met with almost
childish disbelief and displeasure, like a game cheated on, rules broken before
they are set. Will’s expression does not waver. "If you refuse to use the word,
then you will trust me to stop on my own, and accept it as an end when I do."
The boy’s eyes narrow, just a bare twitch of muscle beneath them, as if sensing
a challenge that he will not lose. Will has seen him, bruised and battered,
bleeding from cuts and from between his legs, but he can take more than that,
Hannibal is certain of it. There will be no need for anything so meager as a
word to stop Will - he will tire before Hannibal breaks.
The look disappears as quiet as moth wings, and Hannibal’s soft smile is
entirely insolent as he lifts it towards the older man. “I understand.”
Will raises a brow. “Your word?”
Smile widening a little further, but no less false, Hannibal responds with
precise articulation, popping his consonants and drawing his tongue thick
against his vowels. “Pomegranate.”
He feels absurd, embarrassed, the nervous itching sensation strong enough now
that it feels like insects digging along the scarlet pathways of his muscles,
snagging against his skin. With Mason, at least, he would never need to ask,
would simply be grabbed and driven to the floor beneath a booted foot, reminded
of his place in the world - on his back, bent, broken. With Mason, he would
never need reconcile how lost he feels with the guiding hand pressed gentle
against his cheek - it would be a blow, instead, enough to snap his senses into
disarray.
“This isn’t going to work,” Hannibal whispers, amazed he can manage words at
all with his ribs caged so tight that every breath pushes his lungs purple
between those slatted bones.
For just a moment, Will’s brows raise, very slightly, and he wants to shake his
head. Perhaps not. Perhaps he won’t allow it to work because he does not want
to hurt Hannibal, and has never thought to. He does not want this to be a place
of pain for the boy, a place to fear and loathe coming to, and at the same
time, he had asked. He had blatantly, quietly, obediently asked for this.
And Will had promised.
So while he himself cannot bring such suffering to the boy, he supposes, in the
end, he hardly has to. Will deals with enough sick minds to be able to slip
into and out of them as he chooses, he does it for work, he finds himself,
occasionally, unable to stop doing it in general. It keeps him awake at night,
pulls cold sweat from his skin until he remembers who he is, can ground himself
in a reality of his choosing.
He merely needs a mask, until he can see well enough without one.
“Down,” he says, watching Hannibal seek in his eyes for something more,
something more than what they do together so often. He watches the
disappointment there, the hesitation to obey and gently slaps him where his
hand had pressed for comfort just before. Enough to startle, not enough to
hurt. “You know well enough not to make me repeat myself, Hannibal, I said
down.”
The boy huffs a sigh, eyes turning towards the ceiling. It isn’t enough, it
can’t be, not after what he’s become acclimated to - to what he has made
himself accustomed. He wonders if he’s broken himself, unwittingly, but so
entirely that in trying to somehow ground himself, the only thing that works is
violence, unrestrained violence - sexual, physical, emotional -
Another slap - though no harder - spurs him from his thoughts, too long
hesitating, and Hannibal ignores the way it seems to echo through his body,
down into his belly, as he settles, still clothed, to his knees.
“Further.”
Hannibal swallows, eyes distant as he splays his fingers across the hardwood
floor, and settles to his hands and knees.
“That is far from good enough if you plan to earn anything on your knees
today,” Will tells him, circling around behind Hannibal to reach and work his
pants open, not cruelly, enough to slide them down his thighs, clicking his
tongue as he does to the dogs for Hannibal to lift one knee then the other so
Will can bare him and set his pants and shoes and socks aside. His shirt he
leaves for now, hanging untucked now enough to just skim the floor.
A gentle nudge against Hannibal’s knees sets them wider and Will watches the
boy catch himself on his hands when he nearly loses balance.
“You want me to hurt you, to make you forget, to numb you,” Will lists,
returning to stand in front of Hannibal before reaching back for a chair and
turning it to face the boy as he sits. “You want so much, and you give me so
little. You know in this house you earn everything - look at me.” Will sets the
toe of his shoe beneath Hannibal’s chin and tilts it up, watches the flush fill
his cheeks, his eyes widen. This is not pain, as he wanted, but it’s enough to
send him shivering, enough to have his mind hone in on Will’s voice, to listen
and hear and find the rest of the mess in his head quieting to noise for a
moment.
“In this house you earn everything, and so far I am far from impressed.” Will’s
lips work before he sits back, reaches to undo his belt and works it from his
pants with a whisper of fabric. Heavy, leather, worn enough to be soft and
certainly enough to be supple, hard against skin when struck, formidable enough
in promise, at least, that Hannibal swallows.
Will leans forward again, the belt looped in his hand, and regards the boy
before him. “You want this,” he says. “You want to taste it against your skin
and remember it after. You want the marks it leaves as a reminder, to wear them
like badges of a martyr for no one to see but you. With me, you will wear them
with pride, and I will make sure they are seen.”
It is enough of a threat to have Hannibal blink, eyes wide and lips parted, and
it’s then that Will sets the belt between his teeth, gently lifts his chin to
close the boy’s jaws around it to hold.
“Hold that as your promise, then, and stay still.”
Hannibal settles his tongue beneath the leather, tastes the age of it, the
sweat set salty into the porous hide. His eyes narrow a little though, cheeks
hot with humiliation, and skin shrinking in inches, crawling over twitching
muscle, in anticipation. Something in his eyes, in the twitch of his jaw, tilts
Will’s head just a little though.
“Do not.”
The boy merely lifts a brow, silent denial.
“Do not spit it out,” Will clarifies, and Hannibal snorts softly through his
nose. “You think it’ll get you what you want - punishment for disobeying, that
belt across your back. It won’t. Do it if you like and see how many hours I
keep you here.”
Another look is lifted, dark eyes glittering even as Hannibal holds steady, and
Will continues, “Because you will stay here, just like this, won’t you? I know
you will, because you wouldn’t want to disappoint me.”
The too is unspoken but Hannibal hears it, and it tunes his thoughts further
away from clarity, towards static, a consistent dissonance. He focuses on it,
and it fades a little, further away the more Hannibal allows himself to think.
Arms steady, knees spread, he remains at Will’s feet as if he were another dog,
bringing a toy to his master, and only when a thin trail of spit glistens down
his chin, does he move to wipe it away.
“Did I say you could?” Will asks and though the tone is soft, it’s enough to
bring Hannibal’s eyes up again, questioning, and more importantly immediately
wide to seek some form of forgiveness for the error, though he says nothing. He
can, really, say nothing. Will shakes his head, crosses his legs. Hannibal
settles into the same position he had been put in and tries to swallow, finding
the more he thinks about it the harder it is to do.
Slowly, deliberately, drop after drop of spit lands on the floor, pooling in a
sticky puddle that Will seems to pay no mind to, but he watches Hannibal,
watches the way he struggles not to clean it, present himself as the perfect,
and the ideal, as something that he will never be because he does not have to
be, but he doesn’t let himself believe that.
Yet.
Will watches him long enough that Hannibal’s knees start to ache and he tries
to shift, just enough to remain still but in a new position so it doesn’t hurt
as much, and then Will stands, leaves the chair and Hannibal’s line of sight,
and walks away. Hannibal waits, for a moment, another, before turning his head
just enough to seek and jerking in surprise when he feels cold water against
him, freezing, almost, from how warm the house is, directed at him from the
counter, from over it, where Will aims the large bendable tap before shutting
the water off and watching the now-drenched boy stare at him, shiver.
“I did not tell you to move,” he repeats gently. “I did not tell you to turn,
or seek, or do anything but be obedient, and you are proving far from it.”
The shiver that runs through Hannibal is not entirely related to the cold. Will
is proving menacing without once raising a hand to him, without doing anything
at all but speaking, but bringing Hannibal’s own terrors of failure and shame
to the forefront of his mind. A confrontation that pulls Hannibal tense, taut,
nervous when Will comes back around to him and sits again, setting his shoe
beneath Hannibal’s chin again.
“Do you want the belt?” He asks, watches the way Hannibal’s eyes close in a
strange hybrid of aching need and a quiet shame; an acceptance, a clear yes.
“Stay still,” Will reminds him, leaning forward to grasp Hannibal’s sopping
hair and squeezing enough for water to slip down his face before he lets him
go.
“Stay still a while longer for me and then I will ask again.”
The air settles cold against his skin, goosebumps prickling where the water has
not yet dried, sopping into his shirt. He had dressed well today, he does every
day, but especially today - in a shirt that was tailored just for him, now
hanging limp and shapeless, water and spit pooling on the floor beneath him.
His hair, ashy blonde, hangs limp in his eyes, and no matter how he tenses or
loosens his jaw, the strain of holding the belt aches enough that he isn’t
certain he could let go of it if he wished to.
Every shiver hurts, not only from the tension of his muscles, but with the echo
of Will’s words inside him - that he is disobedient, a disappointment, unworthy
of having that which he has asked for, because he has not earned it.
Each time the words echo back, rather than becoming discordant they become
clearer, they strengthen, each time his body shudders and he can’t stop it,
every time a muscle moves that Hannibal could not control in time, it is a
loss. It is weakness. It is shameful.
Without warning, a hitched sound catches against Hannibal’s teeth, bending
crescents into the leather, his lips and chin slick with drool.
“Ask,” Will tells him softly, still watching the boy as closely as he had been
from the beginning, watching him grow numb and cold, muscles screaming for
release and mind screaming for atonement. He can feel the tug in his chest to
make this end, but he will not until Hannibal has gotten what he wants, because
he had asked, and he must ask again.
Another whimper, choked and bitten back and Will tilts his head, patient, leans
forward with hands clasped between his knees.
“Ask in any way you think I will listen,” he adjusts, feels Hannibal’s eyes
search his own, almost desperate, needy, seeking, now, in a way Will knows is
genuine, not in a way his mind has fooled him into thinking he needs. Another
shiver, wracking over Hannibal’s form, before he ducks his head, allows his
hands to slip on the wet floor and goes down on his elbows, lower still to
press his forehead to Will’s shoe, to nudge there gently in utter sweet
submission.
Hips raised and eyes up and body prone and shaking, and he looks, in a word,
beautiful. Will feels his throat click as he swallows, parts his lips on a sigh
and bends, slow, to cup Hannibal’s chin. The boy shivers, the first time
feeling warm skin since this began and Will hushes him, careful, with his other
hand, to take the belt from between Hannibal’s teeth as his fingers work warm
against his jaw, over his lips, his cheeks.
“Good boy,” he breathes. “Such a good boy.”
Hannibal jaw hangs slack, eyes closing heavily beneath the warm fingers that
work heat back into his skin again, into the aching muscles to stretch and
relieve them. But the words, those words, send a ripcord shiver down his spine
that bends his back and turns his hips higher, torn between letting himself
feel them warm him as much as Will’s hands, and disbelief, still, that he is
anything near what Will tells him he is.
He is sodden, filthy, all too aware that Will’s fingers work through saliva and
sweat as well as water, but the praise doesn’t cease, the touches don’t still,
and Hannibal can’t but let his heart stagger clinging against his ribs.
“Please,” he whispers, voice crackling like ice beneath sudden sunlight.
Another gentle hush, Will’s hand up to sweep his hair from his face, cup his
cheek again to just let Hannibal lean into it. He gives the boy a moment more
before gently setting the belt against his other cheek, smile gentle, tone even
and calm, as he asks, “Do you want the belt?”
A shudder, bone-deep, and Hannibal’s eyes close as his mouth opens and he nods,
fingers curled into fists against the floor as he whines, just a gentle little
thing, plaintive, and Will knows, with every sense he has wrapped around this
boy that this is the most genuine he has ever seen him, under duress. The most
genuine he has perhaps ever been in such a state. He will give him everything.
“Bend, my beautiful boy,” Will tells him, stands from the chair and eases
Hannibal’s face down as it had been, as he had lain, on his own. He strokes his
hair again and steps away, letting the belt fall free to trail over the floor
as he walks before he bends it in his hand again. “I want you to keep your hips
up,” he tells Hannibal quietly. He doesn’t wait for a nod, for a sound, and the
first strike reddens the skin and curls Hannibal’s toes.
Though the sensation snatches his lungs short of air, Hannibal could weep for
the release that already unravels him. Threads spin wild from the too-tight
person suit in which he spent so many days feeling trapped, claustrophobic
inside his own body. He tilts his forehead against the floor, turns it enough
to rest his cheek in the still-thick trail of spit beneath him, already too far
gone to care.
“Please,” Hannibal sighs, as his toes spread wide and his fingers in kind,
pawing wide across the hardwood floor where he kneels. He widens his knees,
presenting the red-striped curves of his rump for Will. Only for Will, from now
on, if he can lay him as bare as he needs - deeper than ostentation or clothing
or skin, beyond his very body.
“Beautiful,” praises Will again, and Hannibal curls in anticipation for the
strike that does not come until he settles, and stings hot as cinders against
his ass. Every nerve alights, a fire lit of self-destructive consummation, and
his eyes slip closed on a moan that grates shaking free from his paled lips.
It takes Hannibal a moment to recognize what’s touching his thighs, and he
tilts a laugh against the filthy ground, rocking forward and spreading back
again. In all the times - and they are many - he’s been debased, humiliated,
beaten to the point where he wondered if one of them would have to end up dead
for it to end, Hannibal has never gotten hard before.
Not until this.
Not until Will.
The next sting has Hannibal shaking in pleasure, pressing himself to the floor
in needy twists, arching and bending and trembling with everything - need,
want, pain, exhaustion, adrenaline, and relief, almost blinding relief. He does
not know what sounds he makes anymore, if they are words or just whimpers and
cries, he doesn’t know when the colors behind his eyes smear in reds and
oranges and purples to a brilliant mess of wonder. He doesn’t know if he’s
allowed, he doesn’t know if he manages to ask, but his hand is between his legs
and he’s sobbing his need into the floor, eyes closed and mind entirely alight
with every sensation and sound and light within him.
He doesn’t know how long this lasts before he hears the belt set aside, before
he feels Will pressed hot against his back, arms around him to pull Hannibal
into his arms.
“Please don’t stop,” he sighs, “please -”
“You’ve had enough,” Will murmurs to him, stroking his hair, his back, reaching
for a blanket hanging off the arm of the couch to wrap Hannibal in, rub heat
back into his skin.
“No, no I can do more, I can take more, I can -”
“You’ve had enough,” Will whispers to him, kissing his temple, holding him
close as shivering becomes genuine shaking, as Hannibal squirms before he
settles, and Will kisses him again. “So good for me, so, so good, Hannibal.”
Hannibal twists again at the praise, finds himself unable to gather the
strength to push away, to sprawl across the floor again. He has not yet felt
his skin break, give way to searing trickles of blood almost steaming hot
against a body grown cold with shock. He has not said any word to make Will
stop, has not yet yielded, hasn’t broken -
“Please,” he pleads again, “let me show you -”
Only the tightness of Will’s arms around him makes Hannibal aware of how
violently he shakes, beyond a chill from the water, beyond the lick of the
belt. “I’ve seen,” Will whispers against Hannibal’s hair, his voice cutting
clear through the feedback buzz in Hannibal’s ears. “I’ve seen, I know. And you
did so good, beautiful boy. You make me so proud.”
Hannibal’s protests cease, blinking wide through eyes hot with tears that he
didn’t know were there. “But -”
“I’m so proud of you,” Will tells him again, a soft sigh against Hannibal’s
brow before he lifts a hand to trace a thumb through the dampness beneath his
eye.
Hannibal wants to say more, to beg again, to just let him show Will, please,
just -
But the only sound he makes is a shaking little whimper, barely voiced, as Will
traces his fingers through Hannibal’s tears and wipes the wetness away. It
hardly matters when more well up, Will doesn’t stop, and Hannibal’s breathing
hitches harder, comes quicker and Will holds him tighter then, too, supported,
surrounded, held close and warm.
“Breathe for me,” he tells him, calm words, soothing words, and Hannibal tries,
he tries. “Slow breaths,” Will guides him. “Follow mine.”
He tries, and for a while, he can, but they hitch on weak little sobs, they
draw hot tears down Hannibal’s face more and more until Will stands, takes
Hannibal’s trembling form up with him, the boy’s legs wrapping around him to
hold on, and makes his way down the corridor, from the wet messy floor to the
bathroom, the light familiar, the space secure and surprisingly warm and
lacking in echo.
Will steps into the shower stall, takes the showerhead down to point it to the
wall and adjusts the water as he needs it, testing it on his palm before
setting it back where it belongs, closing his eyes against the spray, and
turning to let Hannibal feel it against him.
Careful hands slide down Hannibal’s thighs, hot with pain but not broken, not
cut and bruised, not enough to have him stand for days not by choice but by
necessity. Over and over the sensitive skin until Will gently unwraps
Hannibal’s legs from around him and guides the boy to stand on his own.
The blanket soaks quickly, heavy against Hannibal before Will peels it free and
it lands with a wet slap to the ground behind them. Will’s hands come up to
stroke through Hannibal’s hair, down his face, over his neck and shoulders and
down to the buttons of his shirt, working them open. Lips press to Hannibal’s
temple and cheek and neck, follow the path of his fingers to rest against
Hannibal’s collarbones, sucking soft there before letting the sopping fabric
fall on top of the blanket and leave Hannibal bare to receive the water against
him, to warm his chilled muscles and tense sinews.
And Hannibal presses closer, then, keeps his hands curled in Will’s soaking
shirt, keeps his cheek pressed to his chest to listen to the even beating of
his heart, to feel Will close, and alive and there, not leaving Hannibal to put
himself back together, not leaving him filthy and cold on the floor, but taking
him here, taking care of him, and still, soft words filter through the white
noise, telling him how good Hannibal has been for him, how proud Will is of
him.
Over and over, like the water that runs down his skin, until Hannibal reaches
to wrap his arms around Will’s shoulders and lever himself up, and Will kisses
him, properly, deeply, lips parted and tongues hot as one hand settles against
the back of Hannibal’s head to hold him there, the other splayed over his back,
rubbing heat and life and feeling back to him.
It is as far as possible from the stiff, cruel awakening to which Hannibal has
become accustomed - once his sins have been purged, his skin scoured, his body
debased, it has always been his obligation to pull himself from the floor, to
try and find warmth again in hot showers that do nothing to ease his shivering.
There is no forgiveness there, no tenderness for taking his blows. He is
reviled, still, no matter how beautifully his body bruises for them. He is
worth nothing, and must climb up again himself, each time.
It has never been anything like this.
He has never felt so clean before.
Stripes still shining scarlet across his backside, he arches onto his toes when
water sprays across them, a sweet singe beneath the torrent. Warmer still is
Will’s mouth against his own, his hands, the words that flower from the older
man’s lips each time they part from Hannibal’s - he is beautiful, he is worthy,
he is brave and he is strong.
Hannibal blossoms.
Foreheads pressed together, eyes closed under the water, the boy gasps against
the older man’s lips and pushes their bodies together. Still weak, but with
strong arms to support him, Hannibal leans and tilts his hips upward, seeking a
softer friction than the belt against his skin, gentler pleasures than the
excoriation that he needed before he could be this again.
“Thank you,” he sighs, fingers spreading over Will’s lips, before they lower to
unsteadily work free the water-logged shirt and let it drop from his shoulders.
Will lets him, eyes hooded and down against this exquisite boy, this miraculous
and beautiful boy who comes to him willingly, and obeys and asks, and needs and
wants the care and attention and devotion Will is happy to give him, always.
Will smiles when Hannibal’s hands find his pants, when they both laugh trying
to peel them free where the water has weighed them down to cling.
But eventually both are bare, pressed close with languid kisses and seeking
hands, and Will can feel how the tension is just gone from Hannibal, no longer
the tight and straight-backed man who had walked into his house demanding pain,
demanding to be made less of a person for his own desires. He wonders if
Hannibal has ever experienced this before, the genuine catharsis of pain, or if
he had always thought that the sharp cruelties of it were its entirety, the
only thing pain had to offer.
“I’ve missed you,” Will tells him, smile curling his lips as fingers curl
through Hannibal’s hair and slick it behind his ear. “I’m glad you came.”
He knows Hannibal needs the space, now, the warmth of Will nearby, the comfort
of him, and he will give him that, he can be patient, and he will be. But he
wants him, he wants to feel those sweet shivers of breath against his skin as
he pushes into the boy, as he brings him pleasure, now, after the pain he had
made himself endure, and had endured so beautifully and so well.
Will grins, nuzzling against Hannibal’s cheek, before hands seek down, over the
red, tight skin, and lower still to grasp Hannibal around the thighs and lift
him up against him again, turning to press Hannibal’s back to the cool tile
wall and kiss his throat. Reverent, worshipful, entirely enthralled with the
boy before him.
“I adore you,” Will breathes. “And I will take you to bed, now, to rest, to
sleep sprawled and lazy and warm, but in the morning…”
Hannibal’s lips press into a line, but his eyes don’t darken, hooded heavy with
contentment and want, now that his needs have been so sated. Slowly, his lips
part over sharp teeth, a crooked grin down from where he sits perched around
Will, upheld and elevated by him.
“But we might - now...”
“We might,” Will agrees, kissing the sparse, wet curls of fluff across
Hannibal’s chest until the boy leans against the wall, smile lingering on
slackened lips. “But we won’t.”
“I’m asking,” intones Hannibal, and though his eyes drift closed, his brow
lifts.
“And I believe it was Mick Jagger who said ‘you can’t always get what you
want’.”
Hannibal hums dismay at this, opening an eye just enough to regard Will, and
the way his curls hang lank as late-summer vines against his cheek, his neck.
“Terrible joke.”
“Not a joke,” Will responds, though he certainly sounds amused. “Do I need to
say it?”
Almost sleepy, a catlike stretch curling his spine, Hannibal nods, and Will
laughs against his throat.
“No, Hannibal.”
The shiver from this is enough to bring Hannibal’s shoulders off the wall in a
shove, and his arms around Will’s neck once more. Almost liquid in his arms,
limber and relaxed down to the distant thump of his heart where their chests
meet. “Take me to bed then?” Hannibal asks, tucking his nose against Will’s
neck. “Please.”
Will smiles, just as languid, just as slow, and reaches back to turn the shower
off.
He hands a towel to Hannibal first, finds one for himself, resolves to leave
the mess in the shower until the morning, where he can set the clothes and
blanket to appropriately dry or be washed in the machine. They dry quickly,
neither caring much for the trickle of drops that run down their spines from
their hair, into their eyes, and Will kisses Hannibal again, soft and slow.
As demanded, he takes Hannibal to bed in his arms as before, the boy wrapped
around him until Will bends to slip Hannibal to bed, slides gentle palms over
his skin to settle him, and goes to clean the mess up from the floor where they
had left it. Just a tossed towel and a quick wipe down, enough that it won’t
spread through the wood or cause anyone to slip. Enough that it’s just water
and just sweat and just spit, and within a moment it’s all gone.
When Will returns, he climbs into bed next to Hannibal, turning into the small
hand that curls in his hair and obliges him by pressing soft kisses to his
still-damp skin, down his chest to his stomach, hands framing his form and
caressing it, pressing praises to Hannibal now that he does not speak them, and
Will listens as Hannibal’s breathing eases and slows in sleep.
He thinks of the way Hannibal had looked at him, belt between his teeth and
spit slicking his chin, the thinks of how his eyes had widened at the
possibility of being allowed to ask, to receive, because he had been patient,
because he had been good. He thinks of how Hannibal had whimpered when he was
told he had been.
Will settles with his head against Hannibal’s stomach, soft and warm and small,
and curls to sleep that way, contented beneath the blankets with his boy,
contented that they had breached this new wall between them and had surpassed
it, finding beauty and relief within, just for themselves.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Summary
     It is rare Will feels shame, and he is, in that moment, entirely
     ashamed of himself for not asking. But he fears, though, beneath it
     all, that once the words are out there their implications could
     travel deeper, to older scars and brittle bones and Will is terrified
     that Hannibal will not stay, and more than that, not come back at
     all.
     He will not smother him. He had promised. He does not want to, he
     just... he wants the company. He wants Hannibal.
Finals keep Hannibal at Wolf Trap almost constantly. The only time he had ever
allowed himself reprieve from his clients in the past, Hannibal now spends with
the one he no longer sees as a client. They work quietly together, Will marking
and Hannibal studying, they take dinner, enjoy coffee, spend more than a few
hours on the couch or in bed together, rocking close or simply resting.
Now Hannibal rubs his eyes, determined to get through one more topic before he
calls it a night. His study is always determined by himself, the amount and
content entirely of his choosing, Will merely encourages with gentle words and
reminders to keep him focused. And he had allowed himself a nap earlier, though
he feels entirely unrested, against Will who had continued to mark his work
without a word, and had sent Hannibal to study with a soft kiss to his hair
when he had woken.
So, still bare, Hannibal stands now, bent over his work as Will walks between
the kitchen and main room, hushing the dogs or getting another cup of coffee. A
constant presence that never feels overwhelming. He watches the languid strides
of the man who never carries himself so loosely anywhere but here, shoulders
straight and strong, a quiet confidence that he never lets the world at large
know he carries.
But Hannibal knows, he sees, and with a slight smile he turns his cheek back
against his hand, elbow on the desk, and stretches a little. He concentrates
down each vertebrae of his back, pulling them long, coiling when he reaches his
coccyx and tilting his hips before working down to his legs. One first, rising
to his toes to work laxity back into his thighs, then the other, shifting from
side to side before relaxing again.
He knows, too, that Will watches when he thinks Hannibal isn’t looking, and he
turns the backs of his fingers against the warmth of his cheek instead, with a
hum.
It’s late enough now that the words blur, each sentence requiring reading
several times to gather the information from it. The air is warm against his
skin, summer’s arrival imminent in the lengthening of the sun across the old
floorboards, striped golden where Hannibal’s eyes settled instead of on the
tired pages of notes in front of him. Another week, and he’ll have several
weeks before his summer sessions begin. Another week, and he’s decided that for
those few weeks, he won’t take any clients, old or new.
An actual vacation, however brief, to enjoy his time however he sees fit.
Light scatters through the trees, leaves glowing green where they cast shifting
shadows across the ground. The sun sparkles almost blinding across the tossing
river that runs nearby, peaks of gold where water spills against rocks hidden
beneath its surface. Warm earth and lush grasses beneath his back where he lays
with a book against his chest, unread and unminded, while a dog’s tail - any
one of them, really - swings against his leg and comfortable panting moves in
countertime to his own steady breaths. It is still and it is noiseful all at
once, no words shared between himself and the man who casts his line into the
river.
A gentle sound from the desk draws Will’s attention from where he has settled
into his worn green armchair, as Hannibal pulls in a deep breath, eyes closed,
and yet standing where he sleeps.
Will watches a moment longer, to see if he’s playing, a new attempt to finish
studying early and get back into bed, but finds the breathing even, deep, lips
just parted enough to shiver with every exhale. Will finds himself smiling,
entirely fond and warm, watching his boy, his talented, smart, strong boy,
exhaust himself not with pain and cruelty but with self-inflicted study and
finals, wanting to do well, to pass top of his class because he is capable of
that.
Will closes his book and sets it away, careful to stand quietly so as not to
wake the boy whose eyes don’t even move below the lids he’s sleeping so deeply.
Another week, and he will be free from classes. Another week for Will to figure
out how to ask - as he makes Hannibal ask - for the boy to spend the weeks of
summer with him, here, and not sound like he is taking his freedom away.
But he wants him here, wants to wake to him late in the morning, watch the
drowsy way Hannibal smiles just before his lips part on a yawn he can’t
control, wants to press him to the mattress with whispered words against his
ear as he brings him over again and again until Hannibal is shaking, sobbing
and entirely contented.
Will skims his knuckles, so softly that it’s almost like a brush of soft air
against skin, and finds Hannibal unresponsive, balanced and comfortable enough
for sleep to take him, so Will bends, draws the tip of his nose warm up
Hannibal’s spine, from tailbone to the soft straight strands of dark blonde
hair and breathes him in.
He is a man, now, in many ways. The breadth of his body, how he uses it, the
depth of his mind and the experiences that have shaped him far older than his
years would ever indicate. But in that, too, he is still so young. A teenager,
for all that, and one who has never been allowed to be - has never allowed
himself to be, after his childhood was anything but that. Will imagines how the
time off would ease the strain he carries, sharpening the corners of his eyes,
tightening his frame into aggressive defense. He imagines Hannibal laughing,
loudly and freely, with nothing more to do than simply be.
Will sighs against his hair, enough to stir the ashen blonde strands but not
enough to stir the beautiful boy himself. Another soft snore is the only
response, features gentled in sleep, cheeks still dusky and warm where he holds
his head against his hand.
Will knows there is no exam the next day. He knows Hannibal has all of tomorrow
to study on this and then the weekend before his last few. He knows, and he
will tell him, if necessary, to stop, to lie still, to breathe and rest as much
as he needs.
He moves back down his body, kisses, now, feather-soft, where he had nosed
before, and still Hannibal does not stir, stands as he is, imagines beautiful
things Will can only think about and wonder at - he will never ask. He reaches
his tailbone, a hotter kiss there, and with a silent sigh, sinks to his knees
behind Hannibal, hands ghosting down his thighs to rest against them as he
settles behind.
Kisses just as soft, nuzzles just as intimate, and he feels Hannibal shift a
little, whether in sleep or nervous response he is unsure, it doesn’t matter,
and Will smiles against the soft curve of his thigh, the warm and sensitive
skin where thigh joins ass and parts his lips to breathe against it. Hands
gently squeeze skin, enough to part Hannibal’s cheeks and breathe against the
hot puckered little hole.
A moment, another, as Will finds Hannibal unmoving and unmoved, before he leans
in to run the tip of his tongue against him, once, again, before burying his
face between the cheeks of his boy and, with a quiet moan, spreading his tongue
wider against him.
Now Hannibal stirs, shifting up onto his toes with a little whimper, part from
the pull of pleasure that tugs him awake, and part from dismay of being
awakened at all. A fussy, small noise, turned against his hand as he rubs his
eyes, and they remain closed by choice as Will licks a broad stroke against his
opening once more. He is mostly asleep, still, wondering if it’s the heat of
the sun against his bare legs or Will’s hands, cock twitching against the lush
grass his mind still keeps beneath him. A lovely, sylvan thing, spread bare and
teasing against the earth, and Will the fisherman who has come to seek the
company of such a nymph.
Hannibal’s smile works itself wider and he bends deeper, to fold his arms
across his scattered notes and rest his head there, the curve of his back
arching his hips higher to present himself.
“Will,” sighs the boy, but the older man’s lips surround him as if in a kiss,
sucking against tender skin, and Hannibal finally finds wakefulness, the desk
warmed by his body rather than his body by the sun. He turns his head aside as
if to see, but cannot, and so buries his head in his arms again to trap the
sweet wordless plea that forms on his lips.
Will smiles, eyes slowly closing as he feels Hannibal wake up, tense in
pleasure, try to relax and tense again. He is beautiful. He is sleepy and warm
and entirely Will’s own and he wants to give him this until he finds his
pleasure and, shaking, settles back against Will where he sits. He wants to,
and he will. The soft pleas are enough of an asking without asking.
Will spreads him just a little wider and hums as he presses his tongue into
Hannibal, shallow little thrusts before he spreads it wider and pushes in
deeper still. Hannibal curls forward, shoulders bent and back arched up and
toes curling against the floor when he pushes himself higher up on them, to get
away, to get closer, to stretch himself in beautiful lines, it hardly matters;
he is exquisite.
Another hum and Will ducks his head to suck against Hannibal’s balls instead,
tonguing the silky skin, just barely drawing his teeth over it before returning
to the previous torment, hands sliding down Hannibal’s thighs to spread them
wider, praising him with a whispered word when he arches obediently back, and
Will leans in to devour him again.
Every curve of lips across his skin, every press of teeth, every suck and lick
and thrust jolts Hannibal’s heart faster, and he doesn’t bother trying to
control it - there is no need for that spitefulness here, not like with the
others who he would not give the privilege of feeling his pulse race. This is
not simply a reflex of his body, stimulated by the automatic reactions of nerve
endings. It is far more than that, pleasure given because it has been earned -
pleasure accepted because its intentions are good, and welcome, and not forced
from a place of another’s selfishness.
It is Hannibal, now, who is allowed to be selfish, and he revels in the
satisfaction not only of the physical delight that Will gives him, but the act
itself seeming one of worship. He sighs, a rough sound, breath fogging the desk
beneath his lips, and his fingers curl into fists as he rocks back against
Will’s accepting mouth. Another twist of hips, languid and lazy, until Will
presses palms to his thighs to hold him still and Hannibal grins in secret.
“May I touch myself?” Hannibal asks, his voice still coarse with sleep, accent
heavier.
Will smiles, pulls back enough to just nuzzle him, press his forehead to the
soft curves of Hannibal’s ass.
“No,” he breathes, delights in the shiver the word draws, the way Hannibal
shifts before obediently settling again, not petulant as a child would be. “No,
but I will let you, if you ask me again.”
Will waits, smiles wider at the silence, and turns to set his teeth against
Hannibal’s thigh in a brief but sharp nip, to feel him squirm before returning
to the gentle treatment of his body. Worshipful, intimate, Will giving himself
entirely in effort and devotion to the boy before him; only Hannibal’s pleasure
mattering, only his delight needed. This is for him, all for him, and Will sits
up, higher on his knees to push in deeper still and hear Hannibal’s voice
carry, wavering, through the warm room.
Hannibal bites his lip, not to stop the sounds that fill the room, gasps and
whimpers, moans and hitches, but to stop himself from asking again. There is a
wonderful challenge in this, delightfully infuriating in how hard his cock
stands now, brushing the desk when he’s rocked forward by Will’s tongue diving
inside of him, and how much he wants to adhere to Will’s instruction. He
tightens his fingernails harder into his palm and laughs, shaking, when Will
pulls back spit-slick and smiling to catch his breath, and sigh cool air
against Hannibal’s wet, reddened skin.
He tilts his head now, back over his shoulder, and can make out Will’s legs,
kneeling on the floor, his arm - sleeves shoved to his elbows - where he holds
Hannibal’s body open. Eyes barely open, Hannibal squirms forward to feel the
tip of his cock press against the cool wood of the desk, and back again, though
he is denied the heat of Will’s mouth as he does.
“Will you touch yourself, then, instead?” Hannibal asks, grinning, heels
digging against the floor as he spreads his legs a little wider.
Will laughs, a warm flutter of air against Hannibal before he sits back enough
to meet the boy’s eyes, his own narrowed and dark in pleasure, lips slick and
red before he draws his tongue over the bottom one and snares it between his
teeth.
“Is that a request or a command?” He asks, a playful allowance, and Hannibal
sets his thumb between his teeth in careful consideration. Will laughs, nods,
and keeps one hand against Hannibal, thumb stroking over damp sensitive skin as
his other slips down between his own legs to work his belt free, the button and
the fly before sitting up higher, his own knees spreading for balance, and
doing as Hannibal asks.
A slow drag and pleased sound and Will lets his eyes close as his smile widens
before he leans in to breathe his boy in, lips parted against him until Will is
as breathless as Hannibal is, and then he ducks to lick him again, as merciless
and relentless as before, his own pleasure driving him now to give Hannibal
more, Hannibal’s in turn cycling to fuel his.
Give and take.
Hannibal moans, a raw and unbridled sound, with no need to touch himself now
that he can hear Will’s hand sliding against his own cock. He loves this,
abandon and trust, to know that he brings Will to his knees, brings him
pleasure simply by bending for him, can stir the man so entirely. There have
been no demands from Hannibal, no control, but in the lack thereof there is a
particular power that tastes sweeter than any other the boy has found for
himself, to be served whatever he needs by giving up control to take it
himself.
He tilts his head back, to watch the tendons of Will’s forearms tighten as he
strokes himself off, and chokes back a weak sound when the sight of is
accompanied by Will’s tongue wriggling hot and deep inside his ass.
“I’m - may I - please -”
Will moans, a long, low thing, and pulls back to pant softly against Hannibal’s
skin, nuzzling a smile against him as his hand keep working, as his own voice
pitches just a little on the reply.
“Whenever you wish,” he sighs, biting his lip, releasing it, making a soft
sound in his throat before leaning in again, tonguing his boy with quick flicks
of just the tip to feel him shudder and twitch with the need for it. He does
not let himself cum, does not let himself get closer than the very edge,
squeezing himself hard and waiting, wanting to give Hannibal this, for himself,
allow the boy his own choice on what happens after and how.
Hannibal’s opening tightens and he laughs against his arms, tickled by the
teasing licks, skin prickled in goosebumps. “Please,” he begs, asking
beautifully, “please, hard again - suck, once more -”
Mouth closing around his twitching muscle, Will sucks firmly where his lips
meet taut, wrinkled skin, and Hannibal’s moan clips short as his body convulses
in a rough shudder against Will’s mouth, bridging his back and curving it deep,
hips twisting as he cums, entirely untouched. Globs of white spatter against
the desk as his cock pulses, each time burying Hannibal’s voice deeper,
silenced, until as his release drips to the floor, he eases back just as
suddenly as he tightened, and his groan rips free.
His knees nearly give way but he holds himself up, grasping the edge of the
desk and spreading along his belly, paperwork rumpling beneath him. Each quick
thump of his heart is heard in his breath, swallowing dry, lips parting as
Hannibal pants his pleasure against the desk.
“Inside me?” The boy asks, voice cracking as he splays himself.
“No.”
His body rocking almost mindless, he moans at the answer and pushes up onto his
toes. “On me?” Hannibal asks instead, tongue held against the sharp point of an
incisor as he watches Will over his shoulder.
Will laughs, curses softly against Hannibal’s sweaty thigh before pushing
himself to stand, to bend over his boy and nuzzle behind his ear.
“Did I ever tell you,” he murmurs, for the moment allowing himself to rock
against Hannibal, against his ass, sliding slick where his cock drips to skin
and his spit slowly cools. “How much I truly love when you become this
demanding with me?”
His tone is low, almost rough against Hannibal’s skin but his motions are
anything but, slow and deliberate, fingers coming up to stroke hair from
Hannibal’s face to kiss him there, smile when Hannibal turns and kiss him
properly, deeply, holding his chin so he doesn’t strain himself at the odd
angle.
“Such a possessive thing you ask of me,” Will tells him quietly, another nuzzle
before he lets Hannibal go and brings his hand down to stroke himself faster,
eyes closed and feeling Hannibal shudder beneath him, smelling him, touching
and tasting him as he feels himself get closer, closer, before Will pushes
himself up, and allows himself to mark Hannibal as he had wanted, hot and
claiming and territorial. A beautiful mess on a beautiful boy.
The first wet burst across his skin eases Hannibal’s breath, held tight in
anticipation, into a soft groan against the desk. He tilts his head, rubs his
cheek against it, shivering as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other,
pushed so high on his toes. Will’s cum tickles, warm and drying in a glistening
line where it runs over the swell of his ass, down straining thighs, over
strong calves. For a moment they remain just so, both breathless, dizzied with
shared enjoyment, relishing that they have brought the other such satisfaction.
“I normally detest it,” he murmurs, eyes closed and arms hanging off the other
side of the desk, entirely content to stay spread as he is. “An act of
infantile ego, an animal’s lack of restraint, and a mess. Entirely unsanitary,”
he sighs, before curling one arm against his chest, and settling his cheek
against the other, still outstretched. “I resent the thought that I can be
‘claimed’ by something so unimaginative as bodily fluids. I would rather them
spit on me, in truth, should they wish only to see me debased.”
He shivers again, cheeks darkening when another bead of semen slips down his
skin, and his eyes slip closed again.
“Yours,” Hannibal purrs softly, “I wear with pride.”
Will watches him, smile soft, hair messy where he had dragged a hand through it
to ground himself, and carefully puts himself together again before coming
around to look at Hannibal properly, face to face, and leaning in to gently
kiss him again.
“I will remember,” he says, soft, awe and wonder that he has been allowed to do
this, pride that Hannibal had wanted, had asked for it himself. He nuzzles his
nose gentle against Hannibal’s and hums quietly. “Go take a shower, my
beautiful boy. I will make us something to eat for when you get back. No more
study today.”
“But I wasn’t -”
“I dislike repeating myself.” Will’s tone dips but only in jest, his smile
wrinkles his nose in his pleasure, eyes narrowed, before he runs his fingers
through Hannibal’s hair and tugs it just enough for the boy to groan. “Go.”
Hannibal runs his tongue along his teeth, grin breaking bright and broad across
them before he reluctantly pushes himself back to his heels. Palms on the desk,
he bends this way and that, a delicious pull considering the utterly liquid
relaxation that his bones have melted into. He spends a moment tidying his
papers again, tucking them away, before taking his time in passing the kitchen
- hips shifting, skin still glittering where his own cum has dried against his
belly, Will’s streaking down his legs. He does, in honesty, feel entirely
filthy, but it’s worth it for the soft sound of delighted dismay he hears from
behind him as he makes his way towards the bathroom.
The shower hits scalding against his skin and he dips his head beneath it, not
to awaken but to clean, to further relax him towards the heavy-limbed
sleepfulness that found him before. It comes readily, washing against his skin
as he scrubs himself not with the scentless soaps he prefers, but with Will’s
instead, in hopes when has to leave again he might catch the lingering remnants
of it and imagine him near.
The thought, the deliberation of it, makes Hannibal laugh, and he can’t stop it
from sounding dire. A schoolboy crush, he tells himself, his own declarations
to the man replaying themselves and increasing in absurdity each time they echo
back. A human need, intrinsic to one who has been so long without a parental
figure, for someone to fill that space and provide guidance. An Electra
complex, or half of one anyway, in confusing his own proclivities with that
role.
A thousand reasons why he might love Will Graham, and none as satisfying as the
word itself.
Perhaps there is room in the human condition for more than psychological
analysis allows.
He dries his hair back out of his face, and slips into soft fleece sleep pants
that Will purchased for him to wear when he’s there. His fingers skip past the
soft cotton shirts that Will bought for him, though, to instead take up one of
Will’s own, a little snug, more well-worn, and his.
Entirely his.
Their eyes meet in passing as Hannibal pads barefoot and clean into the
kitchen, towards the refrigerator to feed the dogs as Will finishes setting the
table.
“How many finals are left?” Will asks, and Hannibal licks his lips in thought.
“Two, next week. I should be done by Wednesday,” he answers, and after a beat,
presses his mouth closed again.
Will considers the silence, considers the opening and considers his own rules
on asking. If you do not ask, you cannot know, and you may not get. He should
ask. A simple offer. There is a spare room, if he prefers and -
This is not a summer camp, and they are well beyond embarrassment about each
other and the space they share. He should ask him as an adult, an equal, if he
would like to spend time. Stay, perhaps, for however long he likes. Will feels
the words warm him, smiles, and asks.
"Make sure the dogs have water, too? They lick it dry in summer."
It is rare Will feels shame, and he is, in that moment, entirely ashamed of
himself for not asking. But he fears, though, beneath it all, that once the
words are out there their implications could travel deeper, to older scars and
brittle bones and Will is terrified that Hannibal will not stay, and more than
that, not come back at all.
He will not smother him. He had promised. He does not want to, he just... he
wants the company. He wants Hannibal.
"Do you allow yourself to relax, over the weeks before classes?" He asks
instead, a tentative gauge of interest, of availability, though Will still
bristles at the thought of others he has never told Hannibal to stop.
Hannibal ensures the smile that quirks at the question remains unseen, too
worried that the bitterness will show through like rot, a decay grown black
beneath his surface from being smothered so deeply, so long. He reminds himself
not to look for questions unasked, reminds himself that it is ruder still to
act on things unsaid and only imagined.
He reminds himself to be honest, here, rather than play the games he plays with
others, lying that they’re the only ones he sees, the only ones who matter.
Will sees through his lies too easily anyway, and it isn’t worth the resulting
tension to attempt it again, now.
“Historically, no,” he answers, carrying the stack of water bowls to the sink
to wash and refill. “From studying, a little, though it provides an opportunity
to read ahead before new classes begin. From,” Hannibal hesitates, “work,
entirely the opposite. It has, before, been a time in which I exhaust myself
with as many appointments as I can take, to pay off the new books required, the
lab fees…”
Hannibal steps away again, without looking towards Will. Guilt and ego war
entangled in him. The former, that for one who holds himself so highly, this is
still the most readily available means to him - he has learned, and been taught
- to pay the exorbitant costs of schooling. The latter, that dreads the
rejection the former convinces him he deserves. To ask is to open one’s self to
be declined, and for someone like Will, who lives so much of his life in
peaceable solitude, to want more time than he already has…
“Perhaps I will need to do less,” Hannibal says instead, carefully, “since my
books have already been graciously afforded to me.”
Will waits, a moment, two, turns to where Hannibal had gone. A hand fists
against the counter and relaxes again. He does not want to tell him, not tell
him. Offer. Suggest without implication. Just... something. Something more than
this, this fear holding them both at bay.
"I would like you to do less," Will says, winces at the wording but does not
retract it. "To read more, perhaps, exhaust yourself as you did today, on
study, not obligation."
He watches Hannibal as he fills the myriad bowls with fresh water, sets the
bottles away again where Will keeps them. Will bites his lip, holds his breath,
as nervous as he has ever been with another, and just -
"I would enjoy seeing you," he says, still careful, still trying, still - "As
often as my company is tolerable to you. In summer the forest comes alive, I
spend days in there just... letting the dogs run. Reading. Sleeping until
unexpected rain or very expected dogs wake me."
Will drags a hand against the back of his neck with a breath of laughter. "It
is nice here, in summer." Will swallows, closes his eyes and licks his lips
into his mouth, taking a breath. "I want to see you," he repeats, forcing his
eyes open, up, then finally to Hannibal. "But I will not make you see me."
Hannibal straightens, amid the flow of dogs that brush past him to the bowls at
his feet, and for a moment gives no more sign of the weight of Will’s words
than a softening of his shoulders. His back to the older man, he closes his
eyes, pushes his tongue across the back of his teeth, jaw working gently.
He has never wanted to be a kept boy.
He has never wanted to belong to someone, to the exclusion of what freedom he
has won for himself with blood between his teeth and bruises inside and out.
He has never wanted to let anyone else dictate to him what he can and cannot
do.
But Will isn’t asking for that, and Hannibal reminds himself not to look for
questions unasked.
He reminds himself to speak only the truth, and with a sigh and a hand against
his face, laughs.
“You are the only one,” he murmurs, “that I want to see.”
Will laughs again, relieved and pleased, and allows his smile to stay on his
face as he nods, returns to the stove to check their dinner. His heart hammers
against his chest and he keeps his breathing steady. He can hear Hannibal with
the dogs, not far at all, before he hears the click of bare feet against the
kitchen floor and ducks his head as Hannibal comes up, presses close between
his shoulders.
Will wants to tell him he can leave whenever he wants, that he does not have to
stay if it pulls at him to leave, if he feels trapped and smothered but he
knows, somehow, warm enough to pulse through his bones, that he does not need
to tell him that, that Hannibal already knows. That this is something he chose
on his own.
Will brings one hand down to slip his fingers between Hannibal’s and moves
their hands up so he can kiss the center of his palm, eyes closing and breath
shivering out against Hannibal’s fingertips. Then he turns to nuzzle against
his hand, smile still stretching wide just enough to show his teeth. He does
not say thank you, but he has never been more grateful in his entire life. Nor,
he thinks, kissing Hannibal's fingertips, more contented.
The boy ducks his head, lets it come to rest against the back of Will’s neck,
tilts it enough that his cheek rubs softly against the ends of the older man’s
curls. He closes his eyes and keeps their fingers twined, some feral panic
still howling in the back of his skull, that somehow this is all a deceit - a
long con, to what end he doesn’t know. It warns him to run from Wolf Trap, from
Will, from the feelings that fill in the empty spaces like magma, scalding hot
until it solidifies into something breakable and fragile.
But he has survived worse. His heart has been broken before. And never has he
had a home like the one Will has given Hannibal in himself.
Will does not want him for his body - Hannibal could deny him that, and he
knows that Will would not press. It is for those things harder to define that
Will wants him here - the same things that make Hannibal want to be here. These
warm affections, the company, shared thoughts and fascinations with what makes
the other whole, rather than merely certain parts of them. He wonders what
parts of Will others want him for, that he understands this so well, but
doesn’t ask.
It doesn’t matter. Not when Will is kissing his fingers, not when Hannibal does
not have to let himself be touched by anyone that he does not want to touch
him. Not when he can stay, protected and cared for, and for at least those few
weeks that now span so promisingly in front of him.
Hannibal’s laughter is only a breath, small and so young, and he shakes his
head before nuzzling closer. “I’ve never had a summer vacation before.”
“I am the worst person to introduce you to them,” Will responds, keeping their
hands clasped still, but stirring with the other. Thick soup today, pumpkin,
made earlier on a whim while Hannibal was studying. Cream in the fridge for it,
seasoning galore for whatever taste. He has a loaf of bread warming in the
oven, bought and fresh, but made all the better with a crust. “I spend mine
doing precisely what I do on my weekends.”
“Nothing else.”
“Little else.”
“What else?”
Will smiles wide, shakes his head. “I fish. Down in the stream. You can hear it
out the back of the house, but not see it.”
“Will you show me?”
“How to fish?”
“The stream.”
Will swallows, nods, turns to catch Hannibal’s eyes and lean closer to press
their foreheads together. Their mouths meet, a soft thing, unhurried now and
spreading as softly as they do throughout their bodies, tension unraveling,
twining instead with the other. Hannibal runs long fingers down Will’s cheek
and nuzzles against his cheek, smile widening as he recalls his dream from
earlier, doing little more than sleeping, reading, and sharing time together.
No classes.
No appointments.
Nothing but this.
“Are you sure?” Hannibal asks, and as Will’s eyes widen, the boy adds with a
smirk, “That you don’t only desire me here to feed the dogs in the morning, so
you can sleep.”
“I’m sure,” agrees Will, amused. “You know I’ve never asked you to do that.”
“No,” Hannibal smiles, allowing Will to turn back to the stove, but not yet
relinquishing the press of fingers against his back, working into the muscles
still bound tight there, as he draws his mouth against Will’s shoulder. “I
enjoy them.” He swallows, and adds, “But I feel -”
Will makes a questioning sound, and Hannibal hums.
“I feel as though I’ve gotten away with something.”
“With -”
“With not asking,” he whispers. It’s safe now, he knows, knows that he won’t
splinter what grows between them, fragile but theirs alone.
“So ask,” answers Will, watching Hannibal over his shoulder as the boy sinks
his thumbs against Will’s shoulder blades.
He draws a breath, and holds it, words muffled where he presses them to the
older man’s shirt. “May I stay?”
Will hums, considering, rolls his shoulders. He knows what Hannibal has asked,
felt it as much as heard it, beyond the vibration against his skin. But he
can’t resist, the little pout, the little flush that covers just the tops of
Hannibal’s cheeks before it spreads. He turns, arms settling against Hannibal’s
hips as he tilts his head.
“Clearly,” he says, watches the way the boy’s eyes narrow, not in displeasure
but exasperation, and raises his own eyebrow in question. A finger beneath
Hannibal’s chin and Will leans closer, enough to feel him breathe soft against
his skin. “Ask me clearly,” he whispers.
It’s so easy this way, and Hannibal feels it all across his skin, soft as
feathers, a ruffling shiver as his body and mind sync. There is no pressure, no
question of whether or not to question, simply a gentle guidance and a careful
touch. He holds his chin raised where Will moved it, and his eyes hood,
contentment darkening his cheeks.
“May I stay with you,” he asks again, “until I need to leave?” Hannibal leans
onto his toes, seeking a kiss but finding that Will moves back just a little,
and holds the boy in place. He presses his tongue between his lips, and
downturns only his eyes, chin still held high. “May I be yours, only, for my
time away from school?”
Will’s lips part on a breath and he leans close again to nuzzle soft against
Hannibal’s nose with his own.
“Good boy,” he breathes, swallowing, before bringing a hand up to stroke
Hannibal’s hair as he kisses him, a permission, acceptance, allowance, pride,
all. Everything. Anything this boy wants, Will will give him. He smiles when
Hannibal shifts a little, enough to wrap his arms over his shoulders. “My good
boy.”
They break only when Will directs Hannibal to the fridge for the cream, turns
to spoon their dinner into bowls for them, bends to get the bread from the oven
and break it open to allow it to steam and cool down.
Only then.
Because after that they make their way to the living room, squeezing onto the
couch together and turning on whatever is playing on whatever channel was last
used, and tangle their legs together as they eat their dinner.
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Summary
     Will hums, considering, before setting his feet flat to the floor,
     hands down against his thighs. “Aversion is one way to prevent a
     repetition of an unsavory act, in your case, the inability to achieve
     perfection on your first attempt. Inabilities come with consequences,
     Hannibal, and as I apparently cannot trust you to dole out your own,
     I will do so from now on.”
     He gestures, a brief and gentle thing, and his eyes are entirely
     amused despite the artificially grave tone.
     “Bend over my knees, set your hands to the floor.”
Will had laughed, pleased and delighted, when Hannibal had pounced on him that
morning and suggested they take the weekend as a weekend should be taken and
drink.
“At home,” Hannibal has assured, amused by Will’s narrowed eyes at the idea of
illegally taking his boy out to drink, as so many others do. “Just… get a few
things that can make different cocktails. Mix them up.”
“Have a killer headache in the morning?”
“It will be Sunday.”
So Will had agreed, to Hannibal’s delight, and had gone to gather the items
necessary while Hannibal had promised to stay put and study. And in truth, when
Will had returned, Hannibal was still obediently bent over the table, nose in a
book and hands working quick pencil sketches for his anatomy paper, little
annotations beside.
Will has no reason to doubt Hannibal had stayed there the entire time.
Now Will sits, glasses partially down his nose as he reads up on a topic he has
lectured a thousand times, merely to see if he can present it in a more
interesting way, while Hannibal fiddles with things in the kitchen. It’s late
afternoon, the sun lowering and painting everything in rich saturation.
Will glances up but does not catch Hannibal’s eye, before looking away with a
smile.
In truth, for the last few days, Hannibal has been studying for this nearly as
hard as he has his schoolwork, though he’d never let Will know it. ‘Accidental’
excellence has a particular resonance with the boy - conveying skills that seem
naturally given, their real effort unseen. His escort work has certainly been
an exercise in that, so that he is never surprised when a ‘new’ request is
made, but can feign it with all the charm and naïveté that his customers have
come to enjoy and perform it far above the station of one truly unfamiliar.
Schoolwork is less given to this particular whimsy, due mostly to the volume of
it that makes it difficult to keep inconspicuous.
But he has always enjoyed experimenting with cooking, when in rare times he has
had the opportunity to do so, and there is far less involved in making
cocktails, he wagers, than in perfecting an entire meal. The list he gave Will
was obscured enough to cover a gamut of possibilities, and he stands pleased
before the spread, bare but for the entirely unnecessary apron that he drapes
across his chest anyway, for formality’s sake.
An old-fashioned, he decides, to begin. Recalling the recipe from the same
library in the halls of his memory where he stores connecting ligaments and
chemical equations, he sets a single sugar cube into the glass, upturns bitters
across it, and waits as they simmer through. But the cube does not diffuse
entirely, and temptation beckons at his fingertips. Another dash, two, does the
job, and in such small amounts it should hardly matter. The sweetened mass is
muddled with a little water, orange peel skinned with a careful turn of a
knife, and set inside the glass alongside a cube of ice. A measure of whiskey
is poured across the top, though it hardly seems enough, but here Hannibal
stops himself, lips drawn between his teeth in reservation. He adds a cherry,
and stands back, hands against his naked hips, to study his creation before
delivering it to Will.
Will considers the drink delivered to him much less than he considers what his
boy is wearing. It’s comical and entirely playful and Will presses his lips
together before taking the drink offered and cradling it in his hand. He knows
Hannibal is watching him, waiting for a response, but all Will does is stroke
the stem of the cherry, take it between his fingers and carefully lean it
against the side of the glass, watching amber drops slip from it before raising
his eyes to Hannibal and narrowing them.
“Bend,” he says, a wonderful warmth in his chest when Hannibal does, hands on
either side of Will. “Open.”
He feeds him the cherry, setting the stem away, and watches him chew as he
takes a sip. Initially, the taste is not unpleasant before the bitterness hits,
and it almost cuts against his tongue with the strength of it. Will swallows
anyway, licks his lips and feels his brows shift a little in displeasure. He
can see, immediately, that Hannibal notices, and gently shakes his head,
reassuring.
“I like it sharper.”
Hannibal’s lips part, as if to offer explanation, but then thins them into a
line of eminent displeasure. The bitters. He should have known better - he did
know better - and he added more anyway.
“You don’t like it. It’s too strong,” Hannibal responds, and Will shrugs a
shoulder, still cradling the glass in his hand.
“It’s fine. Really.”
Eyes narrowing, a bare twitch of movement, Hannibal stands tall again and
smooths his hands down the apron. It’s fine - for your first time making it.
It’s fine - for it to be incorrect. He holds his hand out for the glass,
humming when Will shifts it away from him.
“Hannibal, honestly,” laughs Will, but Hannibal keeps his hand extended.
“It isn’t perfect,” he responds in a quiet huff. “And it should be.”
“You will learn,” Will tells him, gentle, but finds that Hannibal’s cheeks
pinken, his eyes turn away in that proud, stroppy way that suggests that he has
been learning, and it should be perfect, first time, every time, if Hannibal
Lecter does it. It is something Will finds both admirable and entirely
irrational on the boy’s part, he is an exceptional worker but he pushes, he
pushes himself to exhaustion and anger to attain an unreachable perfection.
So Will sets the glass down with a click against the side table, atop his book,
tilts his head and presses his fingers to his lips as he watches Hannibal
before him, confidence drained to a grey cloud of displeasure above him.
“It should be,” he amends, to Hannibal’s surprise, evident in the way he looks
at Will, brows furrowed and lips barely parted. “And you should have known
better, having learned.”
Will hums, considering, before setting his feet flat to the floor, hands down
against his thighs. “Aversion is one way to prevent a repetition of an unsavory
act, in your case, the inability to achieve perfection on your first attempt.
Inabilities come with consequences, Hannibal, and as I apparently cannot trust
you to dole out your own, I will do so from now on.”
He gestures, a brief and gentle thing, and his eyes are entirely amused despite
the artificially grave tone.
“Bend over my knees, set your hands to the floor.”
“What?” The word is spat, harsher than Hannibal means it to be but for his
failure that now finds him losing hold of his own tightly wound control. His
gaze sharpens, fingers stretching to prevent their snaring into fists, and he
scrutinizes Will closely, his utter calm, his feigned displeasure, a mimicry of
Hannibal’s own unhappiness.
“I dislike repeating myself,” Will responds, lifting his chin to regard his
student evenly, even as Hannibal’s jaw sets and shifts.
“Let me make another,” he insists. “I will do it correctly. I can.”
“You can,” agrees Will. “And you will. But for now you will bend, over my
knees, with your hands on the floor.”
The pop of his words, spoken deliberately, snaps Hannibal’s spine straighter
and he looks between Will and the glass, the glass and the kitchen, tongue
pressing between his lips before he steps closer. He has already made Will
repeat himself once - another failure, he tells himself - but he will not make
him do so again. It takes a moment, adjusting uncomfortably to adjust for his
own height, but finally, toes pressed against the floor and palms touching on
the other side, he rests heavy across Will’s knees.
Will hides his smile behind his fingers, delighted that he had done it, despite
the obvious hesitation, despite the obvious embarrassment. But if Hannibal
insists on convincing himself his perfection is his only worth, then Will will
show him otherwise. In a harmless, potentially pleasing way.
To him, at least, as Will sets a warm palm against the small of Hannibal’s
back, thumb stroking there. His other hand slips over his backside, down
Hannibal’s thighs, a gentle tap with his fingers brings the boy’s hips up
higher, and without warning Will strikes hard against the sensitive skin of
Hannibal’s thighs.
“What -”
“Down,” Will tells him, another sharp slap to emphasize his point, stroking
over the warm skin while Hannibal squirms against him. “And stay still. This is
entirely yours to take.”
Will’s hand slides up Hannibal’s back and to his hair, gently twisting in the
strands to bend him up, arch his back and push his hips higher still and ducks
his head to look at Hannibal, meet his wide dark eyes.
“Set your legs wider,” he tells him.
“But -”
Hannibal swallows hard as Will spanks him again, and the next sound from the
boy spread across his lap isn’t a protest, but a moan. His skin feels hot,
across the swell of his ass and his taut thighs, pulled longer still when he
obediently works his legs apart, elevated onto his toes to present himself
higher.
A hand twitches upward, to untrap his cock from where it’s held between Will’s
leg and his own body, perhaps to untie the stupid apron tied in a bow against
his back, but his palm hardly leaves the floor before Will pulls another moan
from him, by simply responding, “No.”
The boy forces his hands flat to the ground then, his weight almost entirely
held on Will’s legs, and even when Will releases his hair, Hannibal holds his
head back as it was before, cheeks scarlet with humiliation and want, both.
“I - I did read,” he admits, finally, voice syrup-thick. “I thought to learn
for you and - I should have practiced -”
“Should have,” Will says, spanking hard against the inside of Hannibal’s thigh
to draw a gasp from the boy, to watch his muscles clench and tremble. “Should
be.” Another. Another. Until Hannibal is near rocking back to receive them,
skin pink and hot, and Will rests his hand against the swell of his ass and
strokes his thumb over one cheek as his fingers just brush against where
Hannibal is hard between his legs.
“Will it be?”
“Yes.” The boy shivers, and Will turns his hand with a hum to stroke down the
length of him, back up, before letting him go.
“Stand up,” he says, sits back enough for Hannibal to do so unhindered. When
he’s stood, Will crosses one leg over the other, teeth working the corner of
the inside of his lip as his eyes remain narrowed in pleasure at the outcome of
their day, unexpected as it was.
“Now,” he says carefully, setting his fingers against the rim of his glass and
taking it up again. “This is bitter, and I would like another better suited to
my taste.” He holds the glass out, waits for Hannibal to take it before smiling
and pushing his glasses up his nose and sitting back. “Take your time.”
For a moment, Hannibal simply stands, the hum in his ears like buzzing bees and
his lips softly parted in surprise and confusion both. His skin tingles, and he
reaches back as though to smooth the ties of his apron but instead traces his
fingers down the curve of his own ass, hot to the touch and - he’s sure - very
red. Cock standing rigid, he is at a loss as to what to do, what he wants,
humiliated to blushing dark beneath his eyes, and wanting - oh, he wants, and
he swallows hard as he turns towards the kitchen.
What he doesn’t feel, though, is the frustration - the simmering anger at
himself for his mistake. It is quieted, drowned out by his own pulse, by pain
that stretches hot down his legs when he walks, by the dizzying tension of his
erection. He palms against it, for a moment, hand dipping beneath his apron to
pull a long stroke and sigh, shaking as he braces his other hand against the
counter.
Another slow tug, another, lip bitten between his teeth, until he forces
himself to stop when the glint of ice in the glass catches his attention. His
eyes narrow.
He pours it, rinses the glass clean, dries it, and begins again.
Sugar cube. Two dashes - only two - of Angostura bitters. A splash of water.
Muddle, add orange peel and ice cube. Jigger of whiskey. Stir. Cherry.
Perfect.
The cherry is still lazily circling the glass as he carries the old-fashioned
back out to Will, stalwartly ignoring how the apron tents across his bobbing
cock. He holds his breath as Will takes it, and with his eyes closed as if to
steel himself, he turns aside and in a feline stretch, sprawls himself once
more across Will’s legs, careful this time to not catch his hard-on between
their bodies.
Will follows the motion with gentle amusement, uncrossing his legs for Hannibal
to rest comfortably over him. He eats the cherry himself, this time, savoring
the sweetness, as his boy bends for him, ass still dark pink from where Will
had laid his hand just minutes before. He is beautiful, and Will finds himself
almost unable to hide a smile. He takes a sip of his drink and with a hum,
brings one hand down to grasp Hannibal’s chin and gently lift it.
“Taste this for me,” he says, careful in tilting the glass so Hannibal doesn’t
choke. He watches the way the boy’s throat works to swallow, how he licks his
lips with just a peek of his pink tongue before dark eyes turn up to Will,
questioning.
“Too bitter?” He asks, and Will’s smile widens as he brings the drink to his
lips again, eyes never leaving Hannibal’s as he savors the mouthful and shakes
his head.
“I very much like it.”
Will watches the confusion of emotions war on Hannibal’s face, pleasure at
success, disappointment at the lack of more reminders of perfection. He is
lovely, and Will continues to drink as he watches to see what Hannibal will
decide to ask for.
The clink of ice pulls a shiver of pleasure through the boy, despite how
sincerely this whole experience has short-circuited his otherwise restrained
sensibilities. Knowing that he has done well this time and that Will is
enjoying it, aching to feel his bare skin reddened again by the flat of his
professor’s hand, and above all, so hard it feels like he’s been hit in the
stomach.
A soft sound, needy and small, falls from Hannibal’s lips as he adjusts
himself, shoulders shifting to better place his hands against the floor, hips
twisting to plant his toes against the ground, legs spread and cock held
against the side of Will’s leg. He wants everything and nothing - to be
spanked, fucked, worshipped, praised, punished, ignored entirely and left to
simply listen to the satisfaction he has brought to Will.
The satisfaction he brings him now, too, Hannibal hopes, as he holds himself
steady. He asks for nothing, for long minutes, and the next sound spasms hot
from flushed lips when he feels the cold glass set against the small of his
back to rest there. His hair slips into his face and he does not move to sweep
it back, as still as he can be despite the involuntary movements of his
muscles, quick as firecrackers.
“Two dashes of Angostura,” Hannibal murmurs, nearly purring. “Not four.”
“Good boy,” Will praises him, tickling cold fingers down Hannibal’s spine just
to watch him shiver, to watch the motion reflected on the surface of the liquid
in the glass. Then lower still, fingers trailing over sensitive skin, down to
Hannibal’s thighs, stroking the insides of them, up and down until he makes
that needy little noise again and Will hushes him just to watches the way
Hannibal bites his lip to obey.
“And you will remember?”
“I will remember,” Hannibal whispers, and Will moves to cup him in his palm,
stroking against his balls until Hannibal whimpers, presses up and back against
Will’s hand and Will clicks his tongue softly to remind him the glass is still
balanced there.
“You did this so well, and I have to wonder why,” Will strokes him again, “you
are bent over my legs again?”
He watches as Hannibal considers his words, forces himself still as Will keeps
touching him, elbow resting against the arm of his chair as he tilts his head
to watch Hannibal’s lips part slack, his throat work to swallow, his fingers
fold to fists on the floor.
“I made you ask twice,” Hannibal manages finally, words curled as a question at
the end, and his dark eyes seek, for just a moment, up to meet Will’s, lip
between his teeth, nervous, needy, and so, so hard against Will’s leg. Will
looks, considers, watches as Hannibal thinks of asking and just how quickly his
pride stops him, and gives it a moment more, another, before lifting his chin
from his fingers.
“So you did,” he agrees, and without a word slaps sharply against the pale skin
on the insides of Hannibal’s thighs. “I would advise against moving, the drink
will spill.”
Hannibal’s sigh rolls slowly from him, trembling but released with control,
lest a sharper exhalation unbalance the precariously perched cocktail. He digs
his toes harder against the floor, keeps his hands fisted, and lets his eyes
slip closed to savor the white noise washing in waves over him as Will’s hand
connects again.
Only Hannibal’s heart moves at the slap, tempo quickening each time he feels
Will’s palm smack hot against his thighs. His pert backside, smooth and
scarlet, jiggles with each spank he receives, but Hannibal lets himself ride
the sweet sting that sings through him. It carries him almost out of his body
entirely, and he whimpers again only in gratitude when the anxiety, the furious
insistence on perfection, the frustration all ebbs away. There is only
pleasure, spurred sharp by pain - there is only Will, who can ease his mind so
entirely.
He shivers despite his control when cool knuckles skim along tender skin, drawn
along the inside of his legs, following the swell of his ass. The glass drips
against his skin, condensation trickling a ticklish trail down his side to soak
a dark spot against pants, and it’s enough to awaken Hannibal from his reverie,
his cock leaking a matching darkness where it rubs against Will’s leg.
He moans, and Will stops his hand, rubbing his palm instead over Hannibal’s red
skin as the boy shivers. Will takes the glass with his other hand and finishes
the drink, setting it down and praising Hannibal, for staying still, for being
a good boy, for being his good boy. He listens as Hannibal pants against him,
trembling and wide-eyed, leaking warm against Will’s pants and Will entirely
uncaring.
He brings his hand up to pull the string on the apron, loosening it and gently
bending Hannibal’s head forward to slip the thing from him, setting it aside on
the floor to hold his boy entirely bare for him.
Will’s hands stroke over tense shoulders and squeeze gently there, working the
tension from his muscles, pulling a groan from him, then up his back, flat
palms just rubbing skin to feel Hannibal pleasantly shiver from it, bend up to
it, arch his back against it, then down, lower, over red slapped skin, just to
hear Hannibal hiss, to feel the heat of his punishment. Will bends to kiss
there, as well, drawing a sound from Hannibal that Will softly hushes.
He guides Hannibal to rest against his thighs, not arch up over them, soothing
hands down behind his knees to bend them, to have Hannibal utterly relaxed,
shaking from adrenaline and pain and utter euphoria. Will spreads his legs,
just a little more, and brings his fingers to Hannibal’s mouth for him to suck.
Little things, lazy and languid pulls of his tongue until Will draws his hand
free, slick, and brings it back to press slowly into Hannibal, first one
finger, then the second, making a soft sound himself at the tightness, the way
Hannibal instinctively clenches around him.
“Beautiful, beautiful boy,” Will whispers to him, free hand curling through
Hannibal’s hair. “I am so proud of you.”
The sound Hannibal makes is not drawn from the delicious stretch of his body
around Will’s fingers, the slow push that fills him only to withdraw teasing
again, but from the words that fill him even more entirely. A heart-breakingly
soft whimper, gratitude and satisfaction all at once, to know that there is
someone, anyone, in the world beside himself who is proud of him. It hardly
matters that it’s for not spilling the drink from his back, for making it in
the first place, Hannibal feels the praise spread through the dark places
between his bones and shine light on them.
Will is proud of him.
He matters to Will.
Roughly he grips Will’s leg with a hand to steady himself, head bowed. His body
opens for Will, his being opens for him, he moans throaty and raw in release of
all the tension he carries innately and further inflicts on himself. Rocking
himself against Will’s thigh, he seeks friction against his cock, pushes back
to feel Will’s fingers push deeper, faster, and when Will spreads them to
stretch him further, Hannibal laughs, shaking.
“I -”
Will hums, questioning, but does not slow from pumping his fingers inside the
boy who lays trembling over his lap. He strokes when they slip out, curving
them against the sensitive nub inside his body, and choking Hannibal’s words
short again.
“I want -”
“What do you want, sweet boy?” Will croons, and another shudder laughs through
Hannibal before he bites his lip, releases it flushed and damp.
“I want you to be proud of me.”
It is such a profound request, so enormous in its vulnerability, and for a
moment Will holds his breath, the drag of fingers deliberate and deep, pulling
more desperate sounds from his boy as Hannibal's feet slip over the carpet in
his struggle to rut more.
"I have been," Will assures him gently, the truth of the words curling Hannibal
over him, "for a very long time. And I certainly am, now."
For the maturity and thoughtfulness of Hannibal’s actions regarding them and
what they are. For his carriage before they developed whatever this is. For his
trust. His courage, his strength... for wanting to make cocktails on a random
day in summer for them to enjoy.
Will turns his hand, stretches further, and bends to kiss Hannibal’s hair in
something like reverence.
Squirming against Will’s leg, Hannibal releases a breath from deeper inside
himself than the others before it, a relief at putting his needs into words and
having them heard, answered, respected by one who Hannibal himself has grown to
respect so much. It’s almost comical to think of his stringency early on, in
charging Will for every call or visit, however innocuous, in hopes to dissuade
the man’s persistent interest, and at least make it worth Hannibal’s own while
in the meantime.
And all he ever truly needed was to let slip his fierce control, and allow
himself to ask.
The bend of Will’s fingers sets of supernovas behind Hannibal’s eyes,
fluttering closed on a long, low moan. His trembling has become a steady
vibration, rattling heart and lungs, belly and cock, and he feels the resonance
pitching higher, faster, snaring tight enough to leave him breathless.
“I’m going to,” gasps Hannibal, fingers shaking where he holds to Will’s ankle.
“I - your pants -”
Will turns his head against Hannibal in a fond nuzzle and does not relent in
the pleasure he's giving, relishing the shaking, the soft sounds, just
everything about this boy. He kisses behind his ear, noses, tickling, at the
lobe and sighs.
"Let go, Hannibal," he whispers. Let yourself. I will catch you.
And when his boy does, Will strokes through it, lips parted on a wide grin as
his words warm with a laugh, telling Hannibal he is so good, he did so well,
Will is proud of him. So, so proud of him.
Will strokes until Hannibal jerks a certain way and he knows to stop. Careful
hands, strong around Hannibal’s middle, pull him back against Will, back to
chest, soothing the hiss of pain as the sensitive spanked skin rubs over
fabric. Will lets Hannibal adjust how he sits on his own, his arms up around
Will’s neck, breathless, languid kisses to his lips.
He twists and writhes, hips bucking in aftershocks of pleasure, savoring the
scrape of Will’s trousers against his tender spanked thighs. The cocktail is
sweet on Will’s lips, traced with the tip of Hannibal’s tongue before they ease
into another long kiss. Hannibal hums as Will spreads his hands up his bare
belly, across his chest, tugging gently against the soft fluff thickening
there. His lips drift into the scruff on Will’s strong jaw, against the curve
of his neck, pliant and pleased in the man’s arms, having opened for him and
found himself held firm.
“Another?” Hannibal grins, eyes closed and cheeks dark as he tilts his nose
against Will’s cheek.
“Already?”
“Another cocktail,” clarifies Hannibal with a huff of amusement, body rolling
forward from Will’s as he moves to stand. The ground is unsteady beneath him,
dizzy, but he holds himself straight and allows the sensation to settle, his
blood to flow slower again, flushed pink across the rises of his body.
“And one for yourself,” Will tells him. He watches Hannibal lift the glass and
stride away, stretching an arm behind his head, and glances to the dark
dampness drying stiff across his leg.
Will draws a hand over his face and leans back in his chair before pushing
himself to stand. He feels entirely alive, entirely fulfilled despite being
hard still, despite Hannibal never once touching him, or offering his body for
use. He had, instead, offered it for pleasure, for the sting of a playful
punishment that was anything but. Will can hear Hannibal in the kitchen,
shifting confidently, bottles clinking as he selects his ingredients.
That confidence. That joy, that is what Will aims for, every time they are
together. To see it is entirely gratifying. To experience it is a gift.
He changes quickly, into a pair of worn jeans, soft from age, and decides that
he can forgo a shirt, if Hannibal can forgo clothes entirely. When he returns,
it is to the kitchen, snaring Hannibal around the waist and kissing his neck.
He tilts his head to the side, eyes hooding as Will’s beard rubs soft against
him. “Manhattans,” Hannibal tells him, with a flourish of delight. “To continue
with whiskey cocktails, and avoid the ill-effects of changing liquors once
we’ve begun.”
A quick stir sends the ice spinning, and Hannibal lifts a glass to offer back
to Will. He shivers when a drip of condensation hits his bare skin, watching
with pleasure as Will sips, amber liquid clinging to his bottom lip. Before he
can lick it away, Hannibal sets the glass aside and turns in close to draw
Will’s lip between his own, and savor the sweet burn from his mouth directly.
Will’s approval is a hum caught in their kiss and Hannibal grins at it, rising
to his toes to steal another quick kiss before he twists in Will’s loose
embrace to pluck the cherry from the cocktail. Coy, proud, all too aware of his
own loveliness, his lips curve to suck the whiskey from it, bright red fruit
popping free before his mouth slackens in sympathy, eyes hooded, and he offers
it to Will in turn.
Will hums, parts his lips to take it, closes his teeth gently around the stem,
eyes narrowing in pleasure when Hannibal tugs it free and leaves the sweet
cherry in his mouth. Will’s teeth crack the skin and he savors the taste before
catching Hannibal's cheek with his hand and kissing him, feeding the tart
sweetness to him in slow rolls of his tongue.
"Should we be responsible adults and eat dinner first?" Will asks, lickig his
lips as he watches Hannibal lean to rest back against the counter.
"No."
And it is Will, this time, who shivers at the word.
"No?"
"No." Hannibal grins and Will takes his cocktail in response, eyes on the
beautiful boy before him, and downs it.
"Keep up, then."
Back arching, Hannibal presses his palms against the counter and stretches,
bare and satisfied, limber and lovely. His eyes narrow, crinkling in pleasure
as he takes up his glass and spins the ice in it, brow lifting. Throat working,
he swallows the cocktail in a few sips, and shudders as the whiskey singes warm
down to his stomach.
“I’ve always resented my clients’ attempts to inebriate me,” he muses, taking
Will’s glass to make another. He bends over the counter a little more than
necessary, delightfully aware that Will is still half-hard from before. “They
think they need it in order to coerce me, or control me. I dislike the
sensation - it requires much more effort on my part to keep my wits about me
than otherwise.”
He mixes the drinks as though he’s done it all his life, measuring vermouth and
rye, dashing the bitters in, adding fresh cubes of ice.
“I’ve devised, by necessity, dozens of ways to avoid it happening. Tricks that
barkeeps use when customers insist they drink with them, how to appear to
swallow without doing so - a useful trick for more than just alcohol,” he adds,
wry, as he turns again and offers another cocktail to Will.
“I won’t make you,” Will responds, and Hannibal’s smile curls wide as he lifts
his chin.
“I resent my clients’ attempts to make me drunk,” he purrs again, gently
stressing the word that in no way now describes Will.
Will steps closer, just enough to frame Hannibal against the counter, brings
the drink to his lips. There is a strange heat in listening to Hannibal dismiss
his others, a coy and beautiful thing that they want to own and are far from
even coming close to it. A beautiful boy who has allowed that to Will alone.
"You can sweet talk all evening, Hannibal, but it was at your insistence we
have these today. So you are, in fact, attempting to make me drunk." Will
clicks his tongue, a sound almost hollow in his mouth, the sound he uses to
chastise his dogs. Blue eyes narrow and Will takes a sip.
He would go to his knees for this boy, at his words, at his asking. Willingly a
slave to his mind and his confidence, unashamedly to his body. Will leans in to
paint a thick, cold stripe against Hannibal’s neck with his tongue before
setting his lips against it to suck.
He shivers at the feeling of hands against his hips, cold fingers and hard
knuckles, head already pleasantly fuzzy from the drinks, contented to get
Hannibal there as well, to taste mumbled words and drowsy grins.
Hannibal leans back to feel Will’s weight against him, secure and comfortable
beneath the older man, pleased always by how their bodies fit flush together.
Bare chests pressed, bare stomachs, hands and mouths delighting in whatever
part of the other they find. Hannibal lifts his chin, head tilting as Will
works damp kisses across his collarbone.
“I’ve never been drunk of my own volition,” he responds, words sharpening into
a soft hiss as teeth tease across his bones. “I’ve never felt safe enough to do
so around another, nor seen the reason to do so on my own. It has always seemed
irresponsible.”
He runs a hand up Will’s back, teasing fingertips against his spine, sinking
into his hair to grasp and tug just hard enough to part Will’s mouth from his
chest and bring it to meet his own instead. For a moment more, he holds Will
there, blush spreading across his nose, spilling beneath his eyes as he feels
the sway he has over this man, clever and admired, impatient and stubborn,
given to him because he has first allowed Will to hold sway over him.
Entirely, wholly, his.
"Let me think of responsible," Will offers, words warm, so far from a skeevy,
slick deal with the devil at a bar, that trust again, that promise Will had
made, to take his burdens and allow a pleasant numbness to Hannibal's mind.
"Let me take responsibility."
He goes as Hannibal directs him, lips parting almost obediently to take
Hannibal's again, hot with drink and comfortable arousal. He goes when Hannibal
grips his hair tight enough to bend Will back and bare his neck. And kisses in
turn, now, devouring things, with teeth and rough tongue and the promise of
bruises.
Will’s hands seek down, grasp Hannibal’s thighs to hoist him up, first against
himself, then higher still to the counter. Will laughs as Hannibal keeps his
legs snared around him, and strokes down to his ankles and back up again,
dragging pink lines with his nails.
The counter feels wonderfully cool against his backside and curls a shiver
through his spine. Hannibal tightens his legs to keep Will against him, hands
spread behind himself to stay supported, and he shifts back just a little when
Will leans in to snare him in another kiss, grinning.
“It’s going to be difficult to make drinks for you this way,” he teases.
“I bought good whiskey,” counters Will. “And there’s no better way to enjoy it
then poured straight.”
The roughness of his voice is like the rocky shore to the stormy blue of Will’s
eyes, and Hannibal sighs delight in allowing himself to be overcome by the slow
roiling strength of the man between his legs. Without loosening them, Hannibal
leans to drag their glasses closer, upturning one finger of whiskey into one,
two into the other. He takes the larger pour for himself and when Will raises a
brow, Hannibal’s cock twitches, stomach squeezing pleasurably.
“I’m one behind,” he reminds Will with a coy smile, before downing the drink in
at once.
Will watches, bites his lip in deep pleasure, watching his boy wince slightly
at the taste but still drink it. For himself. Because he wants to. In truth,
they shouldn’t have many more, they will already have killer headaches in the
morning neither need but - as Will follows suit and downs the thing with a hiss
- he doubts either will stop.
Because neither of them want to.
Will leans into the hands that frame his face and smiles, eyes narrowed, as
Hannibal slides his glasses off and sets them away. He does not care if the
evening ends with them sweaty and filthy or just curled together in sleep, both
outcomes will be exceptional, either outcome Will is very happy to steer
towards.
“Now we’re even, my barman,” Will tells him sliding his hands back to grasp
warmly against Hannibal’s ankles before stroking his palms back up to cup his
ass where he sits. “What shall we do next?”
Three drinks deep is enough to warm Hannibal already, simmering outward from
the furnace of his belly, flickering embers through his veins. His cheeks are
ruddy from it, lips flushed and body loose, comfortably balanced between his
naturally lithe movements and a more uncontrolled ease. One ankle unlocks from
the other, and Hannibal lowers it to hook his foot around Will’s leg. It brings
their hips together, and poised so close to the edge of the counter, it’s all
too easy for Will to pull him free of it and hold Hannibal’s weight against his
own.
The boy grins and ducks their foreheads together, thumbs stroking against
Will’s cheeks as his body finds a natural balance - a dancer’s build, strong
and thin, innately elegant as he holds himself perched on Will’s hips.
“Is it too cold to go outside?” Hannibal asks, and Will laughs.
“As you are?”
“Bare?”
“Yes. It’s too cold for you to go bare.” Hannibal hums, considering anyway, as
Will adds, “And too dark.”
“To go walking?”
“To turn an ankle and get lost in the woods?” Will teases. “Perfectly dark for
that.”
Hannibal simply smiles, running a hand back through Will’s hair so that he can
press their cheeks together, turning softly to feel the man’s beard against his
smooth skin. The appeal of inebriation becomes rather immediately clear to the
boy, now that he has been given the freedom - the safety - to enjoy it. There
is a particular freedom he feels, as if no answer he could give would be a
wrong one, and no need to temper and consider every movement, thought, or word
to present himself just so.
“How else might you contribute to my delinquency,” Hannibal wonders aloud,
lanky arms slipping around Will’s neck. “Beyond providing me intoxicants. I am
entirely your responsibility now, professor.”
“Obviously a strong hand is not enough to deter you from thoughts like this,”
Will muses back, carrying Hannibal to bed and letting him fall to it, limbs
flailing till he bounces and laughs, squirming, where he’s been dropped.
“Perhaps next time I’ll use something else.”
“I am terrified,” Hannibal replies, and Will allows a growl, low in his throat,
before pinning him down and kissing beneath Hannibal’s jaw. In truth, Will is
not sure what they could do, should do. In truth, they can do anything. He
thinks how a tryst in the cold forest would go and laughs at the thought, at
the way they would get lost in the dark, find a less than perfect tree, and
with the haze of alcohol around them, warming them, would hardly care.
“I want you,” Will admits, like it’s a secret, as though he isn’t rubbing up
against Hannibal’s thigh in slow, long pulls. “Delinquent and all. What’s to be
done about that?”
Hannibal squirms as though to escape, only a feigned and intentionally
fruitless effort, grin breaking wide when he feels strong familiar hands
capture his hips to hold him in place. “Self-restraint,” he poses, but the
squint of his eyes betrays his genuine pleasure at this gentle play.
“Maintaining one’s composure,” he laughs, sighing as Will’s teeth graze his
bared throat, “in the face of insurmountable temptation.”
“I think your temptation seems very mountable,” Will quips, and Hannibal feigns
shock in an arched brow and widened eyes. He can hardly hold the look, though,
and gathers his arms around Will, curls a leg across his ass, toes digging into
the waist of his jeans. It is aimless rutting, friction and contact, skin
against skin, and entirely comfortable. And in it all, Hannibal feels desired -
not as a thing to be claimed and held captive, but a prize to be won through
patience and reliability.
A prize that has been won, as much by Hannibal’s own choice as by Will’s
efforts.
Whiskey-hot and languid, Hannibal closes his eyes as the room undulates in time
with the rhythm of their bodies. He reminds himself that he does not have to
perform now, to play a part or discern desires to emulate. He does not need to
tighten his stomach and pitch higher his voice. He does not need to be anything
other than who he is, as he is, entirely.
And he does not want for anything more than this, the sweet fumbling and clumsy
kisses that were never his to savor in youth as they were for others. Hannibal
feels his age, unfocused and impetuous, and wonders if there are any words
sufficient to describe the strangeness of the sensation. Made brave by security
as much as by liquor, Hannibal rests his hands against Will’s chest to turn him
to his back, an uncertain glance shared between them before Hannibal works his
leg between Will’s own, the other when the older man shifts to widen his, and
Hannibal presses down against Will and seeks a kiss.
It is given, warm, sloppy, and grinning, and Will’s hands come to slip
Hannibal’s hair from his face as he watches him. Slowly, Will draws his knees
up around the boy, the denim on one nearly worn through from use, and licks his
lip into his mouth. He has rarely entertained the idea of allowing someone to
own him in this way, but this boy owns him entirely. And even in this, Will is
happy to oblige him.
He arches, seeks his own friction against Hannibal, curls his toes in the
sheets and tilts his head with a smile. Lazy, languid, hot from whiskey and
relaxed, he sets his feet against the insides of Hannibal’s calves and slowly
draws his legs wider, pulling Hannibal closer in the process.
“Ask,” he murmurs, nuzzling up but ducking out of a kiss with a grin.
Hannibal blinks, uncertainty glowing in his cheeks. He wasn’t going to, he
tells himself, it isn’t what he’s used to - isn’t what he’s best at. An
exceedingly rare occurrence, when so many that he’s been with would rather have
him spread, than to let something so slight and pretty have them instead. He
wasn’t going to, he tells himself, until Will sighed that word against his
skin, and it echoes like a stone down a well, rising up from inside him.
He sighs against Will’s cheek, his youth on display in wanting so much, arms
trembling where he holds himself above the older man. Maybe it isn’t what he’s
made for, but according to whom? Nameless faces too readily forgotten, none who
matter at all when Will sees that Hannibal was made for so much more.
“Can I?” Hannibal asks, and he blushes dark when his voice cracks on the
question.
Will hums, warm, at the tilt in Hannibal’s voice, the tremble through his limbs
that he tries to hide by clinging tighter to the blankets. He wonders if he has
done this before, not patronizing but merely curious, what people bought him
for, those he did not hate or fear. Curious what ‘company’ entails if
Hannibal’s idea initially had been to prepare for a night of Will having him
against the wall in the same restaurant they had eaten together.
He blinks up, stretches his arms up over his head and rests them gently clasped
together. Open, vulnerable and entirely trusting, as new to this as Hannibal
is, finding that whiskey is doing wonders for his confidence in this, where he
would question himself and trip up on his own thoughts were they sober.
He wants Hannibal, he knows, in any capacity possible. He wants him like this.
Will parts his lips with a slow breath, a slow blink and smiles. “Please.”
If only everything in life could be so simple.
Hannibal returns the smile, ducking his head as it widens to a grin and rocking
the length of his body down against Will’s as he kisses open-mouthed against
Will’s neck. Boyish enthusiasm, drunk and entirely at ease, he sucks a little
harder to leave a mark under Will’s jaw, where he will see it tomorrow and
remember, where others too might see it and know that someone loves this man
enough to claim him so.
Clumsy fingers work loose Will’s jeans, hand spanning to slide them from his
hips and shifting, a messy tangle of limbs and little laughs until both are
bare and the pants are pushed from Will’s feet. Hannibal is never one to miss
an opportunity for display, however, and with a preening tilt of his chin, he
lifts his own fingers to his lips and sucks them slick, holding Will’s
attention entirely when he drags them against his lips, and works them deep
again. A flash of tongue, circling as he draws them out wet, and slips his hand
between Will’s legs.
“Have you, before?” Hannibal asks, a sweet curiosity simmering warm in place of
insecurity.
Will watches him, eyes blown wide and dark with need and nerves both, and he
keeps his legs set wide where they were before, arms still above his head as he
savors the pulse he can feel in his throat against the bite Hannibal had left.
A mark that is entirely his to leave, a mark that Will is not going to cover,
meet the eyes of anyone who stares until they no longer stare.
“Never with a man,” he says, catches Hannibal’s eyes as he processes the words
and watches his eyes widen gently before laughing, bringing one hand down to
rub his face before dropping it up behind himself again. “A certain woman tried
with her hand. But I was young and stupid and remember that night in flashes of
a strobe light. Perhaps that’s for the best.”
Hannibal laughs, just a nervous thing and Will grins wider, tipsy and confident
and adoring. “Consider this a very welcome first,” Will tells him, biting his
lip before letting it go. “Have you?”
A gentle nod, and then just as soon, Hannibal shakes his head. “Not often,” he
admits, finding it easier, now, for so many reasons to set aside the history
that hangs weighted on his shoulders. “Very not often,” he amends, grinning
crooked when Will smiles a little wider at the words. “And not at all with
anyone I cared about.”
He swallows hard, savoring the word he nearly used instead, and letting it warm
him as much as the whiskey has.
“A first for you too, then,” Will responds, lifting a hand to slip his fingers
over the curves of Hannibal’s cheek, and the boy sighs so suddenly that he
nearly loses his will entirely. The touch, the words, the forgiveness and
acceptance, it’s dizzying, to be given back these moments that were
relinquished to unwanted others.
When Hannibal tilts his cheek into Will’s palm to kiss, without a sound, he
breathes the words he didn’t say, just to imagine that he has, and let them
loose from his lungs like birds from a too-small cage. His fingers seek, circle
and caress, patient as he wishes it had been for him in his first time, waiting
until Will relaxes with a sigh before he presses in.
Far from unpleasant, and Will hums, raising his hips for Hannibal to touch him
more, encouraging, comfortable, and he draws one hand through Hannibal’s hair
to bend him down to him, nuzzling warm, groaning warm soft things against
Hannibal’s lips. He thinks about him when he’s away, when he’s on a case, in
some motel room he can’t remember the name of, with the sign outside that
buzzes till the early hours, Will thinks of Hannibal’s hands. He thinks of how
they fold, and how his fingers seek and play. Delicate hands, but strong,
beautiful fingers - a surgeon’s hands, the hands of an artist.
And Hannibal is both. Will be both.
“I dream about you when you’re not here,” Will admits to him softly, lips
parting as Hannibal carefully eases in a second finger and throat clicking with
a non-sound of need. “You hold me entirely in thrall.”
Things perhaps he shouldn’t say, needn’t say, and he hopes he’s allowed the
excuse of alcohol, if Hannibal takes offense, tenses at the possessiveness, or
worse, the genuine adoration that Will has for him.
Instead, Hannibal seems to unfurl at the words, stretching along his spine,
spreading his shoulders wide in pleasure, adoring the praise, adoring more the
man who yields to him in careful words and cautious abandon. His eyes are dark,
hardly open as he spreads his fingers to feel Will’s heat and stretch around
him, presses them deep and curls them to brush against the sensitive nub inside
him.
He draws a breath when Will does, relishing the way Will’s throat works before
relinquishing a moan, head bent back and body opening to him in every way. His
tongue appears to dampen his lips, made dry with breathlessness. “I think of
you always,” he sighs, his voice a low whisper, scarcely louder than the breath
needed to fuel his words. “Every day that I tell myself I’m foolish, and
consider leaving classes. Every day I go anyway, and receive marks that I can
show to you later in pride. Every night that I spend without you, I want you
there. I -”
Hannibal stops, a weak laugh lifting his words from him as he hears Will’s
words resound in him.
Ask.
Tell me what you need.
“I need you,” he says, and curls his fingers to rub again before Will can
answer.
A moan instead, spurred by the words and the touches against him together, and
Will lets his eyes close, lets his lips part wide and allows himself to pant
his pleasure up against the boy touching him. His entire body sings with the
words. I need you. I need you. He wonders if his desire to be needed is as
strong as Hannibal’s is to be accepted. It’s less a lack of confidence for both
and a strange knowledge that there is a certain kind of being needed, a certain
kind of being accepted, that they have found with the other.
Will wonders just how drunk he is that he considers telling Hannibal he loves
him.
And wonders if he’s drunk at all since the words taste so familiar going down.
“I’m here,” he sighs instead, licks his lips and shivers, drawing his hands up
Hannibal’s back and his knees around him. It feels good. Almost sleepy in its
gentleness but they don’t need more. Not together like this, now. Will arches
up to kiss him.
Hannibal sinks into the kiss and tastes the words that both convey without
speaking. And when he sinks into Will, it is just as unhurried. He is gentle in
the strength that Will can feel through Hannibal’s body, entirely aware of the
power in his dawning adulthood as he has been in his youth. He does not feel
young now, a man more than a boy, though no less beautiful for it - perhaps
more so, a role more suited to him than the childishness that he affects to
readily.
And though he plays at roughness, now and then, a deeper rocking inside his
professor, a quicker thrust, there is no intent for anything but care in his
movements, in his cautious questions to ensure that Will is comfortable, and
Will wonders if perhaps the capacity he saw for harm in Hannibal was misplaced.
It is hard to imagine him as anything less than the nervous, tender young man
he is now, gasping hot against Will’s neck, one hand tangled in his curls, the
other between their bodies to feel Will’s release flood hot over his fingers,
his own held at bay until that moment and uncoiling with a trembling groan.
Neither give voice to what aches so sweetly between them, and as Hannibal
watches Will adoring, lips parted panting against his cheek before his eyes
slip closed, both consider in their breathless stillness that perhaps nothing
more need be said at all.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Summary
     “Read,” Will murmurs, kissing between Hannibal’s shoulders. He waits
     for Hannibal to start, his voice quiet and smooth as he reads, and
     works his belt quietly from his pants, eyes to the ceiling as he
     listens, counts the words, folds the belt in his hands and smiles
     when Hannibal reaches his first mistake.
     The strike is not painful, but enough to startle, enough to shiver
     Hannibal to a stop, eyes wide and head back to stare over his
     shoulder.
As much by necessity as by a well-honed sense of whimsy, Hannibal writes
longhand.
Eventually the words will find their way into a computer, one of those
available to students in the library or the lab, but the first draft and
revisions are always done with pen and paper. Long curls of script move swift
across the page, one into the next, flowing steady as his thoughts until a
period punctuates the end.
Hannibal sets his pen between his teeth. He works one foot out a little wider
to settle the pull in his hips, leaning onto the desk with his elbows
comfortably set against the old wood. This space that has become his own when
he’s in Wolf Trap, demarcated by books and notepads into a private space.
Or near enough to it, anyway. He is shirtless in the summer warmth, clad only
in a low-slung pair of soft cotton pants that hang precariously on his pointed
hips. Winston is beside him, tail sweeping soft against a bare ankle, and the
fluffy dog’s peers are in various states of self-medicated cooling - across the
bed or on the cold kitchen tile. But for their quiet panting and the sound of
insects humming through the screen door, the house is still in the heavy
humidity.
One foot bends, and Hannibal stretches his toes as he rereads his words.
The sound of a car engine draws his head up, but he doesn’t move otherwise,
just turns back enough to see the door, to watch as Will’s truck pulls up in
front of the porch before the engine cuts. Hannibal turns back, eyes narrowed
in pleasure, and forces his eyes to the page, attempting to take the words in
as Will scales the stairs and swings the screen door open. It slaps shut behind
him, and Hannibal can hear the sound of paper bags being set to the counter,
the tap running as Will drinks from it with a groan.
Without a word, Will begins to unpack the groceries, quick practiced movements
as he works his way between the dogs that have managed to force themselves from
the floor to come and greet him.
Then a glass of ice water is set before Hannibal, and warm lips press to his
hair in greeting. A hum - gentle, fond - and Will nuzzles against Hannibal’s
hair before pulling back, a palm between his shoulders.
“You may take a break, if you like,” he says, tilts his head to look at
Hannibal with narrowed eyes and a small curl of his lips. “But I told you that
before I left. I don’t want you to hurt yourself in this heat.”
“It’s easier than in the winter,” Hannibal answers. “Muscles loosened by the
heat, rather than the floors radiating cold upward.”
Will’s hand strokes slowly, up and down his spine, and each time it passes
Hannibal arches up against it, all but purring at the welcome touch. He takes a
sip of the water with a murmur of thanks, and sucks the condensation from his
bottom lip in thought before lifting his eyes from the paper to focus on Will
instead.
His professor, even on summer break.
“You’re back early.”
“I’m not,” answers Will, smile widening.
Hannibal glances to the clock and blinks. The days have grown so long that it
still seems mid-afternoon outside, rather than nearly dinner. Immersed in his
work, holding this position without pause except to get coffee or use the
restroom, the hours have vanished without his notice. Will’s hand slips across
his shoulder, knuckles rough against his neck, and when he opens his palm,
Hannibal lays his cheek against it, eyes closed.
“I did not even have time to miss you properly.”
Will swipes his thumb gently under Hannibal’s eye and bends to kiss his hair
again, just breathing him in, warm skin and clean sweat and something spicy
that is just him, beneath.
“I missed you,” he says, a reassurance, a promise, and gently tilts Hannibal’s
chin up until he blinks his eyes open again. “I brought home ice cream.”
He watches Hannibal’s eyes widen a little, his smile grow, and lets him go to
step away, around him, to lean over Hannibal and his work. He had left the boy
to write his essay - though it was his only remaining work over summer, an
application for a scholarship - hoping Hannibal would allow himself respite for
a few days after, feeling that he had earned the right to relax, in summer,
with Will as they are.
“I want you,” Will murmurs, “to take a break, please. To stand and stretch, to
walk around the house and finish your water. Then we can make dinner together,
enjoy dessert as you wish.”
Will watches Hannibal obey, a delightful cat-stretch over the table. He pushes
himself to stand, onto his toes, hands up above his head and fingers splayed
with a genuinely orgasmic groan of relief. Will draws his bottom lip between
his teeth and watches him.
Hannibal scratches a hand through his hair, already untidy from Will’s fingers,
and tosses it back from his face. His smile tugs wider when he sees Will’s eyes
on him, and his own avert again. He is so young, and in moments like this
appears his age. No constraints of professional clothing, no worry tightening
his face to stiff angularity - just a sleepy contentment that softens him, as
he allows himself to relax.
Because he wishes it.
Because Will wishes it.
Because he feels safe.
“Will you read it for me?” Hannibal asks, fingers slick against the glass as he
takes it up, and slowly circles the table. Will starts to move but Hannibal
leans against him, chest to chest, and Will sits back against the edge of the
desk. Soft lips touch beneath his jaw, over his scruff, and nearly to the
corner of his mouth before Hannibal stops, and grins. “I could use a
professor’s attention.”
Before Will’s hands can catch him, his bitten lips press to trap Hannibal’s
own, the boy peels away with an unbound pleasure, stepping backward.
“Stretching my legs, as instructed,” he tells Will, before turning on his heel.
He ducks as he goes, patting his leg to gather the dogs to eager attention.
They depart all at once, the screen door held until all have gone, and
Hannibal’s steps thump against the old wooden porch as he follows them out into
the grass, glass still in hand.
Will watches him, amused, before turning to take up the loose pages of
Hannibal’s essay. His handwriting flows beautifully, elegant and practiced, and
Will knows that Hannibal had worked on it, perfected every curve and twist and
join of his cursive. He draws his fingers over the script before beginning to
read.
Outside, the dogs race around Hannibal, the boy having set his glass down to
play with them. Will allows the sounds to wash over him as he settles back onto
the desk and reads. How long passes, he is unsure, engrossed as he is in
Hannibal’s genuinely interesting piece. It is unfinished, several paragraphs
more before it can be drawn to a close, but Will does not fault him that.
Not that, he thinks with a smile, as the boy returns flushed and pleased back
to the house.
"Leave them to run," Will says. Hannibal bends over the counter to set his
glass away before guiding the dogs that had followed him inside back out to the
porch.
"I've read it," he tells Hannibal, nothing in his tone to suggest pleasure or
displeasure at the work yet.
As if the cord of his spine were wrapped around a fist, Hannibal straightens.
His eyes flare, once, when he blinks, a flicker of uncertainty as he turns
towards Will again.
He reminds himself of his own cleverness.
Like ice over still water, his expression smooths into flawless veneer of utter
confidence born of innate perfectionism. His grades validate it. The respect of
his professors validate it. Will, for that matter, validates it, although never
before with regard to a specific piece of schoolwork. Hannibal’s smile lifts in
time with a tilt of his chin, and slow strides carry him forward.
Excellent work, Hannibal.
Beyond your years.
Remarkable, truly.
Past praise envelopes him, but by necessity, he asks. “And?”
Will watches, his lower eyelids flickering in a brief tension before he relaxes
them. He can see how Hannibal carries himself, knows from whence it comes, that
confidence, and in truth it is well earned.
But Will Graham is the toughest lecturer to please at Quantico, and as Hannibal
has earned his reputation, Will has defended his with vicious pleasure. He
tilts his head, watches as Hannibal stops, waits, and licks his lips before
setting the essay to the table again, careful to flatten it with his fingers
before stepping away for Hannibal to be able to properly see it.
“Bend.”
Hannibal does, brows furrowed. He turns to look at Will, who merely raises an
eyebrow and gestures with his chin, and a smile, for Hannibal to turn to his
work.
“I would like you to read it to me,” he says, moving to step behind Hannibal,
skimming a hand down his spine to curl him pleasantly, hips higher with the
motion, and grasps him gently when they move to have Hannibal hold the position
for him. “We will correct it as we go.”
“Is there a lot to correct?”
“Read,” Will murmurs, kissing between Hannibal’s shoulders. He waits for
Hannibal to start, his voice quiet and smooth as he reads, and works his belt
quietly from his pants, eyes to the ceiling as he listens, counts the words,
folds the belt in his hands and smiles when Hannibal reaches his first mistake.
The strike is not painful, but enough to startle, enough to shiver Hannibal to
a stop, eyes wide and head back to stare over his shoulder.
“Effect,” Will corrects for him. “Not affect.”
Hannibal’s brow creases deeper. He moves his weight from one foot to the other
but returns his hips to where they were before bending a little nearer to the
page. “Perhaps you cannot read my cursive, although it is pristi-”
Another slap of leather against his thighs quiets him, and he blinks. Hannibal
presses his tongue past his lips and draws a breath, not yet reaching for the
pen.
“It could be an A -”
The other thigh is struck, still more sound than anything at this point, but
enough to send Hannibal shifting again, like an uneasy horse. He doesn’t
protest the error a third time, instead taking up one of Will’s red marking
pens to note his professor’s correction.
“Was that all? A minor mistake. My apologies.” The boy’s tone is insurmountably
smug now, despite the embarrassed blush spreading outward from the bridge of
his nose.
Will hums, taps the belt against his own leg before drawing a hand gently up
and down Hannibal’s back.
“If there is another, you will take your pants off, fold them, return to this
position. And any consecutive mistake, you will feel.”
Hannibal swallows, curls his hand around the pen before deliberately setting it
aside.
“And if there is no other?”
“Then I will be delighted to hear you read me your essay, let you complete if
before dinner, and I believe it is your evening to choose what we’ll be
watching.” It is an easy trade, either something is correct or it isn’t. There
is no need to prove anything anymore, it’s all on paper, black and white, and
no matter which route this exercise takes, Will is going to gather Hannibal in
his arms later this evening and kiss his hair and call him his good, clever
boy.
Hannibal holds his breath for a moment, perhaps to stop another protest,
perhaps out of sheer stubbornness. But he knows, with a pleasant tug deep in
his belly, not to make Will repeat himself, and sighs. He reads as beautifully
as he works his script across a page, words curling warmly in his accented
voice, one that is deep enough - as Will once complained - to make him sound
far older than he is. Slowly the tension eases from him, as two paragraphs pass
without issue, until it snaps back into place when Will speaks.
“Stop.”
“There are no errors in that sentence.”
“The sentence itself is an error,” Will tells him. “You’ve ended that sentence
with a preposition. Fine for informality but you’re applying for a
scholarship.”
“And English is my fourth language,” Hannibal purrs, eyes narrowing in
challenge.
“Excuses, Hannibal. You speak it better than I do.”
Will’s tone brooks no debate, and Hannibal skims the sentence again with a
spiteful look directed far more at his own failure than the meager mistake. He
rises just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, already
scarcely clinging to him, and steps out of them gingerly. Graceful hands snap
and sweep them into a fold, once, and then again, before he sets them aside on
the desk.
Will hums, skims his knuckles down Hannibal’s spine before stepping back enough
for the strike to jerk the boy at the table, enough to leave a pink mark
against his thigh.
“Rephrase it,” Will suggests, as though they were discussing this over coffee
on the porch, passing a cigarette back and forth. “Keep everything in it,
adjust how it’s said.”
Hannibal grits his teeth, throat tight in displeasure, in shame, thighs
throbbing gently with the painful strike. “How?” He asks, tone low, and Will
makes a sound in his throat, bending over Hannibal’s prone back to rest his
chin against his shoulder.
Will does not write it for him, he points out the flaws and watches Hannibal
work on his own. It takes several moments until it sounds as it should - to
Hannibal’s chagrin, better - and Will kisses Hannibal’s temple before stepping
back again.
“Start from there, keep reading please.”
Hannibal does. It takes him a few sentences to steady himself, not from the
pain already fading from where he was struck, but from the anticipation, the
frustration, the eagerness, all mingling together. Some of the corrections are,
if Hannibal is to be honest, entirely necessary. Will’s eye for detail is
especially keen and he points out, clearly and kindly, where Hannibal should
clarify or trim or adjust for strength of meaning.
The boy takes those lashes in stride. Thighs reddening with each stroke of the
belt, ringing out with a slap in the quiet house, he whimpers, arching his back
deeper, wanting more even as displeasure with himself turns his stomach slowly
into knots.
Some of the mistakes, however, are obvious. Little things that catch like
thorns beneath Hannibal’s skin. A misspelling here. An imperfect word choice.
They are, he might tell himself, the result of having spent nearly eight hours
on his feet working on this, to the exclusion of anything but bare existential
necessities. They are, he does tell himself, stupid mistakes. Errors that he
should not make, ever, each one pulling those slow spinning knots suddenly
tight.
Those lashes, he does not savor, arching and moaning as if in thanks. He grits
his teeth as the belt crosses soft skin, he forces himself not to even flinch,
body wrought with tension down to his hands, clenched against the desk.
“Again,” he breathes suddenly, head bowed between his arms. “Harder.”
“No,” Will tells him, drawing a hand down his back again, watching Hannibal
almost shake with it. “You’ve made no error to earn it.”
“I’ve made enough.”
“And I have struck you for them.”
“Again,” Hannibal insists, voice shaking a little. Will bends to run a hand
through his hair, duck his head to meet Hannibal’s eyes, fingers snaring just
enough to turn Hannibal to him when he tries to turn away.
“Hannibal.” He waits, a moment, two, before dark eyes flick to his and Will
blinks. They’re almost too bright, just that level of glassy to be tearful. “It
is an excellent essay,” he assures him, but he can hear the argument before
Hannibal even says it.
“It is not perfect.”
“Perfection does not earn a scholarship,” Will tells him, stroking his fingers
through Hannibal’s hair, from his eyes. “Perfection doesn’t need a scholarship,
Hannibal, scholarships are won for being exceptional, not perfect, and you are
certainly that.”
Hannibal lowers his cheek against his arms, folding with the paper bunched
beneath. Will’s gentle touches don’t stop, nor does he ease the weight of his
body from Hannibal’s back, a pressure just enough to provide a strange security
until Hannibal’s breath steadies. He tries to remind himself of his own
cleverness, the past praise, his skill with languages, but it all falls flat.
He swallows hard, and routes his thoughts in a new direction instead.
Excellent.
Exceptional.
Good boy.
“Again,” Hannibal murmurs. His hair hides his eyes, but not his smile, small
and genuine. “For doubting your skill in marking.”
“Hmm,” Will smiles, leans to nuzzle against Hannibal’s hair with a sigh. “You
will learn not to question.”
It is less accusation and more a promise, a gentle encouragement for Hannibal
to start to allow himself to do so, to believe Will, to listen to him. He steps
back, drawing the belt down Hannibal’s back softly before striking downwards, a
sharp sm