(n.) The act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full
“I think we should establish some ground rules,” Will murmurs, his face buried against Hannibal’s chest.
Will nods, ruffling his hair. “Just so I know we’re on the same page,” he peeks up at him. “Don’t look so worried.”
The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches. “I don’t look worried.”
“You did,” Will laughs. “You looked concerned. Or maybe it was more like cautious intrigue.”
“With you it’s always intrigue. Not usually cautious, though.”
Will rolls away and onto to his back, stretching his tired muscles. “Maybe that’s why you’ve gotten yourself in such deep water before,” he says. “No pun intended.”
Hannibal smiles, holding his gaze, and then pushes himself onto his knees and settles atop Will. “Perhaps you’re right.”
Will squirms under Hannibal, moving his legs out of the way.
“Comfortable?” Hannibal asks.
Hannibal runs his fingers along the sides of Will’s torso, then grabs him by the hips and pulls him flatter against the mattress. He bends over him and kisses the skin atop his ribs, moving down along the side of his stomach, his fingers pressing the lightest of impressions in his skin as they trail along.
Will sighs contentedly. “Better,” he agrees. “…Although you are distracting me, what was it we were talking about?”
“Oh right. First,” Will begins his list, “no killing unless we’ve agreed on the target beforehand.”
Hannibal raises his head, a surprised look on his face. “Agreed. So you are to let me know if you’ve decided on a target, then? Am I allowed to give suggestions?”
“God, you’re eager,” Will says, and Hannibal leans in again to kisses his cheek. “Yes, fine, you’re allowed suggestions.”
“Good,” Hannibal replies.
“But you aren’t allowed to be upset if I turn down a suggestion of yours.”
“Are you planning on turning down every suggestion? If so, you may have to find other ways to keep me occupied,” his mouth follows the curve of Will’s neck, kissing him when he feels the steady beat of his pulse. “What is it they say about idle hands?”
“Your hands are the devil’s playthings even when they aren’t idle, Hannibal.” Will feels Hannibal’s smile against his skin. “And I don’t think keeping your hands occupied will be very difficult.”
Hannibal peeks up at him, smiling, then prompts him. “What else is on your list?”
“Hmm,” Will considers. “We’re obviously going to need to discuss the topic of dogs at some point.”
Will hums. “Specifically of what sizes, and how many are within reason.”
Hannibal eyes him. “Has reason ever influenced your decision making when it comes to dogs?”
“Obviously. Are you implying that I wasn’t reasonable befor- don’t look at me like that, seven dogs is a reasonable number of dogs!”
Hannibal gives his best impression of a thoroughly exasperated spouse, and Will laughs.
“We’ll start small.”
Hannibal kisses him then. Deeply and longingly, but still hesitant and shy as if he isn’t sure of what Will wants. Like he isn’t convinced. Like he still fears this is temporary.
They part, and just as he opens his eyes Will begins to speak. ”I don’t want to sleep without you or wake up without you ever again.”
Hannibal stills then settles back on his legs and Will props himself on his elbows. “I know you worry that this is temporary, but I don’t want you to. So please just - if it’s time, when it’s time to leave here,” a pause. “Just take me with you.”
Hannibal’s eyes light brighter than the room. There is a moment before he speaks, and when he does his voice is rougher than before. Quieter.
Will snares him around the neck and they both collapse together, Hannibal’s hand cradled in Will’s hair. When they part for breath, Will has no grasp on how much time has passed, or whether it’s even still the morning. He doesn’t really care.
“Also,” Will says after a moment, remembering, “those lemon and rosemary scones you made yesterday?” Hannibal nods. “I want you to make those for breakfast every morning.”
“Every morning? You’ll be sick of them before the week is out if I make them that often.”
“I think I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much.”
Hannibal laughs. “You’ll be the death of me, you know,” Hannibal murmurs against his mouth, and Will slings his arms around him.
Will Graham, when asked to explain what other people are thinking and feeling: *long semi-poetic monologue, full of poignant observations and complicated connections which draw multiple emotional threads together to bring light to the heart of the question*
Will Graham, when someone asks him how he is feeling: *stampers for 30 seconds before choking out an anxious and vaguely confused “Good ??????”