Speaking of blueberries, and my allergies to them, what if Will had a food allergy and only found out until he had some weird dish Hannibal made?
“And for dessert, Cupuaçu Flan.”
Hannibal slides the dish in front of Will, plated as elegantly as all things that come from his kitchen, a fresh cut bloom of yellow ixora resting delicately atop.
“This looks delicious,” he says, sliding his dessert spoon into the custard. It sinks in easy and soft, almost sinfully so. Hannibal sits across from him looking remarkably pleased.
They tuck small spoonfuls into their mouths together, and Will lets out a tremulous moan as the warm flavours spill silky over his tongue. It is rich yet light, almost like chocolate, and it floats like water through his mouth.
He smiles around his spoon and lets his tongue linger as he sucks the last of the custard from it.
“Beautiful,” Will says, and Hannibal smiles kindly back at him, his gaze lingering.
“Yes,” he replies, and Will feels his face heat and his throat close up.
He looks away and coughs, distancing himself from the pressing thickness of the moment.
The pressing thickness isn’t in the air around them, it’s in his tongue, and his throat, which has not opened itself back up. And his face is still flushed, but not with the blush of arousal. Something is wrong.
“Will,” he says, a question and a demand all at once. He is on his feet and across the table, tilting his head back. Will sputters a little and claws at Hannibal’s arm.
“Can’t… breathe,” he gasps, but Hannibal has already left his side.
For a fleeting moment he wonders if this has all been Hannibal’s grand plan, to lure him into a life of blood-soaked murder and then suddenly off him with some rare toxin in the middle of South America. There would be something oddly poetic about it.
But the look in Hannibal’s eyes before he fled the room was pure fear, keyed-up adrenaline and a need to fix, to save.
Will finds himself casting his mind back to the dozens of other times Hannibal has looked at him tenderly from across the dinner table - or across a corpse - all the times he has shut that part of himself down harshly, an alarm door slamming shut and locking fast.
What if this is how he dies, accepting all the baser, truer parts of himself but this? The one that was always easily within his reach.
Cold fear suffuses him and he gulps for air, fingers splayed out and seeking the touch of the one person he consistently refuses it to.
As though he had always been there, Hannibal is knelt beside him, something sharp is stabbing into his thigh and a stern voice commands him.
Rough hands are on his face, dark eyes searching his, begging, frightened.
Great shuddering heaves of air run through him, his lungs a great set of bellows that push and pull until the flow is steady, all the while Hannibal’s fingers run over his cheeks, his hair.
As his breathing returns to normal and the tightness leaves his throat, he looks at Hannibal. His eyes are wild and damp. He looks both young and ancient.
“So, I think I’m allergic to… that,” Will laughs, gesturing with a shaky hand at the forgotten flan.
He looks down at his thigh, where Hannibal’s hand still rests gingerly. He pulls his fingers back in a flash, eyes downcast. Will resists the urge to pull his hand back, but he feels strangely empty without the touch.
“Where did you get an Epi-Pen?”
Hannibal puffs up his chest.
“I am still a Doctor, even if the medical board no longer thinks so. It would be prudent to keep a well stocked first aid kit for… emergencies such as these.”
There’s something that he’s hiding, a flicker of embarrassment that ghosts across his cheeks.
Will nudges him with a foot.
Hannibal frowns, just a little, but a tiny smile crinkles at his mouth.
“How well you know me, Will,” he sighs. “I may be allergic to nuts.”
Despite himself, Will bursts out laughing. “You… you have a nut allergy? The great and fearful Chesapeake Ripper could have been taken down any time if we’d only thought to bring some
?” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Jesus Christ.”
Hannibal chuckles a little, but he smoothes the cheer from his brow and rests a light hand to Will’s cheek.
There’s a moment, a little one, between breaths, where Will could do what he has always done and pull away. It’s comfortable, it’s what they’re used to. No one would be surprised, and Hannibal’s become very good at hiding the hurt.
Or he could lean. Let Hannibal touch him. Let himself feel it.
Will decides he likes that idea better.
Hannibal inhales sharply at the reciprocated touch, his pupils blow wide and his mouth parts just ever so slightly. He swallows thickly and asks again.
“Yeah,” Will assures, letting Hannibal feel and accept the weight of him. He lets himself be held and doesn’t fear the falling.
Hannibal stares at him, questions he’s afraid to ask racing just behind his lips.
“Kiss me.” Will says it so quietly it could almost be ignored, but it isn’t.
He feels Hannibal’s pulse quicken through his fingertips, but he doesn’t move.
“Hannibal,” he whispers, “please just fucking k-”
Then Hannibal’s mouth is upon his, violent, desperate, and loving. Hands are sliding through his hair, cupping his neck, drinking him in like an elixir.
It is beautiful and terribly, awfully, perfect. Will isn’t remotely surprised. For the second time that day, he loses the ability to breathe.
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