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