Forelsket - the blissful feeling of falling in love
It’s ridiculously benign. Stuff like this has been happening more often, domestic bits that no rom-com could’ve prepared him for. Will stares blankly down at his phone. It’s a smartphone, nothing too fancy. Hannibal had ordered them both phones after a few too many panicked moments when one of them was outside and couldn’t hear the landline ringing. It’s logical, and the whole affair isn’t particularly exciting. They get their numbers sorted, and between the two of them manage to figure out how to set up whatever accounts they want to have (Netflix, Google accounts, Twitter..) and then they set up their miscellaneous contacts. Hannibal had happily taken Will’s number and then turned off his phone, leaving to go start prepping dinner. That left Will still sitting on the porch swing, staring down at an empty contact.
He types out Hannibal’s name in the given field, but then deletes it. What if someone looks through his contacts or glimpses at his phone and--. It’s just safer. There aren’t many other things that he can safely call Hannibal without alluding to their previous lives. He stares at that stupid empty field before a stupid, endearing little thought skitters across the forefront of his mind. He types out Mon Ortolan before he can overthink it, and feels his heart skip a few beats. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive the emotional repercussions if Hannibal sees this. It’s not like Hannibal will laugh at him-- no, Hannibal will just smile a tiny bit, almost unnoticeable, and raise one eyebrow. And it’ll be enough to set Will’s entire face aflame. Oh well. We all make sacrifices.
His eyes skip down to the Company field, and his head tilts slightly. The first thing that comes to mind makes him laugh in surprise. Part time cannibal-serial killer. He follows this line of thought because fuck if it isn’t funny. Part time cannibal, full time lover? Part time psychiatrist, full time psychopath. Will giggles about it even as he scraps the idea and lovingly types in Husband . It sums up Hannibal to him pretty completely. It encompasses all of him, in this life and the one they fled. He smiles hard enough to make the scar in his cheek ache, still raw even months after the fall. He doesn’t add a picture to the contact yet, knowing his photo album to be barren since the phone was new. He’d have time to curate a collection of stolen snapshots of Hannibal in their retirement. As well as a suitable ringtone. There’s a song nagging at his brain, lyrics that are crudely accurate and endlessly amusing, when looking at their relationship. He smiles again, winces. He’ll have to figure out how to get it as a ring-tone.
After he finally has the contact settled, he shuts off the phone and gets up off the bench swing. He can hear the clink of dishes from the open kitchen window, and when he opens the sliding glass door to come in, the smell of something delicious washes over him. Hannibal stands at the island countertop, finishing putting the garnish on what looks like the fish Will had caught a day or two ago. He smiles wryly, and has no qualms about sliding behind him to kiss his shoulder, wrapping his arms loosely around Hannibal’s waist. The man lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgement, easily shifting his stance so he can lean back into Will while still working on his masterpiece that was dinner. Will nuzzles at the back of Hannibal’s shoulder, but doesn’t say anything to break Hannibal’s focus.
Dinner is a quiet affair, eaten at the round table in the kitchen, with Will’s legs stretched out and socked feet tucked under Hannibal’s primly crossed legs. The fish is delicious, cooked perfectly, and Will, not for the first time, wonders what Hannibal could do with crab. He should go crabbing some time. He thinks of rich meat and butter and the satisfying crack of chitin. Yeah, he should go crabbing. Maybe he’ll see if they have crab pots in town.
After dinner they retreat to the bedroom, stomachs full and Will’s thoughts still lingering on the crabs he might bring home for dinner, in the unforeseeable future. Hannibal’s hands on his waist jerk him out of his thoughts, and he blinks into alertness to the sight of Hannibal’s amused half smile.
“You’ve been distracted by something, mylimasis?” It’s posed as a question, but Will knows it’s just an idle observation. Hannibal’s hands trail velvet soft up Will’s sides, and he doesn’t bother hiding his little shiver. Just weathers it before wryly smiling back, “Thinking of some new recipes.”
He can’t help but laugh when Hannibal’s eyebrows raise, and the fondness that rises in his throat feels at risk of overflowing. He kisses Hannibal chastely, murmuring against his lips, “Not like that. I was thinking about crab.”
“Ah,” Hannibal breathes, strokes a hand down Will’s back. “I thought you were going to have me go out of town to find something… exotic.”
Will snorts at the euphemism-- they’ve never talked about their unconventional diet in blatant terms, no matter the fact that they’re about fifteen minutes from any prying eyes or curious ears. He supposes the analogies and the inside jokes add a layer of romanticism to it. Or maybe they’re both just besotted idiots. The latter is much more likely than the former.
“No, though I wouldn’t protest to that either,” Will drawls, as Hannibal slowly manoeuvres them over to the bed, sitting Will down so he can start undressing. “We are coming up on a bit of an anniversary.”
“Five years from our first meeting, no?” Hannibal pauses in the unbuttoning of his shirt, thoughtful.
“Exactly,” Will says, a hint of smugness in his tone. “It deserves something of a celebration, don’t you think?”
“I think you just want to partake,” Hannibal’s smile widens just a bit, “Indulge in that refined palate you’re developing.”
Will mutters a crude joke about indulging in something else refined , childish, and he delights in the startled little laugh it gets from Hannibal. There’s a dull ache in his cheek from all the grinning he’s been doing, but he easily overlooks it when Hannibal comes to kiss him, a hand cradling his face to keep him still. They share a tender look, and a dozen different pet names come to Will’s mind. Hannibal beats him to it. “Mylimasis, I will gladly make a feast out of whatever you bring home. And I’ll cook something exquisite for our anniversary.”
Hannibal’s hands come up to pet the curls at the base of Will’s skull, and his smile edges into a half smirk. “Under one condition.”
Will groans, flops backwards onto the bed dramatically. Not one of Hannibal’s conditions. He can hear Hannibal chuckle again, and it makes him smile reflexively. (He doesn’t ever remember Hannibal laughing like he does now. It makes something that feels like butterflies bloom in his chest. He wants to hear Hannibal’s soft chuckles and occasional full bodied laughs for the rest of their lives.) He shimmies out of his pants and pulls his socks off, dumping them all on the floor despite Hannibal’s dismayed noise. “Fine, what’s your condition?”
He listens as Hannibal scoops up his clothes and ferries them over to the hamper by the closet, and the rustle of clothing as Hannibal removes his slacks and his socks before padding back over to the bed. The mattress squeaks slightly as Hannibal crawls over Will, knees braced on either side of his hips. Will meets his gaze, something a little less tender, a little more expectant flickering across his eyes. Whatever Hannibal sees, makes him smile again. Hannibal leans down to kiss him, bangs tickling his forehead and cheek before he pulls away.
“You have to come with me to choose our cut,” Hannibal hums, thumbs gently at Will’s cheek, pad of his thumb drifting across the whorled skin of the scar. “I would appreciate your input in my… selection. You deserve the best, after all.”
“That’s all you want? My… input?”
“Well I wouldn’t protest to seeing you get hands-on,” Hannibal admits, attempting to be blase and falling on hopeful. It makes Will laugh, and kiss him. He’s so predictable, it’s a miracle it took so long for Hannibal to get caught. (Though, maybe it’s just Will he’s predictable for. But Will already knows this.)
“You miss seeing me with blood on my hands,” Will accuses, smiling. Hannibal has the decency to look chagrined, but only a little. It’s largely ruined by the darkening of his eyes and the way he leans in just a little closer.
“And your mouth, and your arms,” Hannibal murmurs, and Will shivers at the intensity of his gaze. “I have not seen you elbow-deep in violence in too long, my dear.”
“You’re so weird,” Will chuckles, breathless, and Hannibal leans down to meet him in a kiss, with only a whisper of, “And you are radiant when you embrace what we are.”
They kiss, time moving syrupy slow, until they are breathless and warm and entangled in one another. The burning fire of arousal softens into the embers of affection before they can gain any traction, so they easily roll onto their sides, curled into each other. Hannibal allows him the little spoon, so he can slide a warm hand under Will’s shirt and trail his fingers over the snarled scar on his abdomen.
Feeling hazy and on the verge of sleep, Will mumbles, “What did you name me in your contacts?”
The laugh Hannibal lets loose is less of a noise and more of a gust of breath against Will’s neck, scattering the soft, small hairs there. “I believe I called you Mylimasis, my dear.”
“I thought you would,” Will huffs quietly, smiling. He lets one hand drop to entangle his fingers with Hannibal’s. “Cute.”
Hannibal makes a half-hearted, affronted sound. Will just squeezes his hand, placating.
“And what did you call me?” Hannibal rumbles, words heavy with encroaching sleep.
“Ortolan,” Will whispers, and feels Hannibal nuzzle into his hair.
“You astound me every day, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, pressing his smile against the back of Will’s head. “My darling boy.”
“That’s me,” Will giggles, eyes heavy. “I thought it was fitting.”
Hannibal makes a low comment about swallowing things whole, but Will is already asleep.