Yearn | Hannigram

red pine

The stream of their consciousness began to rush in red waves not long after Will and Hannibal began sharing sweaters and bite marks. They wanted to get away. Just for a weekend. Will's stress levels were off the chart, their relationship along with everything else he had to lie about had him constantly on edge. Even when he was with Hannibal there was still that...flinch. Like a stray dog, ducking his head and baring his teeth. Whimpering and burying his head in Hannibal's lap. 

     "What about Paris?" Hannibal had asked, early in the morning on the couch in Will's living room. The floor was littered with sleeping dogs, Will curled on top of him and Winston at his feet. 

     Will opened his eyes, looking up at Hannibal. "That's far...and a little pretentious don't you think?" He nestled his head against Hannibal's thighs, he hated how safe he felt, how warm the fireplace in his heart felt. How that orange glow of whiskey seemed to bleed through the sunrise as it painted Hannibal and their home in peach and honey. 

     "One of the oldest cities in the world, but sure." Hannibal began playing with Will's dark curls where they fell onto Hannibal's pajama pants. They were soft from the new shampoo he'd brought last week after Will apologized for his greasy mop. He was so simple, so damned humble it made Hannibal rethink his own proclivities. He would always appreciate the finer things but the beauty of Will Graham's content minimalism (even if depressing and unhygienic at times) amazed him. He smelled like evergreen and hard whiskey, he tasted like raspberries and Hannibal felt the darkness in his empty chest begin to crumble. He felt like every kiss, every morning spent like this, was chipping away at the monster. The true wonder was seeing the opposite happen to Will. He was happier, yes, but he was becoming the monster he starved. After a moment of letting Will preen at Hannibal's playing with his hair, he asked, "What about Scotland?"

     Will hummed, still in a haze of endorphins from the delicious feeling of Hannibal's calloused fingers running through his hair. "S'pretty," he mumbled, falling back asleep. 

     "Scotland it is, then." Hannibal smiled to himself, watching Will doze off in his lap, wearing one of Hannibal's only sweatshirts. The beast inside him was beginning to crave not just blood but sugar.

-----

Will had always felt like an old forgotten land mine. Laying with the safety off in the woods of Wolf Trap where no one would ever set it off. But in Baltimore, in the FBI, in the heads of killers, he was always seconds from blowing. Never did he think it would be something methodical and manipulative. Something that made Will want to step on himself. Made the ground cave in around him on purpose, reveling in the spray of body and blood around him as anyone near him was torn apart.

     Hannibal made no sense, he was unpredictable. Will's empathy, his anxiety, all of it made him so paranoid he felt like he predicted everything- every word, every movement- another person did. Hannibal was never like that cause he wasn't a person. Will was beginning to think Hannibal may have a heart though, think that there was something soft inside the Chesapeake Ripper.
He was even finding just how easy it was to let himself be Hannibal's. How safe he felt, how much he craved Hannibal's touch, how his morning voice was raspy and his hair fell over his face when it wasn't gelled and styled. Sometimes when Will closed his eyes at night, on the off days he wasn't with Hannibal, and he could feel the darkness leaking through the cracks in the wall he was building around reality. Losing himself in the feeling of Hannibal fucking him, teasing him, cooking for him, bribing his dogs with treats. But alone, laying on his bed without the heat of another body to distract him, his head would implode. Memories of crime scenes, of crying parents and screaming children, flood his brain. The antlers grow on the image of him in Will's mind, he sobs into his pillow.