Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Your highness, please get down from there.” 

“What’s the matter, Knight Lecter? Too much adrenaline for your old heart? Wouldn’t want to blow a fuse now.” 

“I assure you, *I* will be fine. Yourself, however..”  

“Is that a threat? I thought Knights were the ones who were supposed to handle the threats, not deal them out.” 

“Yes, well.” Hannibal sighs deeply, arms crossed over his chest, always prim, always proper, even while Will was chipping away at his cool and calm facade. And that? He most definitely was. Will Graham is a lot of things, some positive, some negative, but most importantly, son to the current King of Baltimoria: Jack Crawford. 

He’s willing to admit that he can be a bit of a handful, but when you’ve got an army of guys employed just to make sure your ass is clean, that’ll do that to your ego sometimes. So yeah, he’s climbed the flagpole in their front yard, and yeah, he’d replaced one of the flags with one of Alana’s blouses. It was a prank, for goodness’ sake. 

Trying to explain a prank just makes it all the more unfunny. Especially if you happen to be Hannibal Lecter, his dad’s right-hand man for everything from A-Z. Will is unfortunately also included in that. 

Alana comes outside, her face red and her knuckles digging into her hips. Will can feel his lips stretching into a grin at her stupefied gawk. “Is that..? Will, I swear to all the gods living and nonliving, if that is my favorite dotted blouse, so help me!” 

“Do you not respect the great flag of our kingdom, Lana? I should get Freddie out here to sing her rendition of the National Anthem, just for the occasion.” Will wraps his thighs tightly around the pole, feeling his arms get weak. He’d been smart to wear shorts instead of pants, his skin gripping the cool metal with ease. 

“I never want to hear Freddie sing anything ever again.” Alana pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs, exasperated. She looks over at Hannibal, and at his composed stature. She wouldn’t be able to see the annoyance sketched into his maroon glare, but Will could. It made him all the more giddy. 

Something about being able to poke the bear and getting away scot-free. 

The surrounding crowd begins to thicken, some help from around the castle raising brows at Will’s childish display. Alana groans and retreats inside, grumbling about needing to find a new outfit for her date with Margot, or something or the other. Will can hardly hear from up here, and it’s getting a little cold. He’ll get down once Hannibal leaves.

Once Hannibal leaves.

He looks down at the base of the pole, seeing the man himself standing there, staring daggers up at him.

He may be here for a while.

Will isn’t afraid of the guy, not really, it’s just hard to act normal underneath that gaze, is all.  This isn’t even the full extent of it– Hannibal’s true fury is something to behold. Something heavy, dark, and nasty. You would think the man has some kind of evil death fetish, with how evil he can look sometimes. 

When he’d first come to work underneath Jack, he couldn’t stand him. His thick accent from God knows where had snuck into his dreams. For months, he couldn’t escape it, it was whispering in his ear as he bathed, and laying over him as a blanket when he slept.

Everytime he so much as said something toward Will, his face would light afire and he’d have to leave the room. 

That’s not him anymore, though. Will isn’t a child, and with his father’s second term beginning this year, so will his new arc: Piss off Hannibal Lecter until he snaps and leaves. 

It’s not that he despises the man, he just needs him gone. Since he’s started here, Will hasn’t been able to hold a girlfriend for longer than two weeks. Imagine that: a new girl twice a month, introducing her to his adoptive parents and showing her around the grounds, just to do it all over again come a fortnight.

It sure as hell isn’t Will’s fault. That’s for damn certain. 

Could you imagine trying to talk to a girl who wasn’t from Lithuania, and didn’t have eyes the color of charred cinnamon sticks? He couldn’t.

The sun begins to dip underneath the hills, and he looks down. The man of his nightmares stands there, all broad shoulders and ironed clothing. He isn’t even in his usual knightly garb. Fuck, it’s a sight. Except, it really shouldn’t be, because that guy is probably his dad’s age, if not slightly younger. Will clears his throat and considers dying on the spot when he begins to chub up between his legs.

It’s not obvious with the flag pole stuffed between there, and it’s thankfully getting somewhat darker, but the idea of sliding down with a semi is borderline painful. 

Will grabs his phone from his back pocket, which takes more finagling than it should, and results in him sliding down, the sweet sliding friction rubbing against his covered length. He breathes in harshly and dials up the only number he can remember.

It rings, and it rings, until Peter picks up.

“Hiya, Will! I-I mean, Your Royal Highness, sir.” Peter’s ecstatic tone brokered off into one more commonly used, and Will chuckled softly despite his situation.

“Will’s fine, Pete. I was just wondering if you could do me a favor? You’re inside, right?” Will squirmed against the pole as he slid further down, watching with horror as Hannibal’s eyes danced in amused glee at his slow descent. 

“Mhmm! Just finishing up some work, yep. These birds ain’t gonna feed themselves, heh.” Peter spoke with pride, as he had every right to do, nobody could connect with the animals like he could. It was the perfect job for him.

“Couldya do me a favor?” Will grins and begins to speak softly into the receiver, quiet enough for Hannibal to squint suspiciously at him. The man begins to advance at the bottom of the pole and cups his palm to his mouth. 

Hannibal being directly underneath him made his throat dry.

“Are you planning on stretching this trist out for hours, or would you prefer doing something meanwhile with your time?” Even as he says it, the faint lines around his eyes bunch and his lips quirk. The damned bastard and his tongue.

Lord, that is truly not something Will should be thinking of right now.

”I quite prefer the view from up here actually.” Will realizes how petulant he sounds, but having any sort of up on Hannibal is a luxury in itself.

“As do I.” 

“I’m sorry?” Will guffaws, all too aware of their positioning.

“I’ve said nothing, my dear Will.” 

The pet name shocks him, almost enough to fully drop off the pole, and he hisses angrily, but won’t rise to the bait of acknowledging it. To be annoyed is to give it power, as the saying goes. 

Before he can figure out something witty to respond, there’s a loud crash in the courtyard, and they both look over at the commotion. There’s a pig wearing lipstick and it has on a blouse and feathered hat of Alana’s. 

There’s screaming and laughter, probably Will’s laughter if he’s being honest. 

“Excuse me.” Hannibal relinquishes his spot underneath Will and heads over to see who to verbally whip. He owes Peter one, certainly, if he survives.

Will slowly climbs down, now free of the six-foot thorn in his side, and makes his way to the castle once more. He’d taken down the blouse from the pole, not wanting to taunt Alana into insanity. He loves his sister, even if he jokes maybe a tad too far sometimes. 

She hopes he realizes that.

God forbid she ever compare him to Mason Verger and his relationship with Margot. Will swallows thickly and sneaks into the great castle of Baltimoria, his family’s castle. He and Alana had been left at the gates when they were infants, pale and nearly starved. Bella herself could never bear, therefore it was seen as a divine happenstance.

Will just thinks his biological mother was a bit of a pushover.

Coming inside, he takes in the familiar ivory pillars and crystal staircase. It’s easy to get rid of his arousal when he comes in here, what with all of the horrible memories of being trained and whatnot. 

Well, perhaps horrible is a bit of an exaggeration. Some things are just common sense, as Alana says, and she’s taken to being royalty rather well. She’s never had it quite as hard as he had, though.

He’s the crown prince, after all. 

He feels no ill will toward his parents for the responsibility, and he’s even grateful for the opportunity, he cannot wait to supply an heir and continue on the Graham-Crawford name for eons to come.

Although, sometimes.

Will turns and watches despondently as his Knight holds the beautified pig in his curled right arm, brow quirked in in unamusement as Peter explains what happened.

Sometimes he’d wish things were perhaps different.

!

As you can imagine, finding the right woman for Will is an entire issue within itself. He has a very particular type, and he makes sure his parents are very much informed. 

Only his parents. 

Blonde, the lighter the better, double the amount of points if ashen. High cheekbones, sharp enough to cut glass, and a strong nose. Pouting lips, even as she speaks, and they must be a deep magenta. Biteable. If she just so happens to be taller than 5’11? He wouldn’t mind. If she were to have a thickened, foreign accent, from some faraway land, Will certainly wouldn’t say no, but that would be completely random and not at all things he’d search for.

Of course.

So, the “tryouts” occur. Women from across the lands, eager to become royalty, eager to meet the infamous Will Graham of Baltimoria (although why *in*famous he will never understand), come to the castle’s pearly gates.

They should really have an appointment system or something.

He’s sat at a rounded table, his mother and father sitting in their thrones behind him, Alana, Margot, and Peter sitting beside him.

Even surrounded by those close to him, having Hannibal standing in the room, a large sword hanging off his hip and adorning his usual armor was entirely too distracting. He stood there as if anything that came through that door could not pose more of a threat than him. His eyes glistened a honeyed burgundy in the passing daylight. Will began to choke on his saliva as those eyes focused on his own, furrowing his light brow.

Very smooth, Graham.

“Alright then. This was your suggestion, Will. I truly hope you find someone who meets your fancy, because otherwise.. we may have to go with Alana’s idea.” Bella speaks in a regal way that also has a mother’s soft soothe. 

He sighs forlornly at the thought. “A ball, mother?”

Alana claps her hands together and loops her left arm into Margot’s right elbow. “Yes, a ball! And not just any ball. A masquerade ball, you loon.” Those glittering blue eyes promised so many different costume changes and ridiculous masks, he felt stuffy just thinking of it.

Will cups his face into his palms and groans openly, “I will marry the first viable woman I see if it means to avoid such a thing.”

“Come on, now. Open the gates.” Jack bellows, and the very first face they see, is Freddie Lounds. Vibrant red curls meet creamy skin, and he almost mentions that she hardly matches the type description. She clacks forward on tall heels until she’s looking down at Will’s shrinking form.

The table erupts into giggles, even from Peter, and Will sinks furthermore into his seat.

“While I’m flattered,” Freddie makes a face as if she’s any and everything but, “I’m simply here to journal the happenings of this lovely.. event.” She holds a laptop in her claw-like fingers, already typing without looking at the keyboard.

The first actual woman, (not harpy), comes in, and she has brilliant pale blue eyes and soft looking dusty blonde hair. Her mouth rests in a small smile, and although she doesn’t fit the description entirely, she still catches Will’s eyes. His breath pauses. 

She is wearing a simple navy dress, the cut appropriately ending underneath her knees, and she curtsies, dipping her head minutely toward the royals. “It’s an honor to be among you all, your majesties.” 

Peter smiles at Will, who’s effectively got his foot in his mouth. Her hair is in an updo, some would call it a sloppy bun, but it falls just elegantly enough to obscure the faint blue hue of her eyes, having him wanting to lean toward— brush those offending strands away, and drink her in.

“The first one and he’s a goner.” Margot mumbles, dark lips smiling for him all the while.

Will clears his throat and finds that it’s pitched up too high when he asks her name. 

“Ah, yes, I am truly sorry. I am Molly, of the family Arianda. It is a pleasure to meet you, your ma– “

“Will. Please, and the pleasure is all mine.”  Will stands abruptly and almost trips over his chair, walking around the table and reaching his arm to her.

“Would you enjoy a walk around the castle? We could rummage through the kitchen too.” He smiles mischievously, and Molly laughs softly.

Peter puts up two thumbs. Alana and Margot have a similar timed eye roll, while both Crawfords seem overjoyed by the immediate attraction. Even Freddie seems somewhat less apathetic as usual.

The only person in the room who wasn’t feeling quite right was Hannibal, standing in the sidelines, as he watched Will practically carry his new beau off to the gardens, an unpleasantness warring in his chest.

!

Will and Molly are inseparable, found together in the library, the stables, the greenhouse. Every time they are spied together, a member of castle staff has to pry them apart, as they tend to linger perhaps a tad too close a young woman and a young man should.

They are together in the library when it’s Hannibal’s duty to watch over them. His posture is stony and serious the entire time. Will holds up a book to his face, as does Molly, but their eyes meet over the spines. Barely concealed humor shines in her pale blue eyes, their legs fighting and kicking at eachother underneath the table.

“What are you two reading about?” Hannibal asks, arms relaxed behind his back as he stands at the foot of their shared table. 

“Oh– well.” Will looks at the front of the book and snorts, “Seahorse copulation.” He bites down on his bottom lip, almost tearing into it, attempting to hold back his own laughter. “I am a very avid fan of seahorse copulation, Knight Lecter.” 

“I can tell.” They share an amused glance, as Molly stares between the two of them. She sets down her book, which was about the origins of the wheel (riveting material), and rests her chin on her palm. “Did you know–” Hannibal begins, dark eyes trained on Will’s, “Seahorses tend to copulate with members of the same sex.” 

Will’s face pinkens, and he flips through the pages wildly, “I hadn’t seen that in here.”

“Yes, well–” Hannibal responds, but is interrupted by Molly, who abruptly stands and holds out her hand to the prince across the table from her.

“Could we go to the green house, Will? Bella was telling me about the flowers they’d planted after you.” she asks, pretty lips quirking shyly. “Sweet Williams, I believe?”

The prince stands and drops the book, subject effectively changed, and he chuckles. “Let us go, then.”, arms intertwined, they leave the Knight standing alone in the library to put the books away.

The next morning is when the small poems begin to appear in his private quarters. 

** eyes of jade and green and sage

    of cadet and cobalt and cornflower 

    the hue and shade may eagerly change

    but my love for you may never sour **

Will holds the paper in his fingers, gentle, as if it’d turn to ash if held too tightly.  The words are clearly of his eyes, though he’s never seen half of those colors in his own vision. The question isn’t who sees it, but rather who’d write it to him, and deliver it to his bed, of all places. Not having been properly signed is a shame.

Will flexes his fingers with indecision, but ultimately folds it carefully, sliding it underneath his pillow. Hopefully he will dream of whomever left him this passage, and he can look into their eyes as well. 

Would they be the clear blue he’s come so accustomed to within the last few days? A simple clear pond with the occasional water lily?

Or would it be the carnivorous depths of recently cooled lava, deep red and dark. 

Will squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the longing clawing at his ribs. It must be Molly.

!

“And what are you doing here, your highness?” That familiar roll of tongue has Will’s shoulders tensing as he swings around quickly. 

“Ohm, Nuffing. Mmjust Enjoywing The voow.” Will turns away and continues sucking on his brownie batter covered fingers, courtesy of the Castle Chef, Franklyn. 

“Ah, yes, the view of cooking appliances. I see the appeal.” Hannibal nods along, quirking an eyebrow as he leans forward, watching Will suckle the sweetness off his appendages. 

If he wasn’t trying to avoid Hannibal, he’d really lean into the whole sucking thing, really take it as far as he usually would, but as of right now, he’s a tad bit emotionally sore.

See, these letters, coming from his admirer, contain some of the most heartfelt confessions he’s ever had the chance to read. All for him. And he is fully positively sure that they are from Molly, the woman he is courting.

He cannot indulge this obsession with Hannibal any further while she throws her love at him. And yes, Will is aware, it very much is an obsession. 

He hates him, but lords does he want him.

Which is exactly why he must not continue. 

Will can be childish, and stupid, but he will not wrongfully throw away such pure love as the kind he reads nearly daily. He isn’t sure how she does it, even. She seems to deliver letters without being here. She must have some prewritten for the maids to drop off when he wakes. 

The letters are just the beginning, too. There’s drawings.

Beautiful, elegant drawings, of *him*.

Portraits of Will on horseback, of him shirtless, as detailed enough to get the faint scars on his forehead and cheek (gifts from Alana during her fencing obsession). 

Molly truly is a luxurious treasure he must cherish until the day he croaks.

Will straightens himself and puts the bowl down. “You’re right, I should be far away from here. From.” His throat constricts, and it pains him too great to say it, so he doesn’t. He simply goes, leaving the chocolate mess for Franklyn to handle later on.

He goes to find the future mother of his children, leaving Hannibal staring blankly at where Will suddenly left.

The next morning, the poem is about his lips.

**Curved sin, plump desire 

  To Adorn the truth or become a Liar

  Yearning to tear into your soft flesh

  Our Souls combining, shall forever mesh**

Will almost grasps his aching stiffness in hand whilst reading, the paper crinkling in his shaking palm. He slides it underneath the pillow with all of the others. He leaves the letters underneath his head, and the drawings in one of his drawers, so as not to blur the graphite. 

A crisp knock to his door has him readjusting his pants and slapping at his overheated face.

“Yes?” He answers, feigning as if he were in the middle of a greatly important task.

“Oh, I’m sorry to bother, your highness. I simply came to tell you that your mother requires you in the throne room.” A soft voice, Reba perhaps, speaks gently into the crook of his door. 

Will grimaces at his initial rude tone and opens it, smiling at her. “Of course, thank you, Reba, and please, just Will is fine.”

She smiles politely and inclines her head, turning away and heading downstairs.

He needs to get out of his damn head.

!

“But I've already found my to-be wife.” Will means for it to sound factual, but it comes out as more of a question, his cheeks pink.

Alana and Bella send each other a knowing look, one which completely soars over Will’s head, and they both sigh heavily.

“Well, this isn’t for you, we believe we may just want a fun masquerade ball. Heaven knows we hardly have any time to relax, what with royal duties and what not.” Bella lays a lithe hand on Jack’s forearm and he nods along as if a Masquerade ball is clearly the answer for everything. 

Freddie, who is here, for whatever reason, is already typing up something hot and fresh while listening in. “I’ll have word out by noon, this will be truly huge for the kingdom! And they will hear it all from Battlebrime.com.” 

Will scrunches his face and groans, “Can’t I hide away during this? I believe this warrants a lockdown on my quarters.”

Alana shrugs and pats down her simple sundress, elegant but clearly made with her interests in mind, “If you don’t want to see Molly in the dress she chose, I shan’t stop you.”

Will grins and scratches at the back of his neck, “Well, I’ve always been quite the social butterfly, actually, so. I guess I could make it.” 

Freddie snorts, “My ass.” 

Bella raises a single well manicured brow. 

Freddie twitches and adds on “essment, My assessment of the ball shall it be a grand bash!”

The Crawfords chuckle amongst themselves.

Will begins to wander away from the commotion in the throne room and ponders on how he should dress for the Masquerade ball. He’s never put much thought into what he wears, but clearly Molly does. She must, considering the hours she must’ve spent scratching away at paper to capture his likeness. Namely his riding clothing. 

He flushes as the shading she’d added to his ass. What would a woman like Molly want to do back there? 

With enough thoughtless loitering, he’s found himself at Tobias Budge’s Tailoring shop. He isn’t here for any clothing in particular, but more so a mask. Tobias waves him inside and greets him with a wide grin, teeth pearly white and straight. “How shall I aid you in your aesthetic efforts today, your highness?” 

“Please, just– Ah, whatever. I was hoping you’d be able to craft me a mask.”

“A mask?” Tobias inquires, eyes glistening at the odd request.

“Yes, we are hosting a ball tonight, it seems, thanks to my sister.” Will furrows his brow as if this is truly devastating news, and Tobias grins.

“I truly do await the business it will bring, if I must be frank!” 

Will chuckles and swats at the Tailor’s shoulder, “i’d enjoy you no other way, friend.”

Will could be social if he’d tried. Suck on that, Freddie.

Or, or maybe not. He’d prefer it if she didn’t.

He tries his best to explain what he’d like, and the final product is truly something worth the amount asked for. Will gives Budge a little extra, just for the hassle, and he seems over the moon.

!

Looking in the mirror, ball in full swing, he feels oddly silly. Will has never been one to wear full royal garb, it's always felt like an extreme costume, like ridiculous cosplay he couldn’t pull off.

Alana could do it, and she’d raise her chin high, speaking with her voice projected and her shoulders back. Sometimes it dawns on him that perhaps he may not be cut out for this. He’s remembered of his roots, whatever they could’ve been, and it’s just shockingly not.. this. Will looks back at himself in the mirror, from the deep blue button down to his carefully ironed charcoal slacks and cream colored waistcoat, he felt like a different person. That wasn’t Will Graham-Crawford staring back at him, that was Prince William of Baltimoria, “notorious playboy”, as Freddie has called him for all these years. 

Was it really his fault though, when his knight had been, well, gorgeous? 

No woman other than Molly could compare. 

The mask itself was a work of art, carefully carved and molded to match his face exactly, the deep blues and creams were attached with curls of cool gold. To bring it all together, carefully painted music notes stretched across his forehead area. You could clearly tell it was him, or maybe that was because he knew himself. 

To mute the fanciness of the entire thing, Will rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. His parents would surely nag at him for it, but he looked more like himself, and that small victory would make this night salvageable. His curls swept over his forehead in just a way that he could achieve “ruffled and adventurous”. Most of that was Margot’s doing, as she’d rubbed pomade through his unruly curls before he’d made a fool of himself.

Will swallows down his nerves and begins to descend the spiral crystal staircase, at first pausing to watch all of the guests engage with each other, some adorning full masks, and others going without. There were few like him, who had partial masks, their mouths exposed to the world. 

As he reaches the ground floor, he immediately sees his parents in matching masks, both silver and white with hints of gray feathers. They stood hand in hand and spoke with a group of high nobles, all of whom he did not know.

He next sought Margot and his sister, knowing that they’d match, and lord, did they. They were Yin and Yang, both polarizing opposites while being each other's completed pieces, their masks continued and started for each other. It was so undeniably whole, you’d be confused if you saw one of them without the other. Margot had the sliver of black on her upper left brow and sloping down her left cheek, with a white moon over her left eye, for her to see out of. Alana completed it, A sliver of white sloping up to her right brow and resting beneath her hairline, a black sun over her right eye. 

He smiled, and wanted to go over and nudge her a few times for the cheese factor. 

Before he had the chance, a small hand cradled the crook of his elbow, and he saw Molly. Her blonde hair was down now, curving like a wave of dim sunlight down her back. Her mask was simple, completely whole and a deep purple with gold accents. He notes that they both went for the gold and she eagerly grabbed at his hands. 

He’s happy to see her.

He’s been waiting to see her.

There’s still an ache to keep searching, though. 

Will squeezes her palm and promises to dance with her once he’s found something. She looks puzzled, even with her face completely hidden, but a small well of understanding begins to pool in that heavy stare, and she lets him go.

It seems as though she struggles with it for a moment, and he has no idea why.

His eyes search over the crowd, not really sure what he’s looking for. He knows it’s something specific. He waits patiently and convinces himself it’s not someone covered in metal, or ironed slacks, or a sword that has surely maimed thousands. 

What, or Who catches his eye is truly breathtaking. 

A woman, a grand woman, with a slight switch in her step, and proud shoulders, makes her way to him. She’s covered in the finest deep red, and her mask is partial, similar to his. It’s red with black accents, glittery and absolutely gorgeous. A red gloss covers her exposed mouth, lips dipped in a natural pout and soft wrinkles adorning the sides of those luscious lips. Will stands rooted to the ground, and he clears his throat, bending to her, as if she’s royalty. She smiles, as if he’s the funniest thing to exist, and he can’t help but let out a nervous chuckle himself. 

“What is your name?” He finds himself entranced.

She says nothing. Dark eyes take him in. Beautifully auburn eyes. Pitch black at the centers, similar to that of an abyss. He feels the silence digging into him like an uncomfortable jockstrap. 

“I- I am Will. They call me Will.” He stutters over his words, and it’s so reminiscent of how he used to behave, and he never thought he’d feel this way, and how convenient and lovely that it is with a woman. A woman he can love and sire with. No forbidden love here. 

She reaches for her his arm, crimson nails taking over his forearm like a premonition, this is how it’d feel, her scratch tells him, and she leads him to the gardens outside. It is chill outside, and Will feels foolish for not remembering to bring a sweater just to drape over her shoulders. 

Its dark, but just well lit enough that the pair can carefully navigate the softly lit hedge maze. 

“So, you, ah, don’t talk much?” Will’s untouched hand fidgets in his pocket as he thinks of conversation starters. 

The woman tilts her head and smiles softly at him. There’s something that it makes him feel, it makes him want to tear the wool from over something. 

They reach the greenhouse at the center of the garden, the sage tinted walls somewhat transparent, but fogged over in the cold air. He leads her inside, and she lets go of his arm slowly, leaning back against one of the stone pillars. 

“It’s fine, I don’t particularly enjoy eye contact myself. You see too much, you know? Just as you would say, some hear too much. And here I am, rambling your ear off.” 

His self deprecation earns him a small giggle, chirpy and fulfilling. His heart skips and jumps. 

“Attach a car to my lips, you’d never need gasoline again.” Will grins and watches as she entangles their fingers together once again, and he fully looks down to appreciate her hands, noticing that they are quite lengthy and corded with vein. 

She sighs softly and pulls away suddenly, eyes struck with a sincere sadness. 

Will frowns and grabs ahold of her palm once more. “No, please don’t hide from me. They do not bother me. I’ve never met a woman with hands quite the size of mine, but it isn’t unwelcome. They are still gorgeous.” 

She huffs a soft inhale from her nose and lifts his hands, pressing a small kiss to his knuckles. 

“I believe that’s my move.” Will does the same to her, feeding on the intimate mirth in those depths behind the mask.

“Would you like to remove our masks?” His question is soft, unimposing he’d thought, but the mere words seem to strike fear in her heart. The woman becomes tense and unyielding, her head giving a firm shake.

“I see. Well, then, how about if I simply..” Will steps away and locks the greenhouse doors, assuring their privacy, and completely turns the lights off. The room falls dark, aside from the very slight glint of moonlight, just barely shining against her eyes. 

“Now I cannot see you, and you cannot see me.” Will whispers it, as if it’s a secret, and he pulls the mask off his own face, setting it down on an empty table. 

He grabs the woman’s empty hand and brings it up to his face, the warm palm cupping his clammy face. The sheer size of her hand almost cradles his chin, and he softly presses innocent kisses to the supple skin.

His lips graze over hardened skin and her breath hitches, but he continues, trailing kiss after kiss over her palms, until each feature she may feel unsightly has been given its due attention.

Her reactions are nothing but lovely small gasps and hums. They sound familiar, and he hushes that part of his brain. 

This is new, and exciting, and he wants this.

Will comes back to reality when her other hand grasps his wrist, and slowly brings it to her face. She immediately kisses and sucks on his index and middle finger. He hisses at the warmth, the fleshy skin on the inside of her mouth grazes his fingertips. He groans throatily.

His fingers are coated with her spit and she briskly turns around, bending over one of the glass tables to expose her, well, he has no idea. He cautiously reaches out, his slimy finger grazing her ass, until his fingertips prod over a wet hole. 

Will stares blankly into the darkness, trying to make sure he doesn’t hurt her. He pushes a single finger inside, and the hole swallows it up like nothing. Will licks his lips and adds a second, gently scissoring the two fingers, rubbing his fingertips at the sensitive concave of her insides. He rubs at her tailbone before asking about a third. She arches her back, and that’s enough of an answer for Will. His ring finger fits right inside. 

Curling three fingers inside this mystery woman makes her keen eagerly, and he continues doing so until she grabs at his wrist and whines. Will has had sex with women before, but it’s like he’s a complete novice with her. He’s never felt this aroused with another person in bed.

Will rubs at her flank with his free hand as she pushes back, unslotting his fingers out of her hole. A soft whine comes from in front of him and she parts her legs further apart. An invitation. 

It’s with a small shout of trepidation that he leans close with his head instead of his hips. He doesn’t know who this woman is, yes, but there’s something so basely arousing about the idea of feeling her around his tongue. Licking into that slickness and prepping her even further for his cock.

He reaches out cautiously and kneels down, caressing the soft skin of her hips to guide his face. She lurches forward and sighs hungrily, recognizing what Will intends on doing. There’s a sharp nailed hand on the back of his head, and he’s being pulled in. 

Will has half the mind to part his lips before his mouth makes contact with her hole. Tongue delicately running over the rounded rim, the musky taste so incredibly addicting and it dances on the tip of his palate. He grins against her and lightly grazes his teeth against the sensitive flesh, earning him a small swat to his shoulder.

“Incorrigible boy.” The first words he hears from her are low, low and almost hard to discern apart from their husky tone and the soft keening that follows. He doesn’t dwell on the deep tone, nor of the fact that he is servicing her asshole instead of her vagina. She mustn’t want to risk conception, that’s natural. 

He laps at the lax hole until he believes she’s ready for more, her long nails raking through his scalp as he teases her endlessly. 

“You should speak more often.” It’s the only thing Will murmurs against her skin before he dives in entirely, pink tongue delving in the moist heat of this mystery woman’s asshole. 

She gasps.

“Your highness.” Her voice is accented but it lilts in a feminine way that isn’t what he wants, but what he accepts nonetheless. Will eagerly licks inside of her, the slick walls of her insides throbbing against him. He tries to keep himself as clean as he can, but drool begins to trickle down his chin and drip languidly onto his blue shirt.

The idea of one of his nicest shirts being marked in such a way sates the clawing beast within his gut.

He continues his slow but sure torture on her hole, flicking his tongue and thrusting it as far as it can slide, a modest puddle of spit growing underneath her hips. As he rubs over her lower half, his palms glide over muscled legs and strong calves. He digs his thumbs into the meat of her thighs, and she grows impossibly more open. His hair is being grabbed once more, and his tongue slides out, covered in cloudy saliva.

“Show me what the prince of Baltimoria has been hiding from me all of this time.” Her accent is unmistakable now, and she must also be from some European country as well, stoking the fire in his sternum. It’s still much too falsetto, but he shakes off the wrongness of her pitch, filing into the darkest depths of his mind where he will never bother with such a thought again. This woman in front of him was absolutely divine.

Will growls a rumbling hum, as he shoots up to his feet, wiping at his chin with his dress shirt sleeve.

He slowly unbuttons his slacks and shuffles forward. He is undeniably stiff, but he doesn’t have a condom on him. Hoping she won’t mind, he parts her cheeks and rubs his heat against hers, leaning over her back. 

“No, no condom.” He barely chokes it out, and there’s a small gulping sound, until she jerkily nods her consent.

Pushing inside is absolutely sinful. 

Whatever he’d expected from previous flings, he was dead wrong, there was nothing on this planet that could compare to the molten sweetness waiting for him inside of her.

She begins to groan, and it scratches an itch he hadn’t known he had, the deep sound reverberating off of the greenhouse walls. 

Will has to take a few moments to not immediately burst, and if that isn’t embarrassing. 

He also doesn’t want to harm her, of course. He can feel as her hole flutters around his ridged head, and his head leans backwards, staring skyward. Possibly to thank god for sending this woman to his waiting arms.

He feels a passing guilt at remembering his girlfriend waiting back in the castle, but the impatient hips pushing back onto him is enough of a distraction.

“So fucking tight for me, you are absolutely gorgeous, and so, so hot.” He knows he’s rambling, but she seemed to be okay with that earlier, so he continues on. His length gradually buries itself in her steaming canal. He thinks to lean forward and rub at her clit, but when he reaches down, her legs are shut tightly.

He wants to question it, but his hips buck up of their own volition, and he fucks hard inside of her hole. The sounds are sloppy, and it sounds so incredibly wrong and out of place, as he takes in his setting. The harsh slaps as he holds her in place and drives in impossibly deeper, and the various bushes and trees hiding their debauchery.  He shouldn’t enjoy it as much as he does, but under the cloak of darkness and deep inside, it’s so entirely satisfying.

He doesn’t see Molly beneath him, and nor does he see the intriguing woman. The pitch blackness gives his mind creative advantage, and suddenly those too high moans are gravel low. It's easy to imagine, their accents being so familiar. He watches as the dark fades away, and a tanned, muscular back, marred with scars, is bent over. Short blonde hair, not curled as the woman’s is, but silky and straight, stopping underneath his ears. Him. Will almost whimpers as his mind’s eyes captures the object of his desires so clearly in his grasp. 

The prince watches as his cock disappears inside his ass. 

His pace quickens, and he can feel his balls slap against her shut thighs. He imagines that he can feel another sack against his own, adding to the volume in the room as they smack against each other. 

Will leans close and licks at the woman’s neck, but flinches away, at the scented lotion laying unpleasantly on his tongue. In his head, Hannibal tastes of musk and husky cedar. He squeezes his eyes shut and instead of tasting her neck, he presses wet closed-mouthed kisses to her exposed nape. She hums lowly, and his hands find her shoulders, sharp and wide. He eagerly pulls at her red shawl, using it as his leverage to keep her in place.

One of her arms are occupied, the other spreading her cheeks further apart for Will to disappear inside. He pounds ruthlessly into her waiting warmth, his deft cock tip striking something deep, causing her to close up even tighter around him. 

Will squeezes his eyes shut, and his moan is loud, shuddering in the wet air around them. Drool dribbles from his open mouth, and he thinks first to warn her of his burning orgasm. He chases his pleasure, hitting that same spot inside of her that magnifies her soft howls. 

“Ah, fuck, I’m so close. Gonna take it for me? Do you want it?” Will hisses into her ear, stomach to her smooth back.

She nods hard, her hand still occupied in between her legs. 

“Speak for me, please, please.” He knows he sounds desperate, he feels as if he’s the one beneath her, endlessly searching for the sweet rush of his climax.

“Yes, my dear Will. Come inside of me.” His spine goes rigid, and he must be imagining it, he must, even though it is much too real, and she sounds too much like him. A rush of guilt and unbridled want crashes into him, and he’s filling her. Jets of semen and come paint her slick walls, her tight rim milking his shaft eagerly. 

“Lord, Hannibal, fuck.” Will presses his sweaty forehead against her muscular back, and time freezes. 

The woman inhales sharply, and he realizes his fuck-up, tongue swollen and fat in his mouth. He apologizes, frantic, pulling his now soft length out of her. The air is cold around him, but he can’t stand to look at her after whose name he’d just called. 

There’s a strong grip on his wrist again, but instead of feeling comforting as it had before, it just riddles him with nerves. He drags his hand away and the woman nearly falls, tripping over her leg stockings. She silently curses and watches him with a weirdly fierce glint in her eye.

“I, I’m truly sorry, ma’dam. I meant no offense, I was not thinking of.. I, I was,” he squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his soft cock away, avoiding her gaze as best he can, even in the dark.

“Will.” Even now, his mind is playing games on him, hearing Hannibal’s voice, as if his desires wish to taunt him to the grave. He doesn’t answer, ignoring how desperate she sounds. He can’t explain this to her, can’t explain that he’d hardly seen her as he enjoyed taking from her. He was a fucking asshole.

“Please, enjoy the rest of the ball. I’m sorry.” Will jogs away, back into the castle, and away from his emotions.

!

The next morning, he’d found something shocking underneath his door. He’d shut and locked it, which was unusual for him, but he couldn’t bear to see anyone else for the rest of the night.

He ignored the hard knocking on his door all night, had avoided Alana’s questioning text messages and Molly’s calls. 

So to see a new portrait of him, basking in the greenhouse filtered moonlight, face alight in pleasure, stretched with such ecstasy and joy, sitting innocently in front of his door–

His hands shake. 

Molly saw what happened in the green house. She had been there, somehow. Even underneath the blanket of darkness, he’d been much too reckless, and this is the way she’s letting him know that she’s aware.

He grabs the parchment off the ground and sees a letter underneath it, attached with a paperclip. He pulls it free and holds his breath. 

**You have shone where there’d always been dark

A blue eclipse absorbing the pupil of your eye 

In this universe, your existence stark 

I’ve found I can no longer lie**

Will has never been one for understanding literature, and even less with poems. His brow wrinkles as he stares at the final line, wondering what Molly could be possibly lying about. He reads it over again, and again, and once more, until he’s finally understood.

She sees what he’s done, and instead of cursing his infidelity, she’s choosing to ignore it and wants to hold his hand through all of this. Her love is truly pure, and something he entirely does not deserve. 

He knows what he must do. 

He’s out of his room and shuffling down the stairs, almost losing his footing a handful of times. Peter was with a handful of other people Will doesn’t recognize, and they all stare at him, shocked at his state of undress. He’d forgotten to put a shirt on, naturally. He breathes in deeply and pats down his trousers. 

“Good morning. Have any of you seen Molly? Ma’dam Arianda.” He clarifies, knowing that some of them may not recognize her by her first name. 

“Yes, your highness. I believe she is out with Alana near the stables, learning to ride. Would you like to change into your riding clothing?” One of the maids replies, a small smile on her face and her cheeks a dusty pink.

“No, that’s not necessary.” He grins at her and dips his head, quick to jog out to the riding grounds. He should be rehearsing what to say in his head, but everything he attempts to say just feels empty, hollow.

Sure, she feels this way toward him, but does he feel the exact same way? He’s unsure.

He sees them now, except they’re all there, not just Alana and Molly. Peter is looking after the chickens, talking to them animatedly. Margot watches with barely contained laughter as Alana tries to get Molly to stop sliding off of the leather saddle. Hannibal is also there, clad in his usual suit of armor, and as soon as Will is close enough, his eyes snap up.

He ignores that warm gaze, instead settling his sights on the knight’s jaw.

“Will, I wanted to speak to you about something.” The prince begins to slow down, lungs burning from the long stretch of jogging. He doesn’t stop to entertain Hannibal, but instead continues onto the rest of the group.

“Surely, it can wait. I’ve..good god, that’s a run. I’ve got to speak to Molly.” He’s within earshot now, and the woman herself gazes his way, clean blue eyes lighting up behind dirty blonde lashes.

“No, I don’t think it can.” Will almost spins on his heel and gawks at the hard edge in Hannibal’s voice, but he barely fights it. 

He can hear the familiar catching of metal moving behind him, aware that the other man is following him diligently. 

Good, all of his loved ones should be here to see this, to experience this.

He’s at Molly’s side, hands gripping her waist and helping her down from the stallion’s back. Her eyes glisten. 

“Well, hello there, handsome.” Molly tilts her head forward and presses her palm over his own, caressing his knuckles.

Will breathes in and hardens his resolution. 

“Molly, I understand now. I, too, wish not to lie to myself or anyone else, anymore.” The words coat his tongue similar to the woman’s juices from last night, and that is such a horrible thought for right now. 

A puzzled look crosses her face, similar to how it had at the ball, her smile twitching into an uncertain pinch.

“You saw me, and I see you, you see my existence, my individuality on this plane of reality, and I wish to know you just as well.” 

Margot and Alana give him matching odd looks, but they look past him, and there’s an unreadable agony in their eyes. He continues on anyway.

He grabs Molly’s hands, soft and pliable, and he leans over her, ignoring the burning in his chest. “I love you, Molly Arianda, and I would be honored if you would make me the happiest man on earth by taking my hand in marriage.”

There’s a stunned silence. They’ve only known each other for about a week, he supposes it isn’t ridiculous that this would be shocking.

In the quiet, he steamrolls on, “I’ve seen your art, and I've lavished in your words, and you are the soul for me.” 

There’s a wounded sound from behind him, followed by a muffled growl.

He hears the dull thuds of footfalls on grass, seeing his sister and Margot running past. He’s alone with Molly, her eyes utterly lost, but joy stretched across her lips, nonetheless. “Are you sure, Will? I wouldn’t want to .. well, I..” hesitation brings the corners of her mouth downwards, and they purse. She looks past him, to whatever had happened moments before, a thoughtful glint in her eye.

“Let me think about it.” 

What?

Will, still heaving from the force of his confession and the now almost smoldering spasms in his chest, is dumbfounded. He is now alone once more, as he’d woken up this morning too, standing in the early morning dew. He turns to watch everyone leave him, Molly the most recently gone. What had he done wrong? 

!

Night falls quickly, and he dresses as he normally would, dark trousers and a plaid gray/black button down, held up by a brown leather belt. It’s simple, but it’s dinner with his parents, nothing entirely new. Will attempts to do something with his hair, pomade sticky in his fingers as he tries to do what Margot has done many times, but his strands won’t listen, thickly curling in the wrong direction. He sighs and decides to go about it as he usually does. Chaotic and unruly it is, then.

He leaves his chambers, shutting the door heavy behind him. The sound is sobering, and he feels as if he’s headed to a den of lions, instead of his parents eagerly congratulating on finding his other half. His hands bury into his pockets as he makes his way down the clear staircase, headed toward the main royal dining room.

There’s chatting, soft and pleasant. He comes in and expects to see Molly, Alana, and his parents, and they were all there, yes, but he hadn’t expected Hannibal to be sitting at the table as well. His mother and father raise their glasses as they see Will, and he inclines his head, eyes stuck on the Knight at the opposite head of the table from Jack. 

He won’t meet his stare, no matter how pointedly he tries to get his attention. He almost has half the gall to command him to look up, but he’d never do that to him. To anybody, really. Will takes his usual seat, to Alana’s right, across the table from Molly. She smiles a forced little thing and picks at the cloth napkin on her lap. He slowly realizes that the easy chatter had slowed, a tense awkwardness in the air since he’d walked in. Well, shit.

“How did you all find the ball?” Bella brings up, sipping idly at her wine glass. 

“It was marvelous, mother.” Alana chips in, her eyes bright at her event being perceived successful. 

Molly nodded along.

“It was quite the night, I certainly enjoyed it.” Hannibal’s said, accent elegant but tight. 

Will furrowed his brow and turned to his head of the table, “You went? I didn’t see you.” 

Alana tilted her head and hummed silently, “I helped pick his mask, but I hadn’t seen you all night either. I’m glad you had fun, though. Did you see Margot and I? We were matching.” She speaks as she normally does, but something in the way her eyes shine when taking in the Lithuanian man is different. Like she knows something.

Hannibal nods, ignoring Will entirely, much to his utter offense, latching onto the new subject like a newborn and his mother’s teat. “Yes, I was quite impressed. It felt as if you were both two masks in one. I should think about doing something like that next time.” As the words leave his mouth, the atmosphere of the room seems to plummet. 

Will snorts and rolls his eyes, “Hopefully we don’t have to bother with another masquerade anytime in the near future.”

Alana flicks an annoyed glare his way and practically sticks her tongue out at him, “I plan on having my birthday occasion be masquerade themed, so. Choose a better mask next time.”

Will groans internally and leans back in his chair, shooting a side smile to Hannibal, who had his eyes on him. “Looks like you’ll get your chance to up your game at the next ball then, huh?” 

There it happens again, the chatter slows and everyone looks down at their empty plates, aside from Will.

“What’s going on? Why’s everyone quiet?” He leans forward and watches as they avoid his glare. Everyone except his father. Jack was never one to shy away from anybody, much less his own son, blood or not.

“Hannibal has decided to take a leave from the castle permanently. I’m surprised nobody informed you before coming down.” Jack pinches at the bridge of his nose and sighs, exasperated. 

“What?” Will can feel a coldness pooling in his gut, and his throat aches. 

“I have business elsewhere.” Hannibal, the man of the fucking hour, speaks up, not even sounding remotely upset about it. He doesn’t give a shit in the slightest, like Will’s entire life isn’t suddenly turning inside out in his absence. He straightens the cloth napkin on his nap and folds his fingers together, “New employers in my home country.”

“So tell them to fuck off. You serve us first and foremost.” Will leans forward, gritting his molars. Swarms of maids come in with the first course, unaware of the strained energy. The clattering of plates and utensils fill the room, being gently sat down in front of each member at the table. Hannibal picks up his soup spoon, waiting for Jack to take the first bite. 

Jack stretches his shoulders out and grabs his spoon as well, taking a slice of buttered bread from his side plate. He dips the edge of it into the thick, creamy tomato base. He takes a bite, and the crunch is loud. 

“Will, don’t act out. We do not own Knight Lecter, and he has had every right to leave with his stay here. In fact,” Jack takes another bite, his jaw working leisurely around the flavorful liquid. “I was quite certain he’d leave sooner. You are quite the man on the battlefield, Mr. Lecter.” 

Receiving a compliment from Jack Crawford was the equivalent of being graced by god, and that showed on Alana’s face, blue eyes wide. 

Will rolls his eyes and glares angrily at his soup. This was bullshit, and the damn bastard knew better than to up and disappear on him. He picked up his own slice of bread, and went to gobbling the first course, chewing and smacking his lips loudly whenever Hannibal began to speak. A small tick made the man’s jaw jump, although nothing else gave way to his irritation. 

“Thank you, your Majesty. I’ve realized that,” Hannibal cups his hands together, a small smile twitching into a miniscule frown, “My talents could be doing more, for these gracious lands. I am grateful for all you’ve done and provided for me, all of you.” His gaze settles over each of them, even Molly, before it rests on Will. 

He snorts and spits out a fleck of parsley back into his almost empty bowl. 

Alana kicked at his ankle underneath the table, her heel digging into his calf, a warning to act accordingly. Really ironic considering whatever she’s hiding in those subtle glances toward Hannibal, but what-fucking-ever. 

Bella nods toward Hannibal, “And we are grateful for you, sir. I cannot imagine we’d be as safe as we are now without your guidance. We will surely miss you.”

Will picks at his teeth with his thumbnail, and when Molly raises a brow at him, because why would he need to pick at his teeth when they’ve only consumed a broth, he just looks away. He should feel bad for showing such bad mannerisms in front of his fiancé, but the recent news of Hannibal leaving squeezes his gut.   

Before he can find something else snippy to mutter, Maid Beverly comes in and bows slightly to the table, carrying glasses of wine already poured sitting on a metal platter. Will sits up, thanking his lucky stars for the freedom a little alcohol would give him. 

He needs to get the hell away from all of this.

Beverly makes her way around the table, first serving his parents, and then Molly, and she comes over to Hannibal’s end of the table, who smiles breezily at her, making space for her to set down his glass. Unfortunately, although fortunately for Will (he finds it hilarious), she loses her footing, and the wine glass she's holding knocks into his chest, dying the white button down he’s wearing a deep violet. He sits there, lips pursed.

She panics and apologizes profusely, but the man waves off the accident, chuckling about his outfit needing a splash of color. Of course, the entire table laughs. Of course, Will glares at him underneath his brow, even as he stands to go freshen up in his quarters, bidding a quick return.

At the very least, he’s gone. He visibly relaxes and beckons Bev to come with his glass, considering whether it’d be in bad taste to tip her for the mistake.

Alana reaches over him to grab her wine glass from Beverly, and her pointed elbow catches the tip of his bowl, tipping it over. He would’ve believed it was an accident if it hadn’t been so quick, his bowl upending into the air and his soup splattering over his shirt. A deep orange stain immediately soaks into his flannel, and he groans internally. 

“Ah, whoops, I’m sorry, Will, I guess you will have to go clean up as well.” His devilish sister quickly brings her wine glass to her lips, but the joy at a mission success twinkles in her eyes.

Jack and Bella both shake their heads in exhaustion. Parenting can be such a chore.

!

Will considers going to the washroom in his chambers, but the pull he feels to the Knight’s quarters is simply too strong to fight. He slowly walks down the hall, as if he were a thief in someone else’s home. It feels wrong to be here, although nobody here would admonish him for “looking around” the castle.

He stops in front of Hannibal’s door, the small trail of dripping wine aiding in his search. Will deftly fingers at the crack of the open door, trying to carefully nose inside, without catching too much suspicion. 

A stupid idea from conception. The door swings open, and Hannibal glares at him with mighty irritation, still adorning the wine soaked shirt Beverly had gifted him. Will clears his throat and pats the door frame idly, “Well, this isn’t my room.” He jokes lamely, hoping to create some sort of truce.

“It certainly isn’t.” Hannibal responds quickly.

As much as he tries to fight it, to control his anger and his upset, he finds he can’t bother to care anymore. Why does it matter what he thinks, when he’s leaving anyway? Will pushes past him, shoulders knocking roughly, coming inside. The action makes the older man tense, but he turns and shuts the door quietly. The click of it being locked is unmistakable, but he refuses to let it affect him.

He’s never spent much time here, or any time at all, actually. His parents had always told him it was rude to barge into another person’s rooms, even if they were a temporary stay, like Hannibal was supposed to be. Will isn’t stupid, he knows and he’s always known the Knight in front of him would go someday, he had told the Crawfords as much when he started. Alas, what was supposed to be a six month stay, became a year, and then two, and then five. He’s stayed for five years, and now he suddenly wants out.

Why?

“What do you wa–”

“Leaving, huh?” 

They both speak at once, and they stare into each other’s eyes. Brown meets blue. Leaving meets staying. Knight meets prince. Wine meets soup. 

“I have nothing here to stay for.” Hannibal says it, and he doesn’t let it show on his face, he doesn’t, but Will breathes a little faster, and his eyes sting. Tears burn at the corner of his eyes and threaten to spill. His fingers clench, nails digging crescents into the meat of his palms.

“Nothing?” He almost throttles himself for the voice crack mid-word. Hannibal doesn’t face him, not anymore, and he knows he’s beginning to unbutton his dress shirt. Usually, the act would make Will’s face burn, being so near the older man and the source of his scent would drive him insane, but the word *nothing* has been seared into his brain. 

He has nothing to stay here for. 

A drilling throb begins to make its way back into his throat. 

“Yes. Is that all, your highness? Please feel free to leave my door closed on your way out.” His accent is cold, words clipped and tight, letting no light shine through. He shrugs the purple stained shirt off of his shoulders, angular muscles shining in the pale light of the room. 

Will wants nothing more than to agree and scuttle off, watching miserably as the man who’d stuck by his side for years now, leaves for good. He swallows thickly, his throat clicking. He’s not sure what to do, how to convince Hannibal to stay.

The young prince thinks of what Alana would do, with all of her ridiculous blouses and puffy shouldered blazers, with her deviously brilliant plans (with oddly high success rates). 

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” Will crosses his arms and silently prays to anyone out there listening that this does what he expects it will. 

Hannibal freezes with the shirt in hand, and he turns, light brows furrowed. “You are not my employer, nor do I have to listen to you anymore.” The older man says it as if he’s not sure himself whether he has to listen to Will. It’s all the uncertainty the scamp needs. 

“You are mine until you’re let go tomorrow morning, and as of right now, I am telling you that you’re not going anywhere. You will stay underneath my parent’s employment, and you will serve my every need and want until the day you die.” Just saying it is a power trip, and the mirth to say such a thing and even entertain such audacity dances in Hannibal’s eyes. 

“Oh?” Those pouty dark lips curve upwards, and Will can feel his heart grow wings. 

“You wouldn’t want to upset me, would you, Knight Lecter? I could have you beaten, thoroughly. Twenty lashes for each time you question my authority.” He continues the haughty act, licking his lips occasionally, and watching the older man track the movement with hungry eyes. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. How shall I serve you, my lord?” Hannibal drops the soiled shirt to the ground, completely lost in Will’s trap. Instead of overthinking anything, he speaks freely, for once. He relaxes down onto the older man’s bed, sitting as if he owns the place (he practically does).

“Take this damn soup off me.”

It’s fast, and efficient. Hannibal slips the pearly black buttons into each hole, and it comes undone, exposing the sparse hair over his chest. It’s almost comical compared to the other man’s chest, which is practically an overgrown jungle of silvery vines and bushes. 

His soup covered flannel pools around his hips and onto the bed. Will kicks it off the sheets, joining Hannibal’s own on the floor. 

“Well, continue.” He gestures down to the rest of his outfit and turns away, cheeks blossoming a peachy balm. 

“You only had soup on your shirt.” It’s factual, and completely true, but that has nothing to do with the command.

“You’re begging for lashings, clearly. Perhaps I should do them myself. Carve my initials into your back with a studded whip.” Will airily says such violence with a yawn mid sentence, ignoring the jackrabbiting of his heart as Hannibal absorbs the threat. Dark brown eyes twinkle and his hands are on him. 

Long fingers undo the button of his jeans, and he almost jolts out of his skin when sharp knuckles brush over his pronounced bulge. His slacks are shucked down his legs, and the ‘accidental’ slide of Hannibal’s thumbs against his inner thigh makes him quiver wantonly.

Then there are his briefs, and he can’t take back the command before they’re also being dragged down, his aching hard cock twitching against his lower abdomen.

“My lord, is something bothering you?” 

Will is semi reclined on the bed, soft pillows cushioning his lower back as he sits leisurely on the bed. 

“I am simply confused as to why you’re still fully clothed yourself.”

Hannibal seems to buffer, his usual snappy replies at an impasse. 

“Well–“

“I suppose the saying is right, If I want it done right..” Will leans forward and drags the older man on the mattress, earning a shocked scoff and a frazzled looking Knight underneath him.

He’s taller and wider than Will, but those strong hands don’t even try to struggle beneath his grip. The prince isn’t stupid, he knows exactly how strong he is and what he’s capable of, and if Hannibal had truly wanted to stay standing, he’d still be looking down on him.

This thought emboldens him.

Will has never disrobed another person faster in his life. Belt sliding out of pant loops and zippers being undone, it isn’t long until Hannibal lays there, nearly fully exposed. Drool pools in Will’s mouth, and he leans forward.

Hannibal runs his fingers through Will’s curly locks, dragging his eager head toward the hot curvature of his covered crotch. The prince noses at the breathable fabric, testing that very theory.

Will tongues at the wet dip in Hannibal’s boxers, precum soaking the spot near the band. He tastes a salty, bitter musk, and it’s absolutely intoxicating. He doesn’t mewl, really, but when Hannibal’s thick uncut cock slaps his left cheek when finally free, he definitely makes a noise. 

He can’t ignore the older man’s pleased hum.

“Comfortable, your highness?” 

Will sputters at the acknowledgment as if he isn’t seconds from having the man’s penis in his mouth. “Watch carefully, Knight Lecter, I will show you what it means to obey.”

“Yes, you will.” His knees grow weak at the sensual growl above him, and he wants to sneak a glance up at those gorgeous brown eyes, but reconsiders it, knowing lust has overgrown his own pupils. He wouldn’t dare give this traitor the pleasure of the pull he has over him.

“J-Just so you may follow in my footsteps, and obey me.” Will’s words are slurred and rushed, heady with arousal. He readjusts himself on the bed, and if his cock brushes against the sheets one time too many, well, he’s just human.

“Of course.” Hannibal mused, chuckling as if that is the most ridiculous explanation he’s heard in his entire life.

Will opens his mouth just wide enough to accommodate the tip, and sucks it in. The raised ridge of Hannibal’s cock head slides over his bottom lip, and the younger man tongues at it, eager yet inexperienced. It eagerly spurts precome anyway, infusing with Will’s saliva. 

Hannibal leans his head back against the headboard, keeping his thighs wide and open to accommodate his majesty’s needs. Will slowly takes in more, throat gradually relaxing as inch after inch of veiny cock muscles it’s way inside. Halfway to the root, the Knight grips roughly at his scalp.

Will has never done this before, but the few sounds he can hear from Hannibal is enough to send his confidence skyrocketing.

He tries to take more of the salty length into his mouth, but his throat catches against the cock head and he gags. The younger man thinks to pull off, afraid he’ll vomit on the Knight’s shaft (and truly solidify his leaving), but insistent hands keep his head down. 

“Aren’t you a lovely thing? I’m afraid I have no plans in letting you get away that easily.” Hannibal caresses his cheek with something so reverent and secret, it almost brings tears to his eyes once more. Will’s throat spasms around his cock, trying to hold back his gagging as best he can.

They set a slow pace, and the cautious thrusts into Will’s virgin throat pulls out raw groans from the man above him. At times, he’s held still, and he can feel the hard member pulse greedily inside of him. He can’t help but rock against the sheets now, unabashed in his lust and how this affects him.

He wants to mention how ironic it is that he won’t let him go, but he’s entirely fair game to abandon Will. Saliva drips from the corners of his lips, dripping down to Hannibal’s wide base and curled pubes. The latter man breathes heavily, and with a strangled moan, he carefully pulls his slick cock out of Will’s throat. Spit and precum coats his lips, his eyes dazed but staring right back into Hannibal’s.

He gently cradles the younger man’s jaw in both of his palms, and it is so incredibly familiar. Will sighs, content, and leans into the touch, moth to flame. Their foreheads almost touch, parted lips sharing the same breaths. 

“How else can I serve you?” The words are whispered, soft and careful, between the both of them. Only for the two of them.

“I wish to be inside you.” Will, when he does speak, sounds absolutely wrecked, his throat croaking and raw from being fucked. 

“It would be my pleasure.” Hannibal near whispers, reaching into the nightstand beside his bed and pulling out a vial of a cloudy, yellow oil. Will notes that it’s almost empty, and he can’t ignore the pang of jealousy in his chest.

It’s only when the older man bends over in front of Will, legs spread and hole exposed, that he realizes it isn’t empty. His eyes widen, taking in the golden circle outside the man’s hole. As he drinks in the sight, and prods curiously with his fingers, he sees that Hannibal’s rim is clinging tightly to the thinnest part of the contraption. 

“You’re just full of surprises, huh?” Will grabs the end of the metal circle and lightly pulls on it, earning a low rumble from the eager man underneath him. 

He isn’t sure what he expects, but the bulbous swell of gold metal coated in the same thick oil that sits in the vial in Hannibal’s palm surprises him, regardless. Hannibal leans forward onto his left forearm, reaching back with two fingers on his right. 

Will lightly grabs his wrist and shakes his head no. 

“I want to do it for you.” The prince watches as Hannibal turns his head back, catching his heated gaze. His heart throbs in his throat. 

“Have you ever done this before?” He’s never known the Knight to slur, but his accent and the position must make it difficult to sound as elegant as he usually does. It makes his cock twitch.

“Fingering? I’m not an absolute virgin, Hannibal.” He rolls his eyes and rests back on his haunches.

The man himself chuckles underneath his breath, “With a man, myilmasis.” 

That seems to pause Will in his overconfidence, and he clears his throat. His train of thought almost stumbles entirely from the pet name, he’s always scorned those sweet titles and what it did to his stomach. Even now, with the Knight kneeling in front of him, ass exposed to his hungry eyes, he feels something shy curl inside his belly. It’s foreign, and the way it rolls off of his tongue, he just knows it's the man’s home language.

“No, I haven’t.” He admits, eyes glued to the bedsheets beneath them.

“Are you positive?” He glares at Hannibal, who just seems amused, a secretive gleam shining in his eyes. He sounds just as Alana did earlier at the table, and it sits unsettling over him. Truly, thinking of his sister and her quirkiness is the last thing he wants in his mind right now.

Will furrows his brow and grabs the vial, now cast haphazardly across the bed. He coats his fingers and brushes them over the sensitive flesh that is Hannibal’s hole. “Men don’t interest me.” He mumbles it quietly as he slides in both fingers to the second joint, quickly scissoring, sensing that he can take it. 

“Peculiar that we are here now, then.” Hannibal leans forward and rests on both of his forearms, blonde fringe brushing against the headboard. Will hears the question in his voice, and he too questions himself, as to why he is here. He’s learned to quiet it, however, and just accept. 

Before long, there is a third finger squeezed beside the two, Hannibal easily taking the appendages, the occasional husky grunt interrupting the silence. 

Will finally responds to the older man’s earlier query. “You are no man.” 

“Am I to not be offended by that?” Even with three fingers stretching and rubbing at his sensitive insides, the Knight holds himself together scarily well, only rocking back onto Will’s hand when he befits it.

He’s silent, not sure of how to follow up with what he’s said, other than suddenly pressuring Hannibal to flip to his back. Oil slick fingers smudge over the older man’s hip. He submits to the prodding weight and Will sees his face again, expecting anger. 

Hannibal stares into his with such mounting curiosity, it almost feels dirty to indulge in the gaze. “I don’t usually have sex in the missionary position.” 

“Neither do I.” Will breathes.

The air between them throbs and aches. 

“Do you usually find yourself doing new things?” Hannibal reaches forward and grabs the back of his knees, creating easier access for Will. 

He uses the vial to quickly slick his painfully hard cock, eagerly sliding the slick tip against the damp hole he’d had his fingers in. “Are you psychoanalyzing me, Knight Lecter?” 

A small chortle of laughter comes from beneath him, and Will relaxes in its timber. “Simply observing.” 

Will leans forward and the tip of his cock head slips inside easily. The velvety warmth surrounds him, and he bottoms out almost immediately. “You won’t like me psychoanalyzed.” As if to follow his biting statement, he rocks forward quickly, earning a surprised groan and long muscular legs wrapping around his hips. 

“I fear there is no version of you I am not completely enraptured with, your highness.” The words pierce into his mind, and it’s all too much, the squeezing hotness choking his shaft, combined with the heady scent of their sex. He leans downward, hands snaking up the hard lines of Hannibal’s body as if possessed. 

He continues his relentless pace, and everything he’d craved last night is achieved here. Their mouths don’t collide, an unspoken agreement that it’d be one step too far, as if Will doesn’t have the entirety of his cock pounding into the Knight’s tight heat. 

Hannibal grows steadily louder, his own cock spurting precum generously over his navel, rubbed against both of their stomachs. They grind against each other as if they are two halves of the same coin. Will hunches forward and sucks at the outstretched throat laid bare to him. He does it just high enough that it can’t be hidden by anything other than a scarf: right beneath that chiseled, clean-shaven jaw. 

The prince hungrily sucks at the sensitive skin, a sharp bruise blossoming underneath his ministrations, and he eagerly notes that he was right. The older man tastes exactly as he’d assumed the previous night, if not better. He’s never been much of a flavor connoisseur, and he’s sure Hannibal could explain his own taste profile better than he ever could. 

Will smiles against his throat and feels his pleasure begin to crest to an unstoppable peak, a mounting growth that forever expands. He pulls back slightly, intent on watching Hannibal as he reaches his own climax. Chocolate curls meet ashen blonde strands, their foreheads pressed together as they both eagerly piston and intertwine.

His right hand jerks down, and he holds his knight’s leaking pleasure tightly. It takes a few strokes for Hannibal to completely lose it, cock gushing and twitching in his grip. The walls surrounding his cock tighten immediately, flexing mercilessly. Will bites back a moan as he spills his seed deep inside of him. 

He immediately collapses atop the larger man, shuddering as his orgasm is thoroughly milked, balls drawn tightly to his body. He quickly grows oversensitive, but he can’t manage to pull himself away, burrowing his nose into the adam’s apple hidden underneath Hannibal’s jaw. 

Fortunately, the older man seems to sense this. Hannibal reaches down and carefully pulls Will out, his soft cock coated in his own semen. He leans down and sucks the limp appendage into his warm mouth, earning a pained mewl from the prince on the bed. He sucks the cum and oil off and pulls away just as quickly, rubbing the inside of Will’s thigh intimately. 

Will fights the exhaustion beginning to tease him, his vision growing blurry as he watches the Knight walk about the room. He feels a damp towel wiping away at his stomach until there’s a dip at his left, and a blanket pulled over him. The prince recalls the dinner they both hadn’t returned to, and how he still awaited Molly’s answer. He couldn’t find it in himself to care too much, as if her response wouldn’t shape the rest of his romantic future.

All he could focus on was the man beside him.

“Stay, please.” He manages to say the words that have congealed in his throat all night since he’d found out of Hannibal’s inevitable departure. 

There’s a long stretch of silence, and Will is mostly asleep, head rested gently against Hannibal’s shoulder, when he hears it. Thick and slow, like the slow dribble of fresh honey, mumbled into his ear, a horrible truth only he should know. 

** Throughout my travels, from close to far,

Alone, I’ve always been able to make due,

Following your light, like the Northern Star,

I could have never, truly, predicted you. ** 

!

Will wakes alone, as he normally does, although the change of scenery has him squeezing his eyelids shut in utter confusion. It all gradually comes back to him, and he’s tripping over bedsheets, headed toward the door. All the furniture in the room aside from the bed has been draped with white sheets, and even further panic has begun to thrum inside him.

He takes in more of his surroundings, and comes across a flash of intense color. A red and black masquerade mask, sitting innocuously in the center of one of the covered tables. The same mask the woman from the ball had worn, down to the exact shade. Everything clicks, and it is so incredibly painful how stupid he’s been leading to this moment, how ignorant and idiotic. He’d run away from Hannibal one too many times, and he’d come to him, granted, differently than usual, and he’d still abandoned him. Then, when he was ready to accept Will and all of his stupidity, he’d gone to Molly, pledging himself for life.

He thought of each interaction, of the emphasis on certain words, of Alana’s exasperated metaphors and her “not remembering” seeing the man at the ball. Will thinks, and he thinks, and his eyes burn, until there are twin streams running down his cheeks.

Of course, he was leaving. Will would leave himself, too, if he could.

He realizes with sickening relief that he has his slacks on from the night before, as well as a slightly larger red sweater. It smells of Hannibal. He quickly flees the door and doesn’t bother closing it, letting the scent of indulgent sex permeate the hallway of the knight’s sleeping quarters.

“Where is he? Where has he gone?” He runs into Beverly, and has half the mind to thank her for whatever plan she’d been involved in yesterday with his sister. She looks at him with sad eyes, and her voice is dim when she responds.

“He left hours ago, Will.”

“I said, *where* did he go?!” He ignores the many stares his anger earns him, and Beverly wipes at her red rimmed eyes. She’d been crying too, probably when she said goodbye to Hannibal.

“East, he has a carriage, for his-” She swallows wetly, “his belongings.” 

He runs out of the castle, bumping shoulders with whoever dare come in his way, not caring to apologize. The run to the stables isn’t as strenuous as it had been the day before, although the burn from the cool air makes his lungs burn all the same. He sees Molly there atop one of the many mares, and he freezes in his tracks, his heart painfully squeezing in his chest.

She sits there, and her eyes seem distant, but she still captures sight of him. 

“Molls.” Will almost slips in the cold mud as she drops from the horse, and comes toward him. His guilt wars in his chest, watching the woman he thought he’d loved come toward him. “Wait, we need to talk–”

“I’ve readied your horse, he’s two hours out east, I’m not sure where he’s gone from there on.” Her words are hurried as she deposits a full satchel into his arms, a sad smile plastered on her face. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, but there is understanding and love on her face all the same. “I know you’re not out here for me, and I’m fine with that, Will. Please, go.” 

Will stands rooted to the ground until the reality of the situation punches him in the gut, and he shoots forward to hug her tightly. Molly sags in his touch and reluctantly pulls away. “Go on, handsome.” Tears leak from her eyes now, and Will climbs onto his horse, satchel slung across his chest. 

“Thank you, Molly. Truly. And I’m, I’m so–”

“Don’t you dare apologize, Graham. Not for what we had. I enjoyed it while it lasted.” She smiles, forlorn, and pats lightly at his horse’s rump. The stallion whinnies and starts at a gallop. Will watches her grow smaller until he can’t see her any longer, the castle becoming a blur. 

He rides until his lower back aches and his lips grow blue. It begins to rain, and instead of worrying of his own safety, he can only hope that the carriage is riding slower. Cold, hard raindrops crash into his skin, feeling similar to the sharp bite of needles. He knows his horse can handle the push, and he will definitely reward the boy once they’re home, at last. Home and warm, safe, with his Knight. 

He isn’t sure how long they’re on the road, but he stops when he can’t feel his lower half anymore. The rain has eased to a light shower, and Will rides into a small town, needing a break. It’d be a short remission, and he can continue his search once he doesn’t feel like he’s going to croak. 

Will hitches his horse outside, feeding him the apples Molly packed him in the leather satchel. Once he’s sure he’s had enough, he slowly limps into the nearest bar. The best thing he can think of is a whiskey to warm his body. It’s midday, definitely past noon, so the place isn’t as packed as it probably would be at night. Will doesn’t need an audience to sulk about the last two weeks, so it doesn’t affect him one way or the other.

The prince sits at one of the stools in front of the bartender. 

“Heya, newbie. What can I get you?” The bartender speaks to him, voice rich and friendly. It’s possibly bad manners to ignore the guy, that’s what Hannibal would say, anyway. 

“Something strong.” Will rasps, and immediately coughs hard, lungs shaking in his chest. 

“Sheesh, coming down with something?” He finally looks up, and sees a graying man with kind eyes, a calm blue. 

“Hopefully.” He tries to give a self-deprecating laugh, but it just comes out as a pained wheeze. A cold tumbler is sat in front of him, and he stares at the amber liquid. 

Will picks it up and takes a quiet sip, and yeah, the burn is quite possibly the best thing he’s felt all morning. The man goes to help another patron, one whose head is covered in a maroon hood, asking for a similar drink to what he chose. It’s nice to know that he’s not the only person aching, even if that sounds horribly selfish. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and holds his face in his hands. “Do you want to talk about it?” The graying man, Jimmy, his name tag says, asks. 

“Talking about it ain’t gonna change much.” He downs the rest of what’s in the tumbler, and it’s immediately refilled by the gracious bartender speaking to him. He feels a throbbing behind his eyes at the idea of dwelling on his situation, the feeling intensifies as he imagines never seeing Hannibal ever again– He would go serve another family, another castle, and Will would forever be a bad taste at the back of his throat. The conceited and lecherous prince he couldn’t change.

But he has changed, and it hurts. 

“I find that talking about things sometimes helps a lot.” Jimmy smiles kindly at him, and then chuckles, “Unless you’ve got some type of STD. I don’t think talking about that would change much.”

Will snorts and sips at his refilled drink, licking his lips. “Alright, I guess there’s no real harm then. This is about, uh, well. My partner.”

Jimmy leans his hip against the wood separating them, using a clean cloth to dry an unused glass. He quirks a brow at the term, but doesn’t delve deeper, dipping an ear to signify that he’s listening. The usual hustle and bustle in the bar doesn’t pause for their conversation, and he’s grateful for that small luxury.

“Well, we aren’t, really, together. They worked for me.” Will adds on, fingers sliding on the condensation on his glass.

“Workplace relationships..” Jimmy begins, and the prince groans. 

“Yes, yes, I’m aware, but it’s– it was different with us. I hadn’t realized how I felt until, until this morning. It’d always been weird between us, like there was something more. I wasn’t sure how to approach it at first. I thought I hated the guy.” Will chuckles, a small wet thing, and continues on, unaware that he’d gone and outed Hannibal’s gender. He feels relaxed in Jimmy’s presence.

“And, there were the pictures, they’d drawn me, and the poems, and, they started showing up in my room. I thought it was this woman I was seeing at the time. So I proposed to her.”

Jimmy winces, and Will takes a long pull from his whiskey. “Dude, really?”

“Yes, unfortunately. I was so lost, and I was looking for direction, so, I just, did whatever.” The prince fidgets in his seat, expecting judgement. He can’t look up into Jimmy’s gaze.

“How old are you, again?”

“Twenty-five.” Will mumbles.

“Ah, makes sense. Alright, what happened next?”

Will could hear an amused huff come from the hooded figure down the bar rail, and he wants to sink his head into the concrete floor. 

“He, he, decided to leave. He didn’t want to work under me anymore. Even though I thought we came upon an agreement–” Will flushes as he thinks of the night before, of how he’d acted and what he said. “He still wanted out. I’m out here, trying to find him. Trying and failing. I’m not sure if..” He pauses, unable to say the next few words.

“If he even wants to come back.” Jimmy continues, an understanding glint in his eyes. 

“I spoke to the woman I was prematurely engaged with. She understands, and all I need to do is bring him *home*.”  Will’s voice cracks, and he presses his forehead down to the wooden rail. 

“Awe, c’mon kid. Don’t put your face down there, you’ll catch something.” Jimmy pats Will’s shoulder, and he raises himself onto his elbows instead, eyes cloudy with regret. 

Talking hadn’t helped, after all. Jimmy stands in front of him, mouth quirked down, and he refills his cup once more. “Don’t worry about the bill. You’re havin’ a bad enough day. On the house.” 

Will shakes his head and takes his wallet out, but slowly slides it back into his satchel at a serious gaze Jimmy shoots him. 

“Here’s my advice.” Jimmy begins pouring another patron a drink they’d requested during their conversation. “You find this mysterious guy, and you shake some sense into him, and for you? No more shenanigans from you, sir. I understand that you’re young, and this is possibly the first time you’ve fallen in love, but taking people for granted is the fastest way to lose everyone dear to you.” 

Will bites, his jaw clenching, as soon as he says the word love. 

Does he love Hannibal? Had he loved Molly? 

“You *do* love him, don’t you?” Jimmy gives the other person their drink, and turns fully to Will. 

He considers their entire relationship, professional and unprofessional. He thinks of each time he’d see the older man, how his stomach would clench, and his heart would seize. How everything else seemed dismal, monochrome, whenever Hannibal wasn’t near to give his two cents. He ponders on their verbal and mental sparring, how nobody else could hold a candle to them, to those moments. All of those years, of forced hatred, of pushing him into a negative light, just to confirm that he hadn’t felt anything else for him. It was all false reassurances. He couldn’t possibly love the man he’d wanted to be gone for all of that time, surely? But now, as he almost sinks into the stool he’s sat upon, true understanding comes to him. 

“More than anything else in the world.” He huffs, and it almost takes him by surprise, his own revelation. 

“That’s really all you need, in the end.” Jimmy smiles and goes to help a group of men who walk in, bringing in noise and their business. 

Will stands, knees shaky, and he makes his way to the restroom. He’ll take a piss and find Hannibal, if it’s the last damn thing he does.

He’s washing his hands thoroughly when he hears the bathroom door open again, and he looks up a little, just for safety’s sake. It’s the hooded man from earlier. Will continues his scrubbing, as his parents had taught him, and frankly, he didn’t trust the bar to be all that cleanly after what Jimmy had told him earlier. 

The hooded person stops at the sink beside him and washes his own hands. Will catches the sight of chipped red paint around the cuticle lining being scrubbed away, and his stomach freezes over. 

The *exact* shade. 

Will turns, faucet still running, and turns completely to the red hood of the person beside him. Strong stature, about the same height, legs long and imposing. The hooded man does not pause, and begins drying his hands. 

“‘You are no man’.” Will starts, his lips quivering, but gripping the ceramic sink beside him for strength. “When I said it, I wasn’t sure what I meant myself, whether it was an insult or compliment– but, I think I get it now. You are not a man, you are not like the people out there, nor like anyone at the castle, nor anybody in this region, universe. You are..” He closes his eyes and lets his heart speak for him. 

“Otherworldly. Ethereal. I– I wasn’t ready to accept what I’d felt for you, how strongly it felt, and so I’d convinced myself you were like any other man on the street, but no. You are.. You..” He chokes around the words, but it gushes out of him like an open wound, aching and painful. “You are no man, because you are above men. Above me, and above my father. I know you now. I see you now.” Will lifts his chin, and he says all he can, his heart bleeding out on his tongue. 

His knees almost give in when the hood lifts, and Hannibal stares back at him, lips slightly parted in gentle surprise. 

“I can do nothing other than love you, as I do now, Hannibal. I, I am sorry, for all of my ignorant pea cocking, and idiocy.” 

Warm hands cup his face, palms lightly patting his stubbled jaw. “You’re freezing.” They’re the first words from those ridiculously pouty lips, as if he were upset at the rain itself for doing such a thing. He doesn’t have to respond, he doesn’t have to confess his love or adoration, because Will sees it all twinkling in his eyes. His chest burns, because it’s the same look he’s given him for the past five years. Tears begin to sting and swell once again, and he leans close, brushing his lips for the first time to Hannibal’s. It’s gentle and pleasant, and when Will clutches hungrily to his Knight’s waist, they pull apart. 

“Come now, your highness. I’m not going to let you propose to me in a bar restroom.”