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For the best part of a year, they stayed in a French seaside town where the sun was direct, unfettered, and overly warm. A castle stood tall in the distance amongst the mimosa and broad eucalyptus trees, and the surface would get hit with the midday sunlight that it would reflect sharply, almost blinding.
The cliff faces surrounding the sea view were chalk white marbled with grey stones, the spiky grass sprouting in tufts along the shore and across the rolling hills; the rocks above the sea were a sandpaper beige, smoothed down by the waves to form curves, and one consistent colour like a wide brushstroke. Sometimes Will would stand on it's edge and smell the salt pungent in the air. Sometimes, when drunk or far too sober, he'd think of throwing himself off. But he wouldn't.
Wooden rowing boats of parakeet green and cream sit weathered along the pebble beachfront, rocking steadily in time with the ocean. Always calm, vivid blue mirrored by the sky. Fluffy clouds pass sparsely. Now and again, newlyweds or old couples take out one of the little boats, drifting aimlessly around in circles. The man always paddled, Will observed, a slight scowl forming. Will found it oddly enjoyable to watch them from the vantage of the balcony, Hannibal sidling up next to him to join in.
Every couple of weeks or so, Will regularly took long walks alone in the blue light of dusk, wandering along the desert sand paths, and seeing the warmth of lamps through stranger's ornate windows. It looked like candlelight, bright and orange. Tempting. Even to flies.
He'd watch people come and go, being invited through doorways, hands being shaken. Naturally, almost habitually, he'd keep an eye out for dogs, but he'd rarely see any. He knew vaguely of an eccentric old lady who owned a white Pekingese, and exchanged awkward greetings to her in French on more than one occasion. In truth, he would've rather spoken to the dog.
The house itself felt like a hotel room, being a single story apartment at the top of a tall, stone building. The furniture was art nouveau era, all plush reds trimmed with gold, pinks, exhausted peach colours, rich varnished woods. Very little black, which Will found refreshing. Metal candlesticks are never used, crystal ashtrays and tumblers for scotch refracting the light of the pearlescent chandelier, if it's ever turned on.
Without thought, the room seemed to be shadowed all the time, as if it was perpetually night- the queen-sized bed a gangly sprawl of soft sheets, emerged from only a couple of hours earlier. Not even the armchairs could be plain, patterned ostentatiously, similar to flowery wallpaper. There were polished mirrors on every wall, akin to a rich man's funhouse; he wanted to cover them up, really.
Most mornings, light permeated through the white mesh curtains that look like veils, subduing the sunlight to be as thin as tissue paper, rays hardly catching the dust floating in the air. Those mornings they'd spend tangled up in one another, kissing languidly, enjoying the refreshment of the chilled breeze over their naked skin. Eventually, Hannibal would disappear and come back, make them breakfast using the rock lobsters caught fresh that morning.
Hannibal stays in the house more often than not, the majority of his time spent drawing Will in places he's never been, or whilst lounging on the balcony a safe distance away to avoid getting caught and thrown a pillow at. He goes out grocery shopping frequently, talks to the locals in fluent French like he belongs there which inwardly startles Will every time he switches to it. He'd grown his beard and hair out, which he tied up in messy buns, the loose silver-blonde strands framing his angular face, made to look even more severe under this black ribboned trilby-style hat Will has told him makes him look equally ridiculous as it does peculiarly attractive. Bond-villain-esque. His fashion is tamed down now, but not dull- he still has the gall to wear tailored fucking shorts, and Edwardian pleated trousers when the weather is bearable.
In first few weeks of being there, despite not leaving the house much, he developed a slight tan that turned the olive undertone to his skin into one of a golden, mellow hue, like a flush. It's a wonderful contrast to the crisp white shirts he took to wearing with the sleeves rolled up, top button neatly undone. The sight of him alone had left Will desperately trying to conceal unwanted erections on more than one occasion.
Fortunately, with Hannibal's gentle (not gentle at all) coaxing, Will didn't dress in flannel covered in dog hair anymore- opting for linen shirts that probably cost more than any damn suit he'd owned in his life. They were never done up properly as a small act of rebellion, and uncharacteristically light in colour, but never white, more faded pastels and lighter blues, or some loose vest tops instead. It was rare that he wore anything on his bottom half except boxer-briefs, occasionally, if he wasn't going out- if he was it'd be fitted khakis with 'leather' belts, maybe even dad-like secondhand shorts, if he could get it past Hannibal.
He grew his beard out a bit as soon as his cheek scar had fully healed, and shaved his head once during the hotter days of summer, completely unannounced. To ameliorate the loss of his curls, he'd ironically taken to wearing a pale straw hat that reminded Hannibal of Van Gogh's self portraits. Then, unplanned, he just kept wearing it because Hannibal liked it so much.
Unless he's asleep, Will seemed to have these sunglasses on that cover half his face, tinting his eyes a rose colour. He watched fisherman with them on, played cards- la belote- with people at the bar or neighbours, walked all the way to the docks to collect cold oysters and clams for chowder whenever it's his turn to cook. It's rare that he finds time to catch the fish himself, only if he wakes up early enough to do so.
They both wear muted coloured suits when they go to local restaurants that are quiet enough for Will to tolerate. Their favourite spot was most notorious for having a glorious painting by Monet, which was shoved in a back corner, far enough away from light to not be damaged, but not enough to be properly seen and fully appreciated. Hannibal found it irritating- Will would laugh at him when he mentioned or looked at it for the five hundredth time in one night, and chew ice left in his glass.
He wasn't surprised when he came home to find it on one of their walls instead.
Will took up smoking, from time to time, once his ribs were fixed, as if he was trying to find another ailment to satisfy himself with. He'd put it down to hedonism, and Hannibal didn't comment too much on it, secretly enjoying the subtle scent of it on his clothes; he'd figured he would be able to smell any changes in his health before they happened. Hannibal wasn't surprised to see Will with a cigarette between his lips when he came back, dropping his bag on the side, and glancing at how casually masculine Will managed to look in a white silk robe, unruly around his thighs as he laid on the bed. He looked concerned in the tilt to an eyebrow: "We have food now?"
"Yes. I went down a terrible hill to go grocery shopping. And read a book. It was horrible." Hannibal intoned, partly sarcastically. He figured they needed the essentials, collecting balsamic onions with the warm baked bread, some fresh oranges and grapefruit and berries. White wine, and milk bottled in glasses with condensation on the outside, butter, eggs. The little girl smiled at him behind the desk, her mother more wary.
He'd go back there later for the plump apricots suspended in alcohol, and the fancy cheeses, purposefully mouldy. Other additions would appear sooner to when they decided to source another prime cut of meat- bunches of garlic, assortments of herbs, and aged red wine.
"Oh."
Hannibal smiled at him, packing things away, "You worry too much."
Narrowing his eyes, smoke billowed out of his nose, and he formed a smirk of his own: "I've heard that before."
Will took Hannibal up on his offer to shave his face for him- something he'd wanted to do for a good few months now, apparently, and the repeated asking had worn him down. His initial reaction to Hannibal taking out a cutthroat razor should've been one of fear, but he found that it didn't distress him in the slightest: "We're happy, here." Hannibal declared, rinsing the blade.
"Mhm." Will hoped that would be the end of the conversation. The sound of the scrape of metal across his skin was satisfying, and he wanted to listen. It swiped slowly along his pulse point. He wondered why he hadn't neglected vanity and done this sooner.
"But you resist happiness."
Will sighed steadily, meeting his gaze, "Don't write another thesis to try to analyse my life. More than you already do."
"You don't resist happiness?"
"Are you trying to illustrate your point by making me unhappy?" Hannibal did incline his head, but said nothing more, tilting Will's chin up to gain better access to his throat.
That night, Will ended up getting drunk in the nearby bar. Hannibal knew it would happen- some days it was spectacularly easy to sour his mood with one word, and he'd end up being hungover the next morning. It explained why he'd lived alone for so long: no one to push his foul mood upon if no one was there to talk. He put his hand on his shoulder and was surprised when it wasn't shrugged off: "Don't you think we should go?"
"Are you telling me when to go home, now?" Will countered, draining the rest of his glass, swaying.
"I'm trying to help you."
"I can walk home. I don't need your fucking help." Hannibal felt the need to call his bluff, and quietly left by himself without making a scene.
Strangely, he was only felt impressed when he heard Will stumble in through the front door a handful of hours later. Once he'd heard him vomit into the toilet, he got up and collected a glass of water, placing at his side of the bed.
He didn't brush his teeth, and left his shirt that he'd spilt bourbon down in the bathroom. The toilet flushed, and he wandered in the room to fall heavily onto the mattress beside Hannibal, face down. After a moment, he fidgeted, reached out a hand to place on Hannibal's hip, moving closer, "Will." Ignoring the warning, he lunged at him, shoving a leg between his, and caught his mouth in a kiss that tasted like stomach bile, until Hannibal turned his head with a snarl and wrestled him away.
Will dropped back down limply and laughed when Hannibal rinsed his mouth out with leftover wine, muttering curses in Lithuanian under his breath, leaving Will to deal with his hangover in peace. Any more exposure to him, and it could've ended badly.
The last time it had got that bad was a few days after moving there- all Will had wanted to do was pick a fight for days on end because they'd had to give up their dogs to leave. It had resulted in Will drunkenly falling asleep on a metal bench and he was woken up by a goat bleating loudly at him. Hannibal had left him to it, shockingly, having been insulted one too many times. Will went straight back to the bar the next morning, and came home mid-afternoon covered in dirt, bleeding from a split lip that he'd gotten after fucking off the wrong person.
Hannibal split their head in two a few weeks later. Fed Will their brains in a soup.
Giving Will a few hours to calm down had worked their magic, and he arrived home to everything still intact. Nothing on fire, or smashed. He decided to get a hot shower. If Will apologised and behaved, he'd make them both a late breakfast.
Halfway through washing his hair, the shower curtain was pushed open, and there was Will, looking tired, naked. He squinted against the brightness of the room and Hannibal stared him down: "What are you doing?"
"Getting a shower." He clumsily moved to join him, but Hannibal held his shoulder.
"Will, no."
"Why not?" The more Hannibal tried to nudge him away, the more aggressive his rebuttals got, and he almost knocked Hannibal over when tried to shove him back. Hannibal caught his wrists and pushed them to his chest, not letting go until he broke down and started to cry. Sighing, Hannibal bought him into an embrace, letting him weakly sob into the space under his jaw, muttering about missing people, and repressed guilt, and pain. Blubbering apologies. They remained hugging tightly under the stream of water until Will's breathing returned to normal, like they were falling all over again. Gently, Hannibal moved back and helped him to wash.
"You're not easy to love." Will told him, with his back to him, wiping a hand over his eye.
"You think you are?"
"Fuck no. I'm an asshole." He wasn't kidding. Sad and sincere.
Hannibal kissed the nape of his neck, his hands circling his ribs: "Then, we deserve each other."
Since they arrived there, Will had voiced his want to go sailing every other day but never acted on it, so Hannibal rented a traditional sailboat the next month. They went out on it during a cooler day in the late spring, the sun warm but kind, and Will steered it in random patterns, letting the tide decide where to go; always making sure he could still see the familiar cobbled beach in the distance.
Hannibal sat back in the shade of the sails reading a book about seabirds he'd found in the cabin, and they fed each other grapes that taste like lychees. Will pointed the boat in the direction of the waves and clambered over, seating himself between Hannibal thighs, leaning his head back against his broad shoulder. Absently, one of Hannibal's hands fell to rest on Will's stomach on his scar there, and Will sealed it in place with his own hand. The hair of his beard tickled his cheek when Hannibal placed a sensual kiss to his cheekbone.
By evening, they had watched the sun go down, glimmering across the water. Ablaze. Docking the boat, Hannibal started to talk in broken Czech to the boat salesman and let Will go back to the house with a kiss.
When he came home, he could already feel the steam, and padded through the pale yellow curtains that lead to the bathroom, finding Will in the bath. The water was translucent and milky with Japanese bath salts- a gift delivered by Chiyoh, from an old friend. Will's head was rested back against the side of the tub, eyes closed, and he didn't move, even as Hannibal pulled up a low stool and began washing his hair for him.
Humming, Will turned his head to kiss Hannibal's wrist once he'd rinsed the the shampoo from his hair. The kiss moved to their lips, deepening, and Will pulled at Hannibal until his hands skimmed down his chest, lower, leaning over him. Hannibal obliged being dragged down into the bathwater, still fully clothed, kiss fierce and biting, arousal heady, stifling in the steamed up room. Damp clothes, water spilling over the sides of the bath, noises echoing. They find themselves rutting mindlessly against each other until they come too soon, shaking, clutching at one another.
Will's laugh died on his lips when Hannibal climbed out soaking wet, only to take off his shirt. The way the droplets ran down his neck, clung to the hair on his face and chest, made Will's mouth feel parched.
Autumn on its way, they go on a drive in their rather neglected slate grey Chevrolet, the roof opened to the wind. Hannibal stopped off at the castle that turns out to be a church. Will passed up the opportunity to go inside, joking about what happened last time he'd been in a religious building in pursuit of him.
Instead, he sat on the wall bordering the graveyard, admiring the concrete statues of angels, and looking up at the stained glass windows from the wrong side.
For dinner, they go out to a fancier restaurant more into the city. It has a ballroom dance floor, flower arrangements on every table, and a quartet of musicians playing string instruments and a piano. Everyone there is wearing suits, or floaty, embroidered dresses, but the atmosphere is quaint and romantic. The eyes Will feels on them when they slow dance are more than welcome, but anxiety bubbled up quickly in him, making them leave before dessert.
On the drive back, he fell asleep under the streetlights, his hair mussed and pushed back by the breeze, sea salt flavouring his skin. Hannibal placed his suit jacket over his stomach, and woke him up with a soft word and a kiss to his neck that made him smile.
That night, at around midnight, a storm licked at the sky, and thunder sounded in time with Will's heartbeat. He watched the water as it turned grey as if rendered in graphite, freezing and whipped white at the edges by the howling wind. The storm surged in clouds, and Will blinked against a few flashes of lightning before closing his eyes, feeling Hannibal's palms on his waist. He thinks that moments like this make him want to believe in God.
Will's moans and cries are stifled by the roaring of thunder, Hannibal's voice deeper still, both just as volatile in passion as nature. Hannibal kissed at his inner thighs and told him that he loves him. A swallow and a gasp, and Will says it back. Afterwards, they decide to cuddle up closer under the duvet and catch their breath. He laid his head on Hannibal's chest to hear his heart and the sea roil as one.
An hour later, half-asleep and lulled by the crashing of waves, Will listened intently as Hannibal recited a translation of Ariosto's Orlando Furioso from memory.
Will scoffed during the part which tells of love being a form of insanity.