Hannibal's hands are cold, and Will feels them like needles in his skin every time they touch. Between the pulling his hair and whispering his name, Will has wound up on his kitchen table, Hannibal between his thighs. Dizzy, Will pulled away again and leaned his head against Hannibal's. When he opened his mouth to speak, Will pressed his lips to Hannibal's again. No words.
The feel of Hannibal's undershirt against Will's palms was nearly painful; Will slid his hands under it and felt the skin of his back, smooth and chilly against his sweaty hands. A drop of blood had dried against the side of Will's face, and Hannibal leaned forward and pressed his nose into his cheek, whispering something in a foreign language. His breath tracing down Will's collarbone make him shiver. Swallowing hard, Will laced his fingers into his doctor's hair again, directing his mouth back to his own.
Will gasps when Hannibal's fingers slide under his own flimsy shirt and find the tender tissue of his shoulder, and Hannibal pulls back for a moment and catches Will's eye.
"Do you trust me?" he asks quietly.
"Mm," Will replies, shaking a bit as Hannibal's hands work his torn muscle.
He leans further into Hannibal, allowing his touch to overwhelm him; swallows the moan that builds in the back of his throat. Carefully, Hannibal slides Will's shirt off, pressing his face to the damp collarbone. Will tightens his grip on Hannibal, letting his fingers explore his chest. He could map out the world, he decided, on Hannibal's back. He could be all the places he's ever been, because that how Will felt at that moment.
"Kiss me again," he said, voice dropping the last syllable.
Hannibal leaned back into Will, a fresh love mark blooming on his patient's neck.
