The first time Will went to Hannibal's bed there was no deciding factor that tightened his fingers around the knob. One moment he was barely clothed outside of Hannibal Lecter's bedroom, the next moment he was barely clothed inside Hannibal Lecter's bedroom. Will wore nothing but his grey briefs, pajama shorts and shirts were unreasonable in the south of France in July…and he wanted his intentions to be clear. Torturing himself over the fact that his intentions would be made clear, unmistakably clear, Will had stood in front of the large cherry wood door for an immeasurable amount of time. It could have been a few drowning minutes or rushing hours, time hadn't been Will's strong suit for quite some time. The doctor was already in bed with the blankets crisply tucked across his waist, chest bare and rhythmically rising as his eyes perused the open book in front of him.

Will wasn't sure if it was he who allowed himself a moment to adjust or if it was Hannibal who allowed Will the moment to adjust, though he had an inkling that it was the latter. Seconds did not tick by nor did they drag, instead they stretched outward and fell thick like molasses. Eventually Hannibal peeled off his reading glasses before taking in Will's bare figure. Somewhere in the back of Will's mind he wondered if Hannibal could see the goosebumps that rose across his skin and prickled sharp behind his eyes at the feeling of Hannibal's intense gaze. The glasses and book were placed upon the bedside table and Will struggled not to shift from foot to foot, he wasn't sure if he succeeded and the swaying was his own vision or if he was truly rocking back and forth in anticipation of Hannibal's approval.

It had been a long six months since the cliff, the dragon, everything else. From boat to boat they travelled until Hannibal smuggled them both to the house of an old friend who was tiringly handsome and whose eyes never steered far from Hannibal's figure. It was that handsome man, Charlie ("please, never Charles") who insisted they have their own guest bedrooms (Will spent the night decidedly not sleeping and straining his ears for any sounds of life coming from Hannibal's room, he heard none) before granting them passports the next morning over Hannibal's fresh French toast. Cool light poured in over breakfast where Will spent the first few minutes wondering if it was possible to be able to count the rings under your own eyes, trying to ignore the fact that Hannibal wore a white apron over his red sweater and that Charlie didn't wear a shirt at all and spent the morning slowly sucking at strawberries. Will wasn't hungry much, he also didn't feel that it had been too long since he saw Hannibal in an apron and he certainly had not missed the sight, not even a little bit…at all.

"Doctor Henry Ilafaim and Wesley Ilafaim." Hannibal's eyes were mischievous as he made a show of kissing his friend on the cheek before handing the passports to Will. Will stared at the folded papers in front of him, his own blank gaze met his sleepy stare.

"Henry Ilafaim—comprenez vous?" Charlie was smug at his own joke, a joke that Hannibal explained with that annoyingly present twinkle in his eye.

"Ilafaim: Il a faim…He is hungry, in French. Charlie, you'll give us a way." Hannibal was not lecturing, he was pleased with the pun. While Charlie laughed and denied that fact ("Hannibal, I don't believe you could ever be caught—no matter how bad any man tries to catch you.") Will felt his world centering down to the black ink on the two passports, realizing for the first time that they shared a last name.

"Brothers." It flopped out rather dumbly onto the table. A plain word, ugly really. He'd never had a brother; once he had thought Jack could be like a brother, but no. In his mind it had sounded much more…well, it had sounded much more. Brothers? Brothers! Brothers?! He couldn't decide.

"Not necessarily." Hannibal used that tone familiar to Will from before. Before Abigail's death, the first one, the fake one. And so, he supposed, before her real death too. When had he started measuring time in his surrogate daughter's deaths? Hannibal was testing the waters, checking and noting Will's reaction rather than making a true offering based on his own wants. Will did not want Hannibal acting out of an intrigue in Will's reactions, but before Will could form an answer Charlie cut in—

"What? Do you mean husbands, Henry? With Wesley?" Will had a feeling he had picked out that awful name on purpose, but he wasn't watching Charlie, he was watching Hannibal whose shoulders made the most minuscule up and down moment that Will supposed counted as a shrug.

"Why not? Wes?" The crackle of bacon hardly had to fill a lull as Will's mouth retorted before his brain could process the strict and unamused,

"Why not."

Three months later and Hannibal still did not treat him like a husband. It was Hannibal who found the house in France, it was Hannibal who decorated it, it was Hannibal who assigned Will the guest bedroom with the window overlooking the lake, and it was Hannibal who kept a steady distance from Will in the evenings and often disappeared to his bedroom only an hour after dinner. It was Hannibal, then, whose eyebrows quirked slightly before he rose and took silent but heavy steps toward Will. There had been times when Will had wanted to kiss Hannibal, before and after the fall, but since their "swim" (as Hannibal referred to it casually) the doctor had made a rather strict point of keeping his distance and making those moments fall into longer time spans apart. Then, however, was certainly one of those moments when Will Graham wanted to kiss Hannibal Lecter.

Hair free of product, chest free of shirt, eyes free of that shield that he had solidly been carrying for half of a year—it was the Hannibal from the top of the cliff again with wide blown eyes and pursed lips who stood before him. Heat radiated between them, practically vibrating as they stood nearly toe-to-toe. Speckles of cherry were visible in Hannibal's irises and the image of cherries being boiled in a pot of blood floated to mind, the irony bubbles gurgling and popping as the cherries bobbed and spun. Will thought he could practically smell the raw iron of humanity in the pot before he realized he was smelling Hannibal. It made his knees weak, it had been so long since they had been so close. If Hannibal moved any closer, Will was certain he would be able to feel the goosebumps at that point. The first boat had left them in close quarters but the need to take shifts in sailing had seldom kept them in the same room for very long, much to Will's chagrin. Hannibal leaned in and Will's bottom lip puckered of its own accord, an extended arm coolly moved past him and then suddenly Hannibal was stepping back and offering his heavy blue robe to Will with the shield firmly back in place. Will accepted the clothes before his brain had caught up with the route change.

"My dear boy," Oh how Will ached at those words, he was ashamed at the dull throb his cock gave at the term of endearment, "you'll catch a cold with your bare feet on the wood. Get some sleep." A large hand and long fingers were at his back, leading him out to the hall with his thin smile and the wish of sweet dreams. Will knew it was an act, though he had to reinsure himself of it (because it was so easy to believe that Hannibal would be willing to bring that cool nature between them) with the reminders that if Hannibal didn't want him there he would have been eaten, as well as the fact of Hannibal's undying curiosity. If Hannibal was not curious about Will in more intimate terms than that of a friend, he would have certainly asked why Will was standing nearly naked in his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind him and the robe was stiflingly hot, a sweat picked up at the back of his neck. Will was back where he started, the shield was firmly reinstated, but it had fallen. Will had managed to bring it tumbling down as Hannibal stalked toward his figure, and he had every intention of bringing it down again—for good.