✔️ Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram | Rye Ambrose

28

I love you... rang the words through Will's head.

    He was at a loss for words, and even after Hannibal pressed another soft kiss to his lips, he was still speechless.

    Death loves me...

    Hannibal... loves me.

    Will's lashes fluttered, and he stared into Hannibal's beady black eyes. "I-I—I love you, too, Hannibal," he breathed.

    Azmaveth.

    And even as they both went to sleep, the words echoed in his dreams, swirling in his head and rearing like a stag. Even sober, Will couldn't comprehend it—not even in his dreams.

    He had been searching for Death all his life... looked for him through, over, under, around every crime when, really, he was right under his nose. Right in front of him—watching him, speaking with him, helping him.

    And this entire time, Death examined his every move, his every action, his every thought. And he found beauty in it, the terrible or the graceful—the human things he did. He was so messed up, and yet Death, Hannibal, this divine entity loved him.

    Will woke up the next morning to the strong smell of Death and the warm, vacant spot beside him. He deftly ran his hand over the sheets, still able to feel Hannibal's smooth skin beneath his fingertips in the recesses of his thoughts.

    I slept with Death last night... his mind whispered.

    No, he corrected himself. Hannibal... Azmaveth...

    Will's chest blossomed with a foreign warmth, and he couldn't help but smile in the slightest. The smell of breakfast pulled him from his thoughts, and he glanced at the doorway, which was halfway open. He pulled the covers away from his bare body and shivered, fetching his clothes from last night and putting them back on. Tentatively, he made his way out of the bedroom and down the long hallway, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the aroma was strongest. He inhaled deeply, stomach grumbling.

    "Good morning," said Hannibal as he heard Will approach from behind, glancing over his shoulder and gently smiling.

    "Morning."

    "Did you sleep well?" asked Hannibal, flipping two eggs on a skillet. Will nodded, leaning against the counter and watching him cook—from the movements of the pan against the stove to the stretch and pull of his muscles through his thin shirt.

    "Yeah," Will replied softly. His eyes lingered on Hannibal's arms—toned and strong. The same ones that caged him against the bed last night.

    This is his human form, thought Will, blinking slowly. And yet, it's so flawless.

    "Will," came Hannibal's voice in the back of his head. "Will?"

    He blinked and snapped out of his trance, finding Hannibal staring at him, spatula hovering over an egg.

    "Sorry—what?"

    Hannibal's eyes gleamed with amusement, and a smirk twitched at the ends of his lips. "How do you prefer your eggs?" he asked gently.

    Will scratched the back of his neck, and his face grew hot. "Sunny-side up is fine," he said.

    Hannibal smiled, letting the eggs sizzle for a while longer before plating them alongside some bacon. "Here you are," he said, handing a plate to Will. He took it with a quiet 'thank you,' and they sat at the kitchen table beside each other. The smell of breakfast hung delightfully in the air, as well as the scent of Death—powerful, foreboding, ethereal. The fact that Will never fully comprehended it boggled his mind.