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“Dogs come into the world nose first,” Hannibal said. “Eyes next, then ears.”
They were standing in mud watching the dogs. Will noticed that thin brown water was seeping above the welt of Hannibal's boots. They looked way too nice for dog-walking in November, but he'd insisted on coming with Will out into the back fields.
Did offers of dog-walking mean Hannibal wanted to be friends? Because he was pretty sure he didn't know what to do with that. Should he invite Hannibal over to tie flies? Take him out for a beer? Anything he thought of seemed unlikely. It was easier to turn up at Hannibal's office and occupy that unique space he had created with Hannibal, something beyond patient but not precisely friend. There was an edge to that space, something sharp he didn't want to examine. Hadn't wanted to profile. For now, Hannibal's friendship sat like an odd sock in his top drawer, tucked away for the time when the matching half was located.
“Whereas we come out with our brains barely hidden by a quivering soft shell. Then we start yelling,” Will said.
“No point yelling at a dog, it won't do any good. They can understand the truth of a person simply by their sense of smell. Words hold little meaning, only the energy and emotion driving them.”
Will toed a stick out of the mud, and tossed it end over end into the middle of the pack. He watched it describe a high arc against the clear sky, causing an explosion of happy chaos as it landed.
“You like dogs?” he asked.
Hannibal put his hands in his pockets, watching the dogs play. “We had a one, when I was a small boy, but I barely remember the experience other than the impression of a wall of brown fur that I could lean against. And its scent. To me it was complex and rather compelling, a mix of pondwater and wet earth, and the smell of dusty stone after rain.”
Will gave him a sidelong glance. “That doesn't answer my question in the slightest.”
Hannibal gave a faint snort of amusement, his breath clouding the air around his cheeks. “Perhaps it should.” He looked up at Will through his lashes. “I have an affinity with dogs, you could say.”
Winston and Buster bounded up, and Will threw the stick for them without looking away. “An affinity?”
“Do you think you could ever lie to your dogs about how you feel, about your mood?”
“It would be pointless trying. And, who lies to dogs?”
“The terminally self-deceived, I imagine. Dogs read your scent, your movements, your actions, all the signals you constantly send them without even realising. Sometimes, I feel I'm in the same position, as a psychiatrist. I find myself doing exactly the same with the humans I'm trying to understand.”
“You realise that, with all the shock and horror of a newborn infant falling into the world for the first time, you understand far too much,” Will said.
“I feel it would be easier sometimes not to have the ability to read people.”
Will nodded. “But of course it's impossible to become a layman again, even if we wanted to.”
“Do you?” Hannibal asked.
“Sometimes, yeah. Some days I'd rather do anything else.” Will flexed his toes; they were cold even in his thermal boots, so Hannibal's must be doubly so. “But what else would I do? What would you do?”
“I've studied people all my life, body and then mind. I'm not sure I'd know what to do without that.”
“Open a restaurant? Alana tells me you have an exceptional palate.”
“As does she.”
“Let's walk back.”
They walked slowly, the dogs weaving between them, questing in the winter-yellowed grass for smells and the unfortunate edible. Hannibal didn't pay attention to the dogs, or seem particularly interested, although he'd patted a couple of them once or twice.
Hannibal's words ticked through his mind, until Will stopped and turned to him. “Not much of an affinity with dogs, at least emotionally.”
Hannibal shrugged. “That's correct.”
Will closed his eyes for a moment and saw Hannibal: a certain lift of chin and a flare of nostrils. “Are you telling me you're hyperosmic?”
“A blessing or a curse, I'm not sure which. Yes.”
“I'm not strong on olfactory disorders, but I've read a little.” He paused, feeling as if he were straying into something deeply personal. “Does it bother you?”
“Like an animal, I can conceive of no other way to be. But sometimes it is painful, yes.”
They both watched Maggie snuffling at the ragged corpse of a pigeon. God only knew what Hannibal had smelt on Will these past weeks. Vapours and miasmas from the lab clinging to his hair and clothes and skin every day, and he'd walk them straight into Hannibal's office. Probably had pressed them into his chairs and books with his fingertips, inking them there indelibly with the sebaceous oils on his skin.
“People must have a hard time lying to you,” he said.
“I have my limits. But like one of your dogs, words are frequently unnecessary for me to determine someone's truth. Hormonal changes, chemical changes, for better or for worse I can detect them. And also less arcane scents, of course.”
“What do you smell on me?” Will asked, before he could stop himself.
“Do you really want to know? It can feel invasive, one's mundane secrets revealed, as if you were suddenly naked.”
The idea of being naked, with Hannibal in front of him, made his breath come a little shorter. “Well…"
“I'd have to get a little closer. You've got some competition.” Hannibal gestured to the dogs, and particularly to Maggie, who was squirming on top of the dead pigeon, her paws waving idly.
“How d'you feel about bathing them when we get back?” Will said, and had to smile at Hannibal's momentarily blank expression.
“If you need help, of course.”
“No, don't worry. Maggie, come here,” he called, and she leapt up and trotted to his feet, where the smell of her became truly nauseating. Hannibal didn't seem outwardly bothered by it, but it had to be ten times worse for him.
“Does this special gift come with any booby prizes? Cluster headaches? Migraines? Epilepsy?”
“No. I feel I've been lucky. Although it can make it hard to tolerate others, and if I'm not careful I can be a terrible misanthrope.”
“I bet. Must get distracting sometimes. Maybe you want to kiss someone but you end up cataloguing what they ate for lunch.”
“I've never had quite that problem,” Hannibal said, smiling. “But then I am rather picky.”
They made their way through the tussocks slowly, dogs all around them.
“They are wolves at heart,” Hannibal said. “A corpse has a fascinating smell to them, and, transferred to their own coats, it confers a certain amount of attention and status from the others in the pack. So the theory goes.”
“Just like men and women who splash on a gallon of expensive crap to try to impress each other.”
“It can be hard to tolerate such egregious smells.”
“You mean the corpses or the trashy perfume?”
Hannibal smiled again. “The perfume is far worse.”
“Why?”
“Like the dogs, I don't find the smell of decay repulsive. Instead it speaks to me of life.”
Back at the house, Hannibal wavered on the porch, looking around him at the canine sea. “Well, I should probably leave you to it…"
“You don't have to wash dogs, I was joking. I'm going to make coffee before I get the tub out, do you want a cup? These guys can stay out on the porch for fifteen minutes. Yes, you can,” he said, shooing Winston and Cornflake back when they tried to push in.
“Thank you, but I must get back for an appointment.”
Will watched him walk away. He hadn't told Will what he could smell on him, but that was probably for the best.
*
Will didn't question why he wore a two-day old shirt on Thursday, the day of his appointment with Hannibal, but it gave him a tug of something sharp to see the minute flare of his nostrils.
“The problem with letting others into our secrets is that it makes us easier to exploit,” Hannibal said, as he sat down.
“Or easier to trust.”
“In my experience trust comes far less easily than the need to exploit others.”
Will leaned against his desk, folding his fingers around the edge of its solid top, tethering himself to its weight. He met Hannibal's gaze, glancing once then away. “Am I exploiting you by wearing an unclean shirt? Maybe I just haven't had time to change.”
Hannibal fixed him with a sharp, bright look, and Will swallowed. “Do you want to know what I smell on you? Are you so curious?”
Will had thought of little else since Hannibal had told him. He nodded.
Hannibal stood and walked over to him, then bent his neck, dipping his head a little. Will held very still. Hannibal's warm breath seeped through his shirt to his skin. He closed his eyes and felt the two of them sliding into a new space, one where Will didn't have to say anything for Hannibal to understand him. He could remain as mute as a dog, while Hannibal circled him, plucking truths from the air, communicating only through tiny changes in scent.
Giving so much of himself to Hannibal seemed perilous and addictive. He'd already given so much, had let Hannibal peel back his skin and look underneath.
“A person's smell is unique, like a fingerprint. It is revealing.”
“It must give you a strange view of humanity.”
“It certainly does. It can be repulsive, or it can be intoxicating.”
“Which one am I?”
Thankfully, Hannibal ignored him. He breathed slowly, as if breathing Will in. Will's gaze skittered down to his mouth, which was soft and parted. His tongue came out to wet his lips, a small sensual lick, and Will realised he wanted to kiss him.
“Are you afraid, Will?” Hannibal said.
Will shivered. “Can you smell that?”
“Often. It smells bitter, like burnt hair and charred skin.”
“Often?” All the times Will had sat in Hannibal's chair, straining for control in the face of his own fear – Hannibal had known. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself, to protect himself, but what was the point? “How does that make you feel?”
“Pheromones from others affect our brains, stimulating our empathy and emotions and memories. I'm not immune, Will.”
“My fear makes you afraid too?”
“To a certain extent.”
“What else do you smell on me?”
“Dogs. Obviously, and yet more faintly than one would think, considering.”
Considering Will essentially shared one room with six of them, it was a miracle.
“You ate fresh white bread for breakfast with some sort of execrable product that was not butter. The water-in-oil compounds are unmistakable. You showered last night with Ivory soap, but you didn't wash your hair. I smell cooked fish, yesterday. Something very oily, such as mackerel.”
“I smell of fish.”
“Sebaceous oils and engine oil make an interesting combination. There are seventeen hours of sweat in the warmest parts of your body. You wore this shirt to the BAU recently, yes? I catch formaldehyde and a hint of cadaver. Underlaid with the somewhat mephitic odor of the swampy ground near your house.” Hannibal smiled faintly. “You must smell wonderful to your dogs.”
“They seem to be okay with it,” Will said, faintly.
“It seems like a perfume almost custom designed to appeal to certain noses.”
He'd been thinking of Hannibal the entire time he'd been wearing the shirt. Will stuck a hand in his pocket. “Since you seemed so enamoured of the smell of decay, I got you a little something.” He dropped a long broken fragment of bone into Hannibal's hand.
“This is for me?”
“I wondered if you could tell by smell which animal it used to belong to.”
Hannibal took it to his chair, and sat with it in his palm, then lifted it to his nose. He closed his eyes, and it gave Will a chance to study his face. He looked younger, his face smoother, but it had an almost abandoned quality, like someone had closed the shutters on a once lively house.
“A deer,” Hannibal said, after some time.
“A doe. She died giving birth last year. Most of her's gone now, even the bones. How did you know?”
“There is a particular scent to the urine that's hard to mistake, although it was very faint. My family had an estate, and even when I was very small my father took me hunting. Such powerful smells can bring back a time and a place with clarity.”
“And pain.”
“Pain is also a part of love.” Hannibal ran a finger down the shaft of the bone. “May I keep this?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.” He seemed to mean it, too, and he caught Will's smile and returned it. “I enjoyed our walk the other day.”
“You should come over again,” Will said.
“I'd like that. I'm free tomorrow afternoon.”
*
Will woke slowly from a dream he couldn't remember. He breathed into his pillow as sweat cooled on his back and his arms, and tried to claw the dream back, but it shredded like clouds under a hot sun. His body seemed to remember it well enough though. He was still hard from it. He rolled onto his back to free his trapped erection. It was before his alarm. He had time.
He pushed his shorts down and wrapped his fingers around himself, and closed his eyes against the grey light seeping between the curtains. The scent of his own sweat was thick around him, tangling with the raw sex smell of his cock. It was a shout, a message that shrieked from his body. Hannibal would be able to smell it later. Hannibal would read him like a book that had fallen open at the most thumbed page.
“Oh fuck. God.”
His mind caught up with his body, fast. He tightened his fingers around the head of his cock, spread his thighs and worked himself in long strokes. He shouldn't think of Hannibal, but he was going to; he couldn't stop himself. The ghost of Hannibal's breath warmed his neck. Warm breath, and warmer hands, strong hands, pulling Will close. It'd been so long since anyone had touched him.
He stroked himself slowly and let himself imagine it. Will would be silent in front of him, and Hannibal would simply know what he wanted, what he needed, all their long twisting conversations irrelevant for once, and the stone walls of his battlements taken down brick by brick.
He dug his heels into the bed, his mouth opening as his orgasm grew from nowhere, ambushing him with its intensity. He came hard, his calf muscles tensed to the point of pain, and then slumped back onto the bed.
He didn't shower, just washed quickly at bathroom sink, and didn't let himself consider too closely why. He threw hot water onto his face as if he could wash his mind clean with it. Like that was ever going to happen. His heart was beating too hard. He shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have let himself think about Hannibal like that. But he had. He shut the water off and just leaned, letting his head hang, feeling the weight of it stretch and pull the tension from his shoulders. His legs still felt weak and shaky.
He dressed, and made coffee and eggs. Patch came over while he was cooking, and gently pressed his damp nose against Will's wrist, a touch of comfort that was uncommon with him.
“Does confusion smell good to dogs? Tell you what, don't answer that.”
Patch looked up at him, and didn't.
*
Hannibal's car pulled up while Will was at his desk, and by the time he'd marked his place in an almost laughably badly written student treatise on warm weather decomposition, Hannibal was pushing open his front door. Will watched him touch the top of Winston's head, fingertips skating briefly behind one ear to scratch it. Only for a second though, then they curled away, retreating to Hannibal's palm.
“Are you working? I don't want to interrupt,” Hannibal said diffidently.
“If I read any more of this I think my brain's going to try to escape through my ears.”
“I'm glad to hear you're so dedicated to your students. A good teacher always is.”
“What makes you think I'm a good teacher? I'm a good profiler; that doesn't mean I'm any good at passing that knowledge on.” Will dropped his pen on the table and stood. Hannibal was wearing his version of casual, which included tweed and an expensive looking sweater. It probably didn't have moth holes, unlike Will's.
Hannibal paused. “You don't look at your students much during your lectures, do you?”
“Good god, no. I avoid it at all costs.”
“Then you haven't noticed that they hang on every word you speak.”
Will felt his face heat. “I don't like being in front of that many people. It's too easy to assume that they're all starting to profile me instead of the killer. In fact I'm sure some of them have started.”
“Perhaps you should set it as a homework assignment,” Hannibal said, and it startled a laugh out of Will.
“A little bit egotistical, don't you think?”
“Not if you really are so interesting.”
Will shoved his feet into his boots, and bent over to lace them. He could smell the dust on the floor, and the faint lanolin and ballpoint ink aroma of his sweater. “Do you really think I am?” he said, feeling the blood rush to his head. He straightened, and couldn't look at Hannibal.
“Is it such a surprise that the answer would be yes?”
Will grabbed the leashes and shooed the dogs out ahead of him as he got his coat, and he let Hannibal follow him, and although he couldn't see his face he was sure he was smiling.
*
They walked for a long time, until even the dogs became sluggish. Hannibal had wanted to see the extent of the farm, so Will lead him around the perimeter, and described a little of the history of the place, about the old couple who'd lived there before him. They walked side by side over the rough ground, talking, shoulders bumping in a way that made Will's stomach tighten up. Now and then he'd catch Hannibal glancing at him, and it gave him a breathless sensation, a nerveless shivering tension that made colours stand out too brightly. He took Hannibal to the place where he'd found the deer bone. Most of the corpse had decomposed or been scavenged, but the dogs snuffed around, rooting in the collapsed ribcage. They watched, solemnly, as if in a graveyard.
“Is the air clear enough to smell me, this time?” Will said, very aware of Hannibal's solid presence at his shoulder.
“Oh, yes.”
Fine. Will forced himself to turn and meet Hannibal's clear, level gaze. It was easier than expected. The edge of a sunbeam caught a few hairs that the breeze had blown loose. The sun turned them gold instead of grey. “Let's go back. I can make coffee.”
“I'd like that.”
Inside, Will left Hannibal studying his bookcase while he made coffee. He was spooning grounds into the pot when he heard footsteps behind him.
“Can you tell exactly which cheap coffee I bought?” he said. “This could be embarrassing.”
“No,” Hannibal said. “I don't familiarise myself with cheap coffee.”
Will turned, leaning against the counter, pleased to have its solid wooden edge propping him up. Hannibal's gaze was never less than intense, but now it seemed doubly so. “How many people have you ever told about your hyperosmia?”
“Several doctors in my youth, when it bothered me the most. My aunt. Since then, only you.”
Only you. It seemed only fair to offer a piece of himself.
Behind them, the dogs were restless. Hannibal was motionless, and close, and Will felt very much like Hannibal was waiting for him to say something. The air between them had become thick and charged, and slowly Will lifted up his chin. “I haven't washed since yesterday.”
“I'm aware.” Hannibal blinked slowly, and in the soft afternoon light Will saw his eyes darken. “May I?”
He held still as Hannibal unbuttoned the neck of Will's shirt, working three buttons open.
“Jesus,” Will muttered, looking down at Hannibal's hands. It was much easier than meeting his eyes, although what more could he reveal that Hannibal hadn't already seen? Hannibal stepped in close, so that he was almost pressed to his chest, and Will could feel his breath again as he leant in and bent his head to Will's neck. He inhaled, but this time he didn't draw away. His hair brushed Will's cheek.
He put his hand on Will's lower back. “You've taken aspirin.” He took one of Will's hands, and lifted his fingers to his nose. “Feathers, bone chips. The sharpness of iron. Your blood.”
“From tying flies. I pricked my finger.”
Hannibal took in a small breath. “Sweat in your armpits, and your crotch; the lipids and the proteins.”
“Is it unpleasant?”
“To me, you smell as sweet as dried hay. These scents and others betray you, utterly.” Hannibal paused for a couple of seconds, eyes closed. The curve of his nostrils flared a little. “Traces of semen. The amines are unmistakable. I would hazard a guess at... this morning.”
“Y-Yeah.”
“You knew I was visiting.” Hannibal said. “That I would smell this.”
Will nodded, his head jerking. Hannibal's hand tightened on him. Will pushed on his shoulder, pressing him back so that he could find Hannibal's mouth with his own. It felt shockingly normal, kissing him. Natural.
They stayed chaste, mouths only barely parted, and Will's breath shook. He was hard instantly, from just this, dizzy from it. Then Hannibal began to kiss him. Hannibal kissed as if he were cataloguing sensation: careful and slow, his breath hot on Will's mouth, and the soft damp trace of his tongue against Will's lips. His hands were gentle on Will's shoulders, sliding carefully up to his neck. Will stood still, steady, and let himself be explored.
One of the dogs, it sounded like Winston, began to bark in a sharp concussive series.
“Christ. I should let them out. They'll be okay.”
Hannibal leaned his forehead against Will's. “It doesn't matter to me.” He was hard against Will's thigh; the press of it made Will not want to move.
He'd never brought anyone back here, hadn't wanted to. Sleeping in the same room as a pack of dogs had never been a problem, and now very suddenly it was. “I don't have much company,” he said.
Hannibal took off his jacket, leaving it draped over a chair, and came back to him. “This is you, in situ. It's who you are.”
”A phenomena to be examined in its natural place.”
“If you'd like to think of it that way, yes.”
He put his hands on Will's shoulders, and kissed him again. His mouth was soft and warm, his lips smooth and a little wet. Then, the hot slide of his tongue into Will's mouth shut all higher thought down. He pushed against Hannibal, kissing him so hard that Hannibal was forced to step back, to adjust, and he made a sound, a low moan, against Will's lips. It undid something in Will; that unguarded sound of capitulation and hunger.
Will was aware of nothing else but Hannibal's mouth on his, and his hands working at Will's belt and flies, and finally one hand sliding tight and hot around his cock. Blood hummed in his ears like the throb of an engine, and he was only vaguely aware of his pants and shorts sagging down around his knees. All his attention had narrowed to prying Hannibal's shirt out of his waistband, and the hot smooth planes of his skin under Will's palms.
“Will,” Hannibal said. His voice was rough, as if he hadn't used it recently.
When Hannibal sank to the floor, Will's first thought, stupid and dazed, was for the knees of his pants.
“Wait,” he began, but Hannibal didn't seem to care. He pressed his face tight between Will's thighs, nose against his cock, mouth against his balls, and then he slid his arms around Will's hips, holding him tight. His tongue moved wetly against Will's skin, and he inhaled, his nose pressed into the line of Will's hip.
“I am exposed,” Will said, and his vision darkened at the edges.
“Yes,” said Hannibal, his mouth hot against Will's skin.
As from a distance he was aware of the click of claws on the floor, faint whines, the brush of a tail against his hand. Restless activity in his pack, and looking down he saw Hannibal almost as a part of them. He pushed his fingers into Hannibal's hair. It had a fine texture, and was soft like feathers where it wasn't stiffened by wax.
“I really can't smell too good,” he said, quietly.
Hannibal looked up. His mouth was wet and open, and his hair was in his eyes. “You don't understand your allure, not even slightly. Let me take you to bed.”
“Yes.”
He lost time, getting from the kitchen to the bed, but apparently shedding all his clothes on the way. Hannibal stripped quickly, and pushed Will back onto the sheets. They were a mess of rumples and stains, most of them sweat, and one of them semen.
“They need changing,” Will said. “Sorry... I didn't think I'd be... You'd be... ”
Hannibal hung over him on all fours. He was hard, and Will couldn't stop looking at the sinuous lines of his chest and thighs, the tight bunching of muscles in his arms, and the way his cock jutted obscenely. “I disagree. This bed smells of you, and only you.”
He pushed his face into Will's neck, and licked there. Will stretched out, running his fingertips down over Hannibal's back, feeling the play of muscle and the slick sweat that was starting to gather at the base. Hannibal was solid, like a wall, as driven as an alpha dog rolling in the scent of its prey. He reached down and stroked himself.
“Let me,” Hannibal said, taking his hand, and raising it to his nose.
Then he took Hannibal's face in his hands, and kissed him again, spreading his legs wide. “I liked your mouth on me,” he said, shivering at the faint sound of his own voice. “Isn't that where we make the most intense scents? I can smell myself on your skin. On your mouth and cheek.”
“Scent is life. It would tell us so much about each other, if only humans could read it.”
“What else does it tell you about me?”
Hannibal moved his lips along Will's jaw. “Your arousal. I've smelt it before.”
“What does it smell like?”
“Like salt and smoke, and fermentation gone awry. A scent that I find difficult to ignore in any circumstance, but doubly so when you're in my therapy room.”
“I'll try to be less distracting.”
“Why do you assume it distracts me.” Hannibal spoke in a low heated rush. He leaned down, braced on his hands over Will. “It sharpens my sense of you down to a fine point.”
Will felt pinned, spread out for examination. His heart pounded against his ribs so hard that he was sure Hannibal would see it, and see the pulse jerking crazily in his carotid. “Does my arousal smell different to my fear?”
Hannibal leaned close, mouth almost to Will's. “Very. The amines are unique, to the extent that I could almost taste your semen on my tongue. “ He closed his eyes. “You are a fire, a storm, a salt sea. Your scent pulsates with desire and fear.”
“Oh god.” Hannibal was already deep inside his head, had shouldered his way in over the short time Will had known him. “There's nowhere to hide from you.”
Hannibal opened his eyes. They were clear, and the brightness in them was knife sharp. “You can hide alongside me. I'll keep your secrets.”
He drew Hannibal to him, and shivered at the touch of that mouth at his neck. Hannibal inhaled, and moved down his body, taking inventory of every piece of him: chest, belly, underarms, legs. After a little while he stopped flinching self-consciously and let Hannibal move where he wanted: thighs, calves, the soles of his feet, the crease of his thigh, the trail of hair on his stomach. Will had only to lie still, and shiver and gasp at the feather touches of mouth and breath. He reached out to touch Hannibal's back and neck, and squeezed a hand around his own cock, moving in small, tight strokes.
“I'm pretty sure I could come just from this,” he said. His voice wavered.
“Has it been a long time?”
“Since I last was with anyone? Yeah.”
Hannibal knelt up, hands on Will's hips. “Turn over.”
Will rolled, faster than perhaps he should've, and he moaned and pressed his heated face into his pillow. Breathing deeply, he smelled his own hair and skin. Hannibal got off on it, that was clear enough. Behind him, Hannibal pushed his thighs wide, so that Will had to raise his hips, and then Will felt hot breath on his ass and then a warm wet touch, slippery and muscular. Hannibal's tongue was on his perineum, trailing a wet path, and then it was pushing inside him in a deep licking stroke.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck.” Will scrambled to get his elbows and knees under him, just enough so that he could cant his hips up further. Words found their way to the end of his tongue, apparently without his control. “Hannibal. You're really... You are. God. Fuck.”
In answer, Hannibal ran both palms over his ass, and then curled them around Will's thighs as he pressed in deeper and with more abandon. Was this what Hannibal had been after, to open up the centre of him, to get inside, to rampage over his body until all his secrets were found? There truly was nowhere to hide. Will's face was burning; partly from pure stimulation, and partly from the knowledge that he'd let Hannibal do this to him all night.
He scrabbled to get a hand around his cock, and began to stroke himself in time with the slick thrusts inside him. The world beyond the bed became a great empty space. He said Hannibal's name, shaping his mouth to it, letting it sit on his tongue. In answer, Hannibal made a low, guttural sound. He pushed his tongue deeper, easing Will open with the edges of his thumbs.
Then cold air moved over him as Hannibal pulled away, and Will couldn't tell what he was doing. Hannibal must be watching, seeing everything. What did Will taste like to him? Smell like, now? Was desire sweet on the tongue, or bitter? Hannibal knew. He knew, and his saliva was now drying inside Will's body. The idea drove his head down, pushing face down into the sheets.
“Oh god. I'm close,” he gasped.
Hannibal dragged a finger across his opening, which was damp and slick, then down behind his balls. Fuck, they were so tight, skin stretched taut, and so sensitive. Hannibal covered Will's hand with his own, moving with Will's own strokes, learning what he liked.
“I'm covered in your scent,” Hannibal said. “Stronger than my own.”
“Do... Do you like that?”
“It's intoxicating.”
“I want to come on you.”
Hannibal squeezed him hard, almost convulsively. Will turned and pushed him down flat to the bed, and straddled him. Spread across Will's dingy sheets he looked hyperreal, almost superimposed as if he didn't belong in this bed, or in Will's life. It gave Will a second's pause. It was the first time he'd properly had a chance to look at Hannibal naked. He was well proportioned, with strong-looking, long legs, wide shoulders, and a hint of the softness of middle age at his waist. His cock lay rigid and dark against his stomach. His mouth was red from kissing; luscious-looking, and Will wanted to kiss him again.
“You know why I prefer dogs to people?” he said, as he straddled Hannibal's hips.
“They have uncomplicated needs.”
He stared down at Hannibal. “Dogs can't lie.”
Hannibal held his gaze. “Neither can you, to me.”
"Is that really true?"
Hannibal wrapped his hand around Will's erection, and began to stroke him, his fingertips tight and clever. Then he took them both in his hand, so that Hannibal's cock pushed tight against his, a skin on skin touch that was both dizzying and terrifyingly intimate. Will arched his back and began to push into Hannibal's fist, hard and fast. The sharp snaps of his hips became more frantic, and he felt himself start to come undone in Hannibal's palm. He pitched forward, blindly finding Hannibal's mouth with his own.
“I'll leave you on my skin to dry,” Hannibal said, against his mouth. “Perhaps I'll leave it there for days.”
Will came, almost convulsing with it. He pushed his tongue back into Hannibal's mouth, his nose full of his own musky smell, and the sharper scent of semen, and he felt it against his stomach when Hannibal came too.
Will stared down at him, at his dark blurred eyes and slick wet lips. “Would you?”
“I've smelled far worse, at other times of my life. Decaying proteins and lipids would lose any scent soon enough. It wouldn't be strong enough for anyone to smell, ordinarily.”
“Why would you want to?”
“A reminder that I'm enmeshed in life,” Hannibal said. His voice was ragged, his breath fast.
“Do you forget?”
“Sometimes.”
“Or are you like a dog rolling in a dead pigeon? Attention and status-seeking?”
Hannibal's hand came up to stroke his back. Long, slow strokes that made Will want to sleep. “Don't we all crave attention?”
Will rolled onto his side, and slid his fingers through the pale slicks on Hannibal's stomach, watching Hannibal's muscles jump. He began to slowly rub it into his skin, feeling daring as he dampened his palm with it, spreading it across Hannibal's stomach. He swallowed hard: in some ways this was even more intimate than the sex, an anointing of Hannibal's skin. Leaving an invisible mark on him that Hannibal wanted to carry around with him. Hannibal would move through the world changed, and the change only detectable to dogs.
He trailed fingers down to Hannibal's hip, down his thigh, back up. He bent his head and pressed his nose to Hannibal's shoulder. Hannibal curled his arm around him.
“What secrets would I smell on you, if I could?”
“Yourself,” Hannibal said, softly. He was tracking the movement of Will's hand. “Bacteria on my skin feeding on sweat. Hints of putrescine and cadaverine from my seminal fluid. Liver, garlic, coffee, aftershave. Not a very harmonious combination.”
“Even I can pick up some of that. Can a person even make themselves smell harmonious?”
“You're right, of course. One must embrace the inescapable.”
From their nest of blankets and beds on the floor, the dogs were watching Will, mostly with half an eye. They needed bathing and feeding, and frankly so did Will.
“Hey, um, I need to see to the dogs. Feed them.”
“And I should get back to my office. I have an appointment later this afternoon.”
He wondered if that was an excuse, to allow them both some distance. He wanted to assure Hannibal that he didn't do this sort of thing often, but he wasn't clear if the sentiment would be welcome, or even if it mattered. Hannibal sat up, and began to gather his clothes. Will dressed quickly, and went to finish the coffee that had been abandoned. He set food out for the dogs, and took the tub out the porch, along with a stack of ragged towels and a battered green plastic jug.
Hannibal came out as he was turning on the hose. He looked as neat as when he'd arrived, except that now his skin was flushed, and he had a definite glow about him. His lips were redder than normal, drawing the eye magnetically, and his cheek had a faint bloom of stubble burn. Will stared down at the water sloshing into the tub. It seemed better than just staring.
“I'll help,” Hannibal said, and went back inside. He came out carrying the bottle of dog shampoo that Will had left on the table. He set it down next to Will, and stepped back with a faint air of resolve.
“Thanks." He looked up to see Hannibal's raised eyebrows and couldn't help smiling. “You didn't answer my question.”
“Which one? You ask so many.”
“If you like dogs?”
“Like isn't a useful word. I like many things, but it doesn't mean I respect them. I have great respect for animals. They live their lives the only way they know how. They can't be cruel, or vengeful.”
“And they can't utter unthruths.”
Neither could Will, now, it seemed. Hannibal's eyes were fixed on Will's hands where they were rubbing shampoo into Buster's coat. Will ducked his head, ghost touches still moving on his body. He shivered.
“Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow?” Hannibal said. His voice was cool and modulated, but under his shirt his skin would still be damp and sticky, and Will's scent would be rising in the column of his body heat, enveloping him like the scent of the dead. Later today. Tonight. “It would be just the two of us.”
Will met his eyes, and nodded. There could be no subterfuge, no hiding. He couldn't lie to Hannibal; he didn't want to even try.