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Hannibal was a man of exquisite taste, a taste that often proved fatal to those who indulged him. Beyond his hunger for things of the flesh—meant in the most literal sense—he found beauty in all its forms.
Sculpture, literature, paintings, poetry, theatre, and music; Hannibal immersed himself in them all. But what he cherished most was the singular, the extraordinary, the unseen. The rare.
Will was all of those things—and so much more.
Hannibal sought reasons, some more contrived than others, to keep Will close. Excuses spun from gossamer threads, delicate yet deliberate, each one an invitation veiled as happenstance. He waited for Will to notice, to see the careful precision behind his gestures. And then, one day, the perfect opportunity arose.
Will had confessed, in passing, that he had never learned to waltz. That was all the invitation Hannibal required.
When Will arrived at his office, he found the room transformed. The usual arrangement of furniture had been altered, every chair and table pushed aside to carve out an expanse of open floor. A soft piano melody wove through the air, rich and haunting, setting the stage before a single word was spoken.
Hannibal stood at the center of it all, his usual jacket discarded, leaving him in a waistcoat and crisp dress shirt. The sleeves were neatly rolled to his elbows, a deliberate informality that only made him seem more composed.
A slow, knowing smile curved his lips as he approached, extending his hand in quiet invitation. His fingers curled around Will’s with gentle insistence, drawing him forward.
“I have decided to surprise you,” Hannibal murmured, guiding Will into the heart of the room. “You told me you never learned to waltz. Fortunately, I have.” His thumb traced a feather-light path across the back of Will’s hand, a subtle promise lingering in the touch.
“I would like to teach you.” A pause—weighted, expectant. His voice dipped lower, carrying the question that was not truly a question at all.
“May I?”
Will hesitated.
It was an instinctual reaction, a ripple of tension ghosting through his frame. Not because he was afraid—no, not quite—but because this meant something. Hannibal had orchestrated this, for him, a gesture so meticulous, so intimate, that it sent a shiver of unease down his spine. Not from fear, but from the quiet, unsettling thrill of being seen so completely.
He swallowed, glancing at the room, the carefully curated scene, before his gaze returned to Hannibal. The doctor was watching him with quiet patience, amusement flickering just beneath the surface, waiting for him to understand.
Will exhaled, his fingers flexing slightly in Hannibal’s grip. He should say no. He should step back. He should ignore the way his pulse had quickened beneath the weight of Hannibal’s attention.
Instead, he nodded.
Hannibal’s smile deepened—not triumphant, not smug, but something far more dangerous.
“Good,” he murmured, drawing Will closer. “Let us begin.”
Will hesitated for another moment, his fingers twitching slightly in Hannibal’s grasp. His voice, when he finally spoke, was edged with skepticism, laced with something wary but not wholly unwilling.
"Are you sure?" His gaze flickered over Hannibal’s face, searching for some tell, some hint of mockery or ulterior motive—though he knew better than to expect the latter to be so easily revealed. "Last I heard, you needed a woman to partner with, not a man. And certainly not one as inexperienced as me."
Hannibal’s expression didn’t waver, his grip neither tightening nor loosening. Instead, he regarded Will with something bordering on amusement, though his voice remained as measured as ever when he replied.
"A waltz requires a partner, not a specific gender. Grace is not dictated by anatomy, nor is capability." His head tilted slightly, his thumb resuming its slow, deliberate motion over the back of Will’s hand. "Besides, I find the unpracticed far more intriguing than the rehearsed. There is honesty in the way they move—an unconscious sincerity that cannot be feigned."
A pause. Then, with a quiet hum, Hannibal leaned in just enough that Will could catch the faint trace of his cologne, something dark and rich beneath the more delicate notes of wine.
"And you, Will… are nothing if not sincere."
He stepped back just as easily as he had drawn in, giving Will the space to decide. The music played on, unhurried, as if time itself had bent to accommodate the moment.
"Shall we?"
Will let out a slow breath, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered Hannibal’s words. There was always something too smooth about the way Hannibal spoke, like every sentence was crafted with precision, every word chosen for effect. It made Will uneasy. It made him curious.
He glanced down at their joined hands, at the warmth of Hannibal’s palm against his own. He should pull away. He should make a joke, turn the moment into something lighter, something safer. But he didn’t.
Instead, he let Hannibal guide him further into the open space, his steps hesitant but willing.
"Alright," Will muttered, eyes flicking up to meet Hannibal’s. "Just don’t expect much."
Hannibal’s lips twitched, amusement lingering in his gaze.
"I expect nothing but your trust," he said simply, shifting his grip as he positioned Will’s hand on his shoulder. His own settled at Will’s waist, firm but careful, as if measuring the tension in Will’s frame.
"Now," Hannibal continued, his tone as patient as a teacher instructing a favored pupil, "the key to the waltz is in the rhythm. Three steps, always in time with the music. I will lead. All you must do is follow."
Will swallowed, his fingers tightening slightly where they rested. Follow. The word settled uneasily in his mind. But then Hannibal took the first step, and without thinking, Will moved with him.
The first motion was awkward—hesitant, unsure—but Hannibal adjusted seamlessly, guiding him without resistance. Another step, a small shift, and suddenly, they were moving in slow, deliberate circles.
Will’s jaw tensed as he focused, brow furrowed in concentration.
"You're thinking too much," Hannibal murmured, voice quiet but firm. "Feel the music. Let it tell you where to go."
Will huffed a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Easy for you to say. You’re not the one trying not to trip over his own feet."
Hannibal only smiled. "And if you do?" His fingers pressed slightly against Will’s back, steadying him. "I will catch you."
Will didn’t reply to that. He just kept moving. Hannibal’s words lingered in the air, settling somewhere in Will’s chest like an ache he couldn’t quite name.
I will catch you.
Will’s grip tightened briefly on Hannibal’s shoulder, his mind racing even as his body tried to follow the rhythm. The thought of trusting Hannibal in something as simple as a dance shouldn’t have felt so heavy. And yet, it did.
They moved in slow, measured steps, the piano’s melody threading through the space between them. Hannibal was patient, his movements smooth, effortless, as if he could waltz in his sleep. Will, by contrast, was tense, his body resisting the natural flow of the dance.
"You are fighting it," Hannibal observed, his voice calm, almost amused. "You anticipate each step as if it were a battle to be won. The waltz is not a struggle, Will. It is a conversation."
Will exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression tight. "I don’t do well with conversations."
Hannibal hummed, tilting his head slightly. "That is not entirely true. You only struggle with conversations where the words are expected of you."
Will frowned, but before he could retort, Hannibal took the lead again, his steps confident and fluid. This time, Will wasn’t given the chance to overthink. He had no choice but to move with him, to follow instinct rather than logic.
And, for a moment, it worked.
They turned slowly, the room shifting around them, and Will felt the tension in his limbs ease just slightly. The sensation was unfamiliar—being guided, being led—but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
Hannibal must have noticed the change, because his voice dipped lower, the edges of it almost warm. "There you are."
Will’s gaze snapped up to meet his, something unreadable flickering in the blue depths of Hannibal’s eyes. His pulse quickened. He wasn’t sure if it was from the movement or something else.
"I still feel like an idiot," Will muttered, looking away, his jaw clenching slightly.
"Then you are a graceful one," Hannibal said smoothly. "But I assure you, there is nothing foolish about learning."
Will swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He hated how easily Hannibal made things sound simple. Nothing about this—about them—was simple.
And yet, he kept moving.
Will’s pulse was erratic now, his body moving on instinct rather than thought. The closeness between them felt like a delicate thread, thin but unbreakable, each subtle shift in their positions pulling him deeper into Hannibal’s orbit.
Hannibal’s hand, still at his lower back, didn’t move. It stayed steady, unyielding, a silent anchor that kept Will from pulling away. There was no escape now—each movement, each step in the dance felt more like a slow unraveling. The music swelled, the soft chords of the piano wrapping around them, becoming more than just background noise—it became part of the rhythm they shared.
Will’s breath quickened, his chest rising and falling sharply. Every time he looked up, Hannibal was there, his face the picture of calm, eyes dark, intense, almost too knowing. The control was in Hannibal’s hands, but Will was still resisting, in the smallest of ways, as though trying to keep himself from being swallowed whole.
"You’re still holding back," Hannibal observed, his voice a soft murmur against the hum of the music. "You’re afraid of where this will lead, aren’t you?"
Will didn’t answer right away, unable to form the words. His eyes flickered to Hannibal’s mouth for a moment, then away, his throat dry. He didn’t want to admit it—didn’t want to admit how the weight of Hannibal’s gaze was slowly disarming him, how every slight touch seemed to ignite something deeper inside him.
"There is no need to be afraid," Hannibal continued, his voice low and velvety, a quiet persuasion. "I won’t hurt you, Will."
The way he said it—so assured, so calm—made Will’s heart skip a beat. It wasn’t the promise of safety that stirred him; it was the suggestion that perhaps he wanted to be hurt, just a little.
Hannibal’s hand moved then, a slow, deliberate slide up Will’s spine, his fingers pressing gently against the fabric of Will’s shirt, the touch almost tender, but the intent unmistakable. Will’s breath caught in his chest as his skin prickled where Hannibal’s hand lingered. The sensation was electric, like a soft flame licking against his flesh.
"Do you trust me now?" Hannibal’s voice was a quiet command, a pull that invited Will into the space between them.
Will swallowed hard, his throat tight as he met Hannibal’s gaze. His chest was heavy, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him, making it difficult to breathe. The moment felt suspended, a fragile thing, and Will wondered just how far he was willing to go.
"I don’t know," Will murmured, his voice rough.
Hannibal’s lips twitched in something like amusement, though the look in his eyes was anything but playful. It was possessive, an intensity that made Will shiver despite himself. The doctor took a small step closer, until Will could feel the warmth of him again, the heat of their bodies brushing in a way that felt far too intimate for a mere dance.
"You will," Hannibal whispered, his voice smooth, laced with an undeniable certainty. "You will."
Will didn’t respond, couldn’t find the words, because the air between them had thickened, and in that silence, everything unspoken seemed to settle between them like a heavy weight. It wasn’t just the dance now, not just the music—this was something else entirely, something new.
Hannibal led him through another turn, but this time, the steps felt different. Slower, more deliberate. Every motion felt like it had purpose, like each time they moved together, it was in perfect synchrony, as though they had always been meant to do this.
And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, Will closed his eyes. He could feel the warmth of Hannibal’s touch, the press of his body against his, and he felt himself surrender. Just a little.
When his eyes opened again, he was no longer thinking about the dance. He wasn’t thinking about anything except the pull between them, and the way Hannibal’s eyes held him captive, making it impossible to look away.
Hannibal didn’t say anything more—he didn’t need to. Will had already made his choice.
The weight of Hannibal’s gaze seemed to press against him, drawing him in, and for the first time since they started, Will wasn’t thinking about what he should do or where to step next. He was just there, lost in the dance, lost in the way Hannibal’s touch anchored him and his presence enveloped him.
Hannibal’s fingers grazed the back of his neck as they moved in perfect sync, the brush of skin against skin sending a ripple of heat through Will’s body. Every shift, every turn, seemed to heighten the connection between them, a subtle but constant pressure building.
"You’re more natural now," Hannibal murmured, his voice a soft compliment that resonated with something deeper. His thumb traced a line along Will’s collarbone, the touch barely there, but it was enough to make Will's chest tighten. "More open."
Will’s heart raced at the implication. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this—whatever this was—but he couldn’t deny the way his body responded, the pull he felt that was becoming harder and harder to resist.
"I’m not…" Will started, but the words caught in his throat, lost in the heat between them. He didn’t know how to explain the way he felt, the strange mix of wanting to push Hannibal away and wanting to be closer.
But Hannibal didn’t need him to explain. His hand slid up, grazing the side of Will’s face, guiding him to look up, to meet his eyes. Will’s pulse hammered in his neck as he did, the dark intensity in Hannibal’s gaze overwhelming.
"It’s not about what you want, Will," Hannibal whispered, his voice low and almost seductive. "It’s about what you need."
And there, in that moment, Will felt it—the shift, the subtle change that turned everything else into background noise. He needed this. He needed him.
Hannibal’s lips were inches away, and Will could feel the warmth of his breath against his skin, the tension so thick between them that it was almost suffocating. Will’s body was betraying him, reacting to the intimacy that was growing with each passing second. He tried to hold back, tried to keep his distance, but it was clear that Hannibal was making his intentions known, and that made the distance feel impossible.
"Let go, Will," Hannibal said softly, his hand moving lower, his fingers trailing a path down his spine, sending shivers through Will’s body. "Let go of the fear."
And for the briefest of moments, Will wanted to. He wanted to surrender to the pull, to let Hannibal guide him wherever this dance—this game—was leading.
But he held himself back, just enough, just barely. "I’m not sure how," he breathed, his voice rough.
Hannibal’s smile was quiet, knowing. "You will."
And this time, there was no hesitation. Hannibal closed the space between them, and Will let himself fall into it, into the warmth of his touch, into the pull that he could no longer deny. The moment stretched between them, tension curling in the air like smoke from a slow-burning fire. Will could hear his own breath, shallow and uneven, as Hannibal’s warmth encased him. The world outside this room no longer seemed to exist—there was only this, only them.
Hannibal moved with practiced ease, his hands firm but never forceful, a guiding presence that left no room for doubt. His grip tightened, just slightly, as he led Will into another turn. Will followed, his body finally beginning to yield, surrendering to the rhythm of the dance. The hesitation in his limbs melted away, replaced by something deeper, something dangerously close to trust.
Their eyes met again, and Will felt pinned beneath the weight of Hannibal’s gaze. It wasn’t just observation—it was dissection, a slow and methodical unraveling of everything Will had tried so desperately to guard. He should have looked away. He should have broken the moment. But he didn’t.
Instead, he let himself be seen.
Hannibal’s hand slid higher, his fingers tracing the nape of Will’s neck in a barely-there touch. Will shivered, the sensation igniting a spark low in his spine. The heat was unbearable now, pressing against his ribs, threatening to consume him entirely.
“You’re learning,” Hannibal murmured, his voice dark with something unreadable. “Not just the steps, but the meaning.”
Will swallowed, his throat tight. “And what’s the meaning?”
Hannibal’s lips curved in the barest of smiles. “Surrender.”
Will’s breath hitched. The word settled in his chest like an anchor, pulling him down, deeper into whatever this was. He knew, with startling clarity, that this was no longer about a dance. It never had been. This had always been about control, about power, about coaxing Will into yielding without force, without coercion—just the careful, insidious pull of Hannibal’s influence.
And Will—God help him—wanted to let go.
His fingers curled against Hannibal’s shoulder, gripping the fabric of his waistcoat as if to steady himself. His body moved instinctively now, following Hannibal’s lead, letting himself be carried by the music and by the man who held him. He hated how easy it was. He hated how much he wanted it.
Hannibal’s hand skimmed lower again, resting just above the small of Will’s back, a silent promise in the way his fingertips pressed into him. “Do you trust me?”
The question was a knife’s edge. Will knew the truth before he was willing to admit it.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
Hannibal hummed, a low, knowing sound. “Then let me show you.”
The music slowed, the final notes lingering in the air like an unfinished sentence. Will realized, belatedly, that they had stopped moving. He was still standing impossibly close, still caught in Hannibal’s grasp, still breathless and burning from the intensity of it all.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, heavy with anticipation.
Then, Hannibal raised a hand to Will’s jaw, tilting his face ever so slightly. His thumb traced the line of Will’s cheekbone, the touch as gentle as it was possessive. Will’s skin burned beneath it, his pulse hammering so loudly he was sure Hannibal could hear it.
“You are trembling,” Hannibal observed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Will exhaled, unsteady. “I know.”
Hannibal’s gaze flickered, something dark and triumphant glinting in his eyes. “Good.”
Will barely had time to process the word before Hannibal leaned in, closing the distance between them. His lips hovered just above Will’s, the warmth of his breath ghosting over his skin. He didn’t move further—he was waiting, giving Will the choice.
The final test.
Will’s fingers tightened in Hannibal’s waistcoat, his entire body strung tight with indecision. He could still walk away. He could still put an end to this before it went too far.
But it was already too late.
With a sharp inhale, Will closed the remaining distance. His lips met Hannibal’s in a hesitant, searching kiss—one that was answered immediately, effortlessly, as if Hannibal had known all along that this was how the dance would end.
And as Hannibal deepened the kiss, his hands steady and sure, Will finally understood the truth he had been running from for so long.
He had never stood a chance.