Title: dance me to the end of love
Fandom: Hannibal (TV)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Wordcount: 581
Content notes: References to murder. Post-Fall. Autistic!Will.
Author notes: Also for creativechallenges Shippy Building with the prompt "Dancing", genprompt_bingo with the prompt "Touch".
Summary: Will isn't any good at dancing.

Will trips on his own feet a lot.

He's never been good with motor skills at all. It's been a tricky learning curve, gym class in school always Hell on Earth. He still stumbles and nearly drops the knife every time he kills someone with Hannibal or helps him dissect them to get the organs out. It's mostly gross motor skills, though; he can deal with details and little things, but dancing is a whole different ballpark.

He doesn't know why he's surprised Hannibal wants to dance with him, even when there is no one to watch them be sick in love. It fits in his psyche perfectly— the way he holds him as they're both on their socks against the wooden floor, him trying to guide him through the motions, holding him so he'll dance into a sideways step, into a spin.

He pants out, back coated with sweat. "I'm sorry. I've never been good at dancing."

"You can teach yourself anything, Will," Hannibal says, tilting his head, smiling at him. Love flourishes in every of his actions, as he reaches over to cup his cheek the same manner he did an eternity ago to stab him.

"I'm just, you know, autistic — bad motor skills, bad coordination, bad everything." He huffs. "I tried to dance for gym. I think I got a D+."

"I'll hold you when you trip, darling," Hannibal says, pulling him into a small kiss. He tastes of red wine and the man they had for dinner. "Just follow my steps. You don't have to do anything else."

He makes a vague sound of protest he doesn't mean.

"Okay?" he adds on, as an afterthought.

He can't help but smile. "Okay. I'll try my best, but again, my best is pretty shitty."

"It's still your best," he says. "I love you."

"I love you too," he replies in kind, pulling him into another kiss.

The slow music still plays from their DVD player (bought with much fussing from Hannibal, who kept going on about how the sound isn't nearly as rich as it is with vinyl or, Hell, even cassettes). Hannibal holds Will and takes his hand in his own, the other one on his lower back as he guides him through the movements.

Will tries his best not to trip.

"You know," Will starts. "I never got properly diagnosed. Kind of can't now."

"I'm pretty sure you are, in fact, autistic, my love," Hannibal says lightly.

"I don't know if I trust the word of a cannibalistic serial killer of a psychiatrist," Will teases. "They did take your medical license."

He chuckles. "That they did. No longer a psychiatrist, but I can still get a good glimpse of your brain."

"My messed up brain," Will mumbles into his shoulder as they dance. "You kind of messed it up."

"It was already messed up," Hannibal argues.

He knows he's right. It's just teasing, anyhow, words spoken about their past, their present and their future. He still can't get used to this reality, slow dancing to music in their desolate cabin; getting to have Hannibal just as Hannibal gets to have him.

"I guess so," Will mutters, stepping on Hannibal's foot. "Sorry."

"Don't fret, my dear," he says softly, his hand going up to lace his fingers through his hair. "Don't fret. It's all okay."

And it is — it is all okay, with the two of them, slow dancing in their living room.